Beaches, Babies, Urban Birds & Belly Dancing On The Central Coast Of California

With a few hours on the the innertubes last Wednesday, I was able to locate a relatively inexpensive motel in San Luis Obispo and, with a quick repacking of bags that had just been unpacked after our arrival a few days ago, I headed off to the Central Coast with my mom and kids.

After a stop at the surgeon's office ( my mom was to have foot surgery last Wednesday but was canceled due low potassium level) for a new set of labs, we drove off through the wide Central Valley of California. I'd not planned on stopping in Paso Robles at my favorite winery, on the way west on Highway 46. As luck would have it, Augusta called for a potty break just as we came upon Tobin James. Old Cisco, the Australian shepherd that would greet us upon arrival has passed away since our last visit but Lance, the co-owner, did a great job pretending that he remembered the FromWyomings. Mom and I did a tasting at high noon, which is my idea of a good start to any vacation. Outside they are continuing to build a great patio-barbeque area that I had to take pictures of in an effort to memorize the design. I guess I'll just call it "inspiration" and not thievery...





We pressed on to through Paso Robles, which is having insane growth, onto Highway 46 towards Cambria. We took Highway 1 south to see the fog in Morro Bay and have lunch at the Hofbrau overlooking the water. And know what? NO FOG! There is almost always fog in Morro Bay...

The kids had a great time in the water. Gorgeous skies, toasty sand, an ocean breeze and happy children.





We drove from Morro Bay State Park to Baywood Park on our way to Montana de Oro — all the way to the end of the road. Back through Los Osos, (again, unbelievable growth) our next stop was the Rose Garden Inn in San Luis Obispo, to visit their swimming pool before going on to Farmers' Market downtown to meet Sharkartist, a not-so-imaginary online friend. Sharkey was a great sport, even when Charlie got cranky over being told no on going in the bounce house that was set up on the street. Yes, his mother mistreats him terribly...



Friday, after a huge breakfast at Margie's Diner, we headed off to the Pismo and Shell Beach areas to marvel at the growth. It was then off to Avila Beach for a snack and splash for a few hours. Again, it was just unexpectedly gorgeous weather. We'd located a couple of toy Yellow Submarines and some cheap sand buckets at a Pismo grocery store, so we were streamlined, sunscreened and set.



Leaving Avila about 2 pm, I made a quick U-turn at See Canyon, telling Mom that in the time I'd lived in SLO, I'd never driven that road. See Canyon is the apple orchard area between the coast and San Luis Obispo. We stopped at Kelsey See Canyon Vineyards for a tasting amid the peacocks and old dogs in the driveway. Very nice and we came away with an Apple Merlot and a bottle of their Syrah. Mmmm... mmm...mmmmmmmmm.

The drive through See Canyon was incredible and as remote as anything in Wyoming. At the summit we could look over clear skies and see San Luis Obispo, Morro Bay and Montana de Oro - all areas stunningly beautiful for a second day in a row. The road took us back through Perfumo Canyon and into the Laguna Lake area of San Luis Obispo. I stopped, while the kids napped in the car and Grandma listened to KCBX, for a platter of sushi and a cheesecake to take to our friends' home for dinner before the Beijing Opening Ceremonies on their big screen. It was at our friends' hillside home in southern San Luis Obispo that we met "The Girls".



The Girls, two very sassy hens, keep 4 humans and a parrot for pets. In exchange for their accommodations in the chi-chi custom built coop, they provide 2 eggs a day. Unless they are feeling broody, that is...

The Girls' pets, Doug and Lori, are celebrating their 20th wedding anniversary this year. And, that lovely green structure in the garden is The Girls' Urbane Roost. Augusta played with their daughter, Sarah, and Charlie idolized their 10 year old son, Jake. It was a really nice evening to catch up and have some laughs. Scott and Doug go way back and Doug was one of the groomsmen in our wedding. It's so nice to know they are back to San Luis for 5 years now and raising some great children in addition to their services to the household hens.



On Saturday morning, we headed back to downtown San Luis Obispo for breakfast at The Big Sky restaurant after a recommendation from Sharkey. Many, many moons ago it was DK's West Indies Bar and the place I saw Robyn Hitchcock in a fantastic acoustic performance. Scott could give you a laundry list of the bands he saw there. But, times change and I went there for coffeecake instead of a witty songwriter's between-song banter.

I then walked the kids down Garden Street. I poked my head into a very pricey children's boutique. Augusta was complemented on her outfit of a dress lovingly made by her Fairy Godmother Martha and her thrift store pink plaid Chuck Taylor's. Needless to say, I wasn't inclined to puchase an $80 skirt with 36 yards of hot pink and cocoa brown tulle. We walked passed Linnea's Cafe, the coffeehouse that was a big chunk of the inspiration for Parlor News Coffeehouse when we opened in 1996. While walking past, a brightly dressed woman was getting out of her car. Charlie said, "oh, PRETTY!" when he saw her.



She was going to belly dance at the Mission Plaza as part of the Day With Creative Women, which was where we were headed at that very moment.

Augusta had her face painted for the first time. As a princess, of course...



We watched the dancers and I took a ton of pictures. Charlie wandered around and was a little confused by what had happened to his sister.



We sat and watched and listened at the amphitheater overlooking San Luis Creek.













Charlie enjoyed the show...



After a drive through the Cal Poly campus, where I started at KCPR and met Scott more than 20 years ago, we drove back to Woodlake with a dinner stop at In-N-Out Burger in Visalia.

It was a nice couple of days and I was glad for the great company, entertainment and the chance to watch the ocean while squishing sand between my toes.

Road Trip

What do you get when you mix three National Parks, two small children and 1260 miles to Grandma's house? A road trip with 3 of the 4 FromWyomings!


Created with Admarket's flickrSLiDR.

From the Fair

From the Fair
Originally uploaded by Scott & Justine fromWyo

I just picked up all the canned-pickled-jammed-jellied entries I put into competition for the Park County Fair.

Some of the items I entered this year:
pickled asparagus
raspberry jam
pear bourbon jam
plum jelly
ginger peach jam
pickled lemons
giardinera
brined and pickled California olives
Fuyu persimmon chutney
peach jam
orange chutney
pickled peppers


Overall, I entered too many pickles. I guess this last year was heavier on the pickles than the sweets. I wonder what that says about my attitudes this last year.

I must have been more tart than sweet, overall.

The jar of tomato eggplant pasta sauce won a blue ribbon and a reserve grand champion ribbon. Maybe, I'm just meant to be saucy...

Everyone Needs A Fairy Godmother

Flour Sack Dress by Martha
Originally uploaded by Scott & Justine fromWyo

There are some lucky children in our house.

Augusta has become a fashion plate with the help of her Fairy Godmother Martha. This afternoon she received FGM's latest creation of a flour sack dress. This was made most inventively with a remnant of fabric that was originally made into a shirt for Fairy Godmother Martha's son, Schawn.

Everyone really does need a fairy godmother.

Wedding At Weather Rock Ranch

Created with Admarket's flickrSLiDR.

Emotions Of A Three Year Old

Father's Day

Jon Justad & Justine in SF
Originally uploaded by Scott & Justine fromWyo

The weekend following Friday the 13th has been filled with kind and genuine remembrances of NBC’s Tim Russert who died suddenly, at work and surrounded by colleagues, following a family vacation to Italy to celebrate his son’s graduation from university. I, too, respected and appreciated what this talented man has contributed to our nation through his directness, ethics and opinions. I could relate to the pain and astonishment that a young person can feel upon losing their parent in such a sudden and distressing fashion because I’ve been there myself. The media coverage, though I haven’t seen much more than a smidgen of it, got the memory wheels in my mind to turning as a Friday of bad news rolled into a Saturday morning of e-mails reminding me of the approach of Father’s Day. I’ve had a few years to get through a Father’s Day without the benefit of my father but this will be the first for Tim Russert’s son to be without him. It’s going to be a difficult one.

My father was the son of an immigrant and homesteader. He lost his father when he was 12, from a sudden heart attack. His father, Rayder, died in the front yard as he returned home from the butcher shop he owned in Parshall, North Dakota. My grandparents had moved to town from the farm. They had homesteaded in Raub where my grandmother had delivered four sons, of whom the youngest was my father, Jon. A fortuitous remarriage to a “bachelor Norwegian farmer” saved my grandmother from losing the farm and gave my father a wonderful stepfather in Hans Monson. My father went on to Carleton College before attending what is now the University of Northern Iowa. he enlisted, having padded his age by a year, in the Navy at the outset of World War II. He spent his Navy days on a medical ship in the Great Lakes due to a double nuisance of flat feet and a tendon injury from boyhood football. He wasn’t so much a risk not to be taken in to the service during the war, so I’m sure his remaining stateside was a relief to my grandmother Mary. Her other son, Mickey, had been reported as lost in the Battle of the Bulge. My uncle was able to escape through Russia to return to the Midwest and open the first drive-in movie theater in Austin, Minnesota. Eventually my uncle moved south to Arizona and my father made his way to California in the mid-1950s to teach high school chemistry and physics in the land of milk, oranges and honey that was Woodlake.

Zipping forward to another decade, my father was in his twenty-fifth year of teaching at Woodlake High School when I had finished eighth grade and was heading for high school. Both my parents taught at my high school and I was destined to have one or both for a teacher. I was being a typical surly, overly independent teen as that school year wrapped. I was trying to spread my wings in the incoming freshman fashion; sassing my parents, teetering on the edge of curfew, drifting defiantly between sullen and more sullen. I was a migraine walking about my parents’ house. We took a long vacation to Carmel to celebrate the ending of the school year, in the new convertible my parents had purchased that spring. My father had always wanted a convertible and he enjoyed it in a town he adored, even with sourpuss me in the back seat.

We returned home and went back to life in the summer for a family of teachers. Both my parents worked on projects that they’d not had time for during the school year. My sister and I swam in the backyard pool. I went to ball games and flirted with boys. I don’t remember a great amount of detail about those days following our return from vacation other than having a particularly nasty spat with my father, most likely about not being home before dark. I do know I never said I was sorry for being a jerk. One afternoon he moved a heavy bookcase, even though I was in the house and could have been of some help. He spent the rest of the afternoon taking Alka-Seltzer for what he thought was indigestion. I came home from a ball game and he had gone to bed early. I started a bath, could hear my mother going into their bedroom to check on him. I soon heard strange breathing patterns and her return to the bedroom saying “Jon.....Jon?” and then yelling for me. I got out into a towel, ran into the bedroom and found him collapsed. He’d had a massive heart attack and was dying. I yelled for my mother to call the ambulance, which arrived with past students of his as the EMTs. He was transported to the hospital in Visalia, but was never revived. He would have been 60 on that next New Year’s Eve. Some of what happened that night is relatively clear while much of it seems to be a different life lived by another family entirely. I guess that may be the effects of twenty-five years and trying harder than not to dwell on it all.

I have been trying to think about the meaning of Father’s Day as it applies to my husband and father of my children. As my son grows I cherish what is to come for him and his father but I struggle to put aside melancholy that tries to surge, especially when the news of a son’s loss of his father on this particular weekend began to overtake the television. Tim Russert has successfully put into his book Wisdom of Our Fathers: Lessons and Letters from Daughters and Sons those many words I wish I could verbalize every day of the year to my father. I would especially like my father to hear from me that I’ve somehow managed to get over my teenage jerkiness. I wish he could have known me as an adult and I could have shown him my children. He would certainly have enjoyed their energy and the sass that is now starting to come my way. He’d be the first to laugh and say that he remembered what it was like.

As I woke this morning, I looked at the small, damaged picture I have of my father as a three year old with a shock of blonde hair and I saw my son. I’d like to think that the missing of my father might have diminished over the twenty-five years that he’s been gone. I wish I could tell Tim Russert’s son it is possible to overcome the shock, but I don’t know that I can. I will hope that the memories of their last weeks together will outweigh the grief.

Even with missing my father greatly, I found a little gift in the last couple of weeks. My mother was here visiting and having headaches with the gardener back home. She had to find, via telephone, a new gardener. As it turns out, the new gardener is a former student of my parents. He had recently emigrated to California from Mexico when he came to the high school. He didn’t have the money to attend the Junior Prom. My father paid for him to go. He still remembered Mr. Justad and was, I think, happy to help out my mother. I’d never heard that story before and I’m happy to know that my father may have made a small difference in someone else’s life. I know I’m grateful for the time my father was in my life and I hope I can share with my children some of the spirit that was his.

Charlie Mud Puddle

Charlie Mud Puddle
Originally uploaded by Scott & Justine fromWyo

It's been raining here.

A lot - much more than we're used to, but there are no complaints for we need the moisture.

Really, though, could anything make the little boy happier than a big mud puddle across the street from the house?

Have boots, will splash...

Hey, Lady...

I saw a big, happy, healthy Ladybug today.


I just thought I should let you know...

Setting Free The Stuff

As spring break wraps up and my daughter relishes her return to school, I find myself puttering about the house with many projects swimming around my head. Of course, Easter holidays usually signify the onset of true spring-like weather but the the actual observance of Holy Week and Easter came early - really early- this year. The gooey snow of last week guaranteed a lot of time in the the house looking at the accumulation that accompanied this winter and many winters past. Magazines, dvds, toys, mismatched mittens, extraneous crayons and markers... stuff, Stuff, STUFF! It was too cold to overlook the cluttering of the stuff in the house to go prepare the yard or drag out the outdoor distractions of the hammock for the warm afternoons. I was stuck. That pestiferous voice in the recesses of my mind nagged "Enough! Clean this mess up before you're outside all day in the yard for the next half a year." I went with the directive as best I could with two small children in the house. I got the tax information in, filed through the piles, tackled dust bunnies and did a victory dance as I backed up the computer to dvd while uploading long forgotten pictures. Unfortunately something then happened that hijacked my whole grand scheme with one failure: the refrigerator expired.

Deader than dead was my 2001 Whirlpool side by side with many month's fresh meat defrosted. I called for repair, I Googled for a part and crossed my fingers; I prayed to the kitchen gods of goodness and frugality but it was all for naught. I begged a loaner fridge, spent a couple of days cooking, marinating, and packaging while I began the search for a replacement. Many things have changed over the last few years when it comes to replacing a major household appliance, many for the better and a few not. I began the search for an Energy Star unit that would be efficient, affordable and capable of going back into the space that the Whirlpool would be vacating. I looked. I read customer reviews. I got nervous. Am I the only one to notice that in a world populated by the tiniest of technologies, refrigerators seem to get bigger and bigger? A laptop that can fit in a manila envelope? Sure. A mobile phone that is smaller than a pack of gum? No problem. A t.v. that can snug up against a wall? Yes, yes, yes! A refrigerator that isn't 30 inches deep. Good flippin' luck. The only thing getting smaller on a refrigerator is its compressor and it's that one fact explains why something that cost a grand at the beginning of THIS century didn't make it a decade. Yes, I looked at repair, but the sad news is a new compressor would run in the neighborhood of $600 and the fridge I finally located is $700. What would you do? Needless to say, the new one isn't a Whirlpool.

My great household meltdown of '08 started more than Spring cleaning for me. I hadn't been able to put a name to what I wanted to do until today when I was on the internet looking for ways to disinfect a dishwasher, which I thought might be a good idea after this winter's cold and flu onslaught. Yes, that is precisely the random stuff I look up in my day to day interactions with the Internet. I ran across a blog of helpful cleaning strategies (hints don't work for me, I need strategy) that succintly described what I'd been trying to communicate to my inner neat-nick. It's called "Discardia" and it's described this way: Discardia is celebrated by getting rid of stuff and ideas you no longer need. It's about letting go, abdicating from obligation and guilt, being true to the self you are now. Discardia is the time to get rid of things that no longer add value to your life, shed bad habits, let go of emotional baggage and generally lighten your load. It's viewed as a holiday by some, but I don't need another holiday. I need clarity. I need organization. I need ease of locating what should be in my house, not another reason to send out a greeting card that I may or may not have bought but now can't find in the paper stacked next to my computer. So, I began. I went through stuff. I disposed of what I'd not used in 5 years. I filled the dumpster with all the stuff I promised myself I'd repair myself 7 years ago. I tried shoes and clothes and socks on the kids and myself, passing on the outgrown items. I cleaned toys to take to St. John's Thrift Store. I put all the photographs in their own organized box. I listed usable but unwanted things on eBay. I even dusted... a little. After a winter of feeling crowded by the stuff, I began to breath easier. I've been emptying out the cupboards, cooking the food I have on hand. I've been reminding myself, whenever I caught myself saying "I'm almost out of....******..." to refrain from running to the store. I've let my Costco membership lapse. I no longer see buying in bulk as a necessary thing. The reality of food sitting on a shelf for a couple years, just so I can save 19 cents when I buy twenty boxes, isn't very appealing to my palate. And, more importantly, I simply don't have the room. If I can't buy it at my local grocery, I don't need it. A walk to the farthest grocery in town for me is a two mile round trip. There's no reason I can't walk to pick up a little something to round out dinner and I won't have to shove and cram to make its super-duper econo size container fit in my cupboards.

Simplicity is what I want; a streamlined life with the help of my households sprites saying "no, you don't need that" when I linger at a website showing that latest whatzit at a steal of a price. I want what I have to last. I know, finally, there is no such thing as retail therapy. Happiness comes only with simplicity. I truly appreciate anyone who can produce an item that is useful, miniscule, and long-lasting. I sure don't like throwing things away, but I do like being able to live with less stuff. I guess "Discardia" isn't just a particular day, but a mindset for which I'm finally ready.

The Truth About Leprechauns for St. Patrick's Day

The Truth About Leprechauns ... According To Augusta from Justine Larsen on Vimeo.

The corned beef is in the oven!

Here's what I do, after a number of years of trial and error:

Drain corned beef from brine in the package (yes, it's packaged. Someday I'll do my own brining, but not until my attention is a little less divided)

Place in roasting bag in roasting pan, fat side up. Schmear with a good few squirts of Gulden's Spicy Brown mustard. Sprinkle seasoning that arrived in the corned beef package on top of the mustard. Chop an onion and put it around the beef n'bag. Add chopped or small carrots. Add 1 cup chicken broth or stock. Tie up bag and roast in 300 degree over for approximately and hour a pound.

I'll be making acorn squash potato cakes as a side dish and some boiled cabbage and onions. I'll let the spouse write the food review. A friend is coming to eat with us and she's bringing the dessert and Guinness. Slàinte Mhath!

Enough Already...

I just received ANOTHER phone call asking who I plan to vote for in tomorrow's Wyoming caucus. I don't know whose list I'm on right now, but I must be on speed dial. Why do I feel I have to be polite to these folks calling? Even though they call me "Justin" when they call, I've remained polite. What I've been saying, though, is I'll decide when I get to the caucus. Tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow is another day, to invoke Miss Scarlett. I'm going to the caucus. I'll do my best to get over the stack of mailing from Senator Obama's campaign, and hope that some printer in Wyoming saw a big chunk of pay for the full-color press time. I do realize that Wyoming is in play this year, really for the first time since JFK needed Wyo delegates in his bid for the White House. I KNOW!

I also know the money being spent is OBSCENE. And, I said that before Jon Stewart did the other night on The Daily Show. Seconds before he said it. I am that voter that will vote, wants change, but is horrified at the amount of money being tossed around as I sweat over whether my last check to buy food at local grocery store is going to clear or send me spinning, yet again, into overdraft. 35 million raised by the Clinton campaign last month? 50 million for Obama? Gross, gross, gross.

I want change. I want experience. I want accessibility to health care coverage. I want a future of promise for my children. I want the debacle in Iraq to be ended. I know it won't be stopped, but I want it ended. I knew what I was getting when the criminals moved into the West Wing nearly 8 years ago. The scandal, the deceit, the 3 trillion dollar (Huffington Post) debt hangover... all portrayed as "compassionate conservatism" so none of what's resulted has come as a surprise to me. I realize, being the origin of the current Vice-President, Wyoming has a lot to answer for and it's time for some serious make-up. I will do my part. I will caucus. I will stand for Bill Richardson on the first vote. After that, I will make my choice.

Mostly, I just don't want to be disappointed by the second choice I make. Bill Richardson's departure was a big disappointment. The Democrat that goes to Washington has such profound work to do, and I hope they bring Bill Richardson along to help clean up the mess that awaits them.

And, from this point on, I will only take calls from The Daily Show.

Perception

I had an odd situation crop up this last week. A friend, who is still certainly a friend though our orbits are now quite far away from each other, stopped by the house. She said "I have some ideas for you. First we need to get you into a bigger house..." I stopped her there. I said "I can't buy a new or different house. I'm not working right now. Until my son is eligible for daycare (meaning out of diapers) I can't work full time. Period" Not working has been a big deal for me. I'm not the best stay-at-home mom and I know that. Our life, as a family, has had some real uncertainties the last couple of years. We are up against a big uncertainty right now, finalizing the sale of our old business. All of that seems to be unknown where we are living now. I don't broadcast a sense of doom but I also don't understand how I give off a sense of trust fund-driven wealth. I do my best to portray a calm, but I also live in a house that is less than 800 square feet and drive an old car with nearly 160,000 miles on it, neither of which I can replace right now. I had another friend - one who has her own business and a large house for one person - say that the church I attend is the one that "rich people like you" attend. What? I lined her out but still said thanks for thinking I was just dripping in wealth. It must be the clothes I bought last year on the Target clearance rack that gives off that vibe of Carnegie cash running through my blue veins.

I guess I shouldn't be surprised. I remember hearing similar assumptions when I was a kid. A few times I was referred to as a "rich kid" and was always puzzled by the accusation. My parents were school teachers. Yes, we drove a Cadillac, but we also had a Gremlin. We had to sell my dad's beloved Cadillac off shortly after his death because he died in July and my parents didn't get paid in the summer and the $2100 it garnered all went to the ambulance bill when he had a massive heart attack one night. Our house was comfortable but it's the house I was brought home to as newborn. My mom still lives there. Yes, I've seen Paris but it was with a back pack on and a flat pillow awaiting me at the next youth hostel.

Often my daughter asks me who lives in the big houses that are being built near us. I'll tell her, "Mr. and Mrs. Soandso". She'll then ask how many kids live in that big house. I have to answer truthfully and say "none." She'll then ask when we are going to "trade houses" and I have to say, again truthfully, "not anytime soon". Even if I had the means, I wouldn't want to follow that path. I try, on a daily basis, to simplify my life; to have less stuff, to have less worry, to consume less. As much as anything, I don't want the big ol' house because I couldn't deal with the perception issues; I want to live simply and I can't stop thinking that with more stuff comes more worries.

Point? Non-existent, really. Perception is a bigger thing for me than I wanted it to be, I guess. I want to be perceived as someone without pretension, without clutter, without inaccuracies, without complications... but not without complexity. Do I want too much or not enough?

If nothing else... no huge house, big car, or bulging mutual fund... I do have some appreciation for the rarities. I found one today in the first strawberries of the season, on sale, in the grocery store. I honestly do think they taste better when they are two boxes for five dollars...

Hey, Sweetie!

Hey, Sweetie! from Justine Larsen on Vimeo.

Christmas Train

On The Level

Just a little extended family story...

A good friend and her mother would get a live tree every year. Every year the argument would begin over the straightness of the tree. It would almost come to blows and my mom or myself would often have to go around the corner to their house to assist in the straightening of the tree and the smoothing over of the arguments.

Fast forward many years. We all have families and our own tree traditions now. My mother said she was at a loss over what to get our friend as a Christmas gift. I suggested she get her a level for the Christmas tree. She found a small one that can adorn the tree as an ornament.

Prices Paid

I woke this morning listening to sound bites from the most recent debate of Chief Executive hopefuls. Most of the talk blended into a painful reminder, along with the light on over the dresser, that it was time to get the day started. What finally shot my eyes open and started my a.m grumble was hearing the esteemed Senator from Illinois say "no toys from China for my kids this Christmas."

Thanks. Thanks for that. I just love when I have it pointed out to me what a bad mom I am. On a national broadcast, for all the world to hear, that I am going to soon be called up in front of the Superior Mothers Tribunal and dressed down for my consumer misdeeds.

"You bought a toy made in China, DIDN'T YOU?"

Yep, you caught me. I'm guilty. GUILTY! But, tell me this, Superior Mothers of the World, where exactly can I get that red metal diecast LIghtning McQueen race car that fits perfectly in my two year old's chubby hand? That very souped-up red racer that brings full-throttle joy to his entire being when he says "CARRRRRRRRR!" as he finds it wedge in the cushions of the couch after a painful two-day separation? It's the very toy that was on sale for 30% off at the nearby BigBoxORama made by a reputable company of the U.S. of A... that happens to have all their products manufactured in China. Tell me where I can buy a made-in-Thermopolis version of this same toy and I'll do it.

What? No such creature? So, what should America Consumer Mom do, as she's being hit with over 3000 advertisements a day? Avoid the purchase entirely so that there is no chance of any toxic substance possibly coming in contact with my child? I guess we can all rest easy knowing that our homes on our American soil are without any risk of toxic exposure...just don't look under your kitchen sink and certainly don't walk down the aisle at the BigBoxORama to find all the iterations of bottled cleaning products with the warning "Harmful If Swallowed" printed on every side of the bottle. For the sins of buying a toddler-handful of Lightening McQueen, I go through monster bags of Arm & Hammer Baking Soda, trying to wash away my sinful consumerism with the dollops of homemade raspberry jam and peanut butter on my countertops and battleship lineoleum from the 1950s. Don't tell me what toxins have been in that flooring. I just don't want to know.

I heard a powerful sermon this last Sunday in church from a retired minister that touched on these very topics of our small place in this very large, throbbing and suffering world. The recalls of potentially hazardous toys in this country miss most of the big picture. Eighty percent of toys made today for the US market are made in China. Wrap your mind around those numbers and then ask yourself "what about those making the toys?" What toxicity and dangers are those individuals, doing their best to make a yuan to feed their family, exposed to each and every day? I know that if tomorrow the American appetite for cheap, Chinese-made toys and products sold from Main Street to BigBoxORama dried up, other products for other markets would go into production overseas. We are all just cogs in the big, consumer-culture machine, no doubt, and I'm as culpable as the next over-stressed mom being pushed to her limits, driving the station wagon full of yowling toddlers who can't find their favorite car or BubbleHead Barbie.

Just thinking about this cycle has thoroughly depressed me and makes the Christmas spirit difficult to grasp. It's been a tough day due to the horrible dog that lives at my house. Problems with that animal that are beyond my control erupted into a full-blown, angst-inducing crisis. I screamed at him, I exiled him to the Siberia of our back yard. I shopped online for bark collars. I contemplated dogicide. I really wanted to do other shopping, shopping for me and only me, just to make a bad situation go away. Something stopped me. Retail therapy wasn't going to help and I knew it. I think a lot of that kind of therapeutic consumerism occurs this time a year, as we try to make up for a year of hurt feelings, inattentiveness, and general malaise by purchasing things we can or can't afford without a smidgen of thought of the item's origin or where the gift might wind up. Is that singing whatzit really going to repair or bolster that flagging relationship? Will the biggest whozit on the shelf equal a well-behaved fill-in-the-blank? Does it really need to wind up at the Powell Landfill before the next yard sale season? What horrible industrial accident or toxic exposure happened during its construction in Micronesia? Who really paid for its bargain basement price tag?

Really, I'm not trying to discourage support of a local economy during the holiday season. I'm just encouraging thinking. Think where your dollar is best spent. Think about the usefulness of what you are giving. Think about how long the life of the item will be and who will really have the joy from it. Enjoy advertising as entertainment. Need more encouragement? Go watch The Story of Stuff with Annie Leonard at www.storyofstuff.com and gain from the experience. Unfortunately, there is no single simple thing to do, because the problems facing our wide world just isn't simple. But everyone can make a difference and the bigger the action, the bigger the difference. By powering down, wasting less, talking to everyone about these issues, making your voice heard, detoxing the body, homes and the economy, plugging into the community, parking that car and walking, changing the paradigm of "more stuff is better!", and recycling... from the trash to elected officials that don't see the forests because all the trees have been cut down, and by buying green, fair, local, used and less. The little changes will begin to build into the big changes that are needed.

The disappointments of today will certainly improve for me as the holidays approach. I'll just be concentrating on knowing what is really important and what chaff can fall away. I'll write that note to say hello to someone I care about instead of feeling a panic to send something off that might never be taken from the shelf once it's placed there after it's opened on Christmas morning. I'll mend that funky sweater one more time before it goes to the discard heap. I'll accept my out of style shoes and install another florescent light bulb. I'll do my best not to murder the dog. And, I'll probably give the toddler that most intriguing and promising toy of all... an empty cardboard box.

A Little Back And Forth

A little spam situation has cropped up in my small world. My name, written correctly with accurate email attached, has been used in a Nigerian-style lotto spamscam. I've had a few nasty emails in reply, but this one brought out the smarty-pants in me. Thanks to a fellow up North for the concise explanation that went into the exchange that went something... well exactly... like this...

On Nov 18, 2007, at 4:35 PM, E---- M----- wrote:

Try again bi*%h with this stupid scam. F@%K YOU!

E---- M-----
E---- M----- Advertising & Design Associates

Of course, I had to reply...

My name was appropriated by some scammer. I hope you can tie down you spam guard a bit better so you don't have to resort to profanity and the anger you obviously can't keep in check.

Don't reply to spam... it only validates your email address for the next spammer. I'm sure your clients appreciate your flowery language in your p.r. work.

Do your best to get your brain around this information:

Spam malware doesn't send e-mail addresses back to the original spam author - there's no need, as the malware has an e-mail engine built right into it. The point of the malware is to hijack the victim's computer and then send out spam e-mails to the addresses in that user's address book, and/or access a remote list of addresses to pick from. To mask the infected computer, the malware will not use the e-mail address of the person's computer that is actually infected - the malware will select a random name from the address book and use that as "from". With a hijacking of a person's computer to do the dirty work, ie theft of services, the spammer is not directly exposed.

Signed/
The random, real person/not-spambot at the receiving end of your good wishes,

Justine L------
P.S. God bless!


Okay, I know the "God bless!" was a little over the top, but it's been a long weekend and I'm a wee bit cranky. Then again, maybe it was worth the wince to ratchet it up a tad.

To his credit, Mr. Potty Mouth-Name Calling Advertising Professional wrote back...
My sincere apologies. I get no less than twenty to thirty scams a day and I sick and tired of them! I have tried all types of spam guards to no avail. I feel that people who resort to stealing from othere who work hard to earn their money do not deserve language any better than that which I used in my reply. Thanks to your email I will no longer reply to the scammers. Once again, I apologize for the language used, it was not intended for your eyes. Thanks for the spam malware info.

E---- M-----
E---- M----- Advertising & Design Associates[/quote]

So, dear readers, I ask you this... Am I a good witch or a bad witch? Think he'll give me a freelance gig doing some ad copy? Should I send him a Christmas card? Discuss.

Sideways Theatre...Goodnight Moon with Charlie

Autumn Leaves

Boo At The Zoo

The Difference Of A Year

What a difference a year makes. As I took Chuckles' picture this morning after a kitchen haircut, I found a picture taken exactly a year ago today.




In the kitchen.

I guess we spend a lot of our time in the kitchen...

This is my daughter...

...that is outside right now, playing "Fighting-Peter-Pan-Hide-and-Go-Seek" with two of the little boys from the neighborhood. I keep looking outside and seeing her standing over the boys, like Boudica in her fury. I can only imagine what the rules, if any, might be.




Earlier, she was sitting on the front step with the older of the boys, playing dolls. It was very sweet and reassuring to me to see that. This little fellow is mildly autistic and my daughter had been unkind to him earlier today as we walked home from school. As she was walking, holding hands with a friend who I was watching this afternoon, she spun around and said to him "Why are you following me?" in an horribly snotty voice.

I spun around and busted her hard. "You apologize to C.C. RIGHT NOW! Tell him you are sorry and thank him for walking home with you!" She did, promptly. All this occurred in front of her friend, who's a much bigger girl than mine, though the same age. I hope, probably a foolish hope, that such behavior isn't the only product of starting school.

But, all must be forgiven and something must have been learned by today's episodes for as the sun is setting, she's out playing Peter or Wendy or Hook (not sure who she is channeling at the moment).

Do you think it's hard to play such a game... in pink metallic high heels?

Autumn Fluctuation

Okay, we have officially entered the time of year in Wyoming where anything might happen weather-wise.

A few days ago it was in the 90s and I was running the air conditioner in the kitchen.

Yesterday, it was drizzly and I put the glass insert into the storm door that has the cat hatch. Too nippy to have the screen-only over night.

As soon as I went to bed last night I had two lard-ass cats sleeping on my legs, snuggling with all their might. The old cat was snuggled in with Chuckes.

This morning I had to run the furnace because it was 36 degrees. The kids were up just after 6 complaining that they were cold. Hot chocolate all around.

The sun is out now, the air is crisp, the sky is periwinkle, there is a nice breeze and I'm going to go pick some apples. We may see a high of 74 by the time school lets out.

Ahhhhh, AUTUMN. Those tomatoes in the back yard better get a move on, as should the pumpkins

Beware The Bears

Twenty Years On In 4.5 Minutes To A B-52s Soundtrack

I won't be able to attend the twentieth reunion of my graduating high school class from that little town, at the Sierra Nevada foothills, surrounded by citrus groves, in the hot hot San Joaquin Valley... from where I originate in Central California.

I'm sending this along, just as an update-slash-explanation about where I evaporated to after graduation. I didn't go into my history of education, employment, romance, foreign countries visited, marriage, infertility, business operations, medical operations, respiratory arrest, children, time-wastes, books read and unread, political and social affiliations, movies memorized and other less than ideal cocktail-hour conversations. I'll just have to save all that for the tell-all book.

So do I appear as self-involved as I feel after putting this little life-log together?

WAIT, don't answer that...

Did Princess Di Ever Paint Her House?

Everyone, at least everyone that I talk with, is busy. Really busy. Driving about, picking up Junior or Princess, mowing the yard and forgetting to turn on the sprinklers, bailing the dog out of canine jail for squirrelicide, and trying to squeeze as much as possible into the daylight hours before collapsing in a heap. Okay, not everyone is doing those particular things but now you know what I’ve been doing recently. With summer truly here, along come the visitors – usually from out of state to this exotic remote area of Wyoming. For the first time in a few years, I won’t be traveling with my family to my point of origin in the Central Valley of California but will be hosting friends from both the Eastern and Western seaboards for their taste of the Wyoming wildlands. As an American, and a transplanted Californian in Wyoming, I feel I have a concept, somewhat, of the vastness of this chunk of North America that I call home. My friends? Not so much. I am not embellishing when I tell on some of my friends who thought they could drive from Los Angeles or Paso Robles or Half Moon Bay and that they would arrive in Wyoming by dinnertime of that same day. That misconception of where exactly to find Wyoming is not exclusive to the far Westerners. A friend in North Carolina wanted to road trip from New York to Wyoming for a brief vacation before retuning to graduate school. A pow wow with Google maps had her finding the cheapest tickets she could from Salt Lake City for her visit in August. By now, she’s been braced for the full day of driving she’ll have before she experiences the Big Horn Basin on her path to Yellowstone and the onslaught of new friend-frantic toddlers.

My husband and I used to joke that Powell might actually be the center of the universe; we’d calculated that for most of the destinations we wanted to go, we would have to drive or fly about 1300 miles. At a least a couple of sunsets to get where we needed or wanted to be. I was absolutely SHOCKED when I went to my old pal Google Earth to see that from my doorstep to my mother’s it was merely 800 miles. As the crow flies. But, I can’t fly like the proverbial crow so by car it would take about...1300 miles to drive the kids to Grandma’s house and her swimming pool and what used to be the center of my pre-Wyoming universe. Distance and travel is easily taken for granted now, with a couple hundred miles drive to the nearest zoo easily accomplished in one day. Of course, today's easy travel isn't at all what I expected it to be by this point in my life. When I was 8, I was absolutely sure that by the time I was nearing 40 I would be zipping around the country, and probably nearby countries, with the ease of the Jetson family. I am still profoundly disappointed this isn't so and I don't have my lightning-quick rocket car. I accept that I won't be zipping over to the Bahamas for dinner tonight., but I'm certainly not happy about it. And, I'll probably never have a dog named Astro.

All this talk of mileage and impending travelers brought me to thinking about Princess Diana. These thoughts have been easily encouraged by the the British government's inquiry still not being finalized, the fantastic movie The Queen about the time of her death and its impact on the British Royal Family, and a concert scheduled for July 1st by her now adult sons. My thought patterns don’t always take the most direct route like the aforementioned crow or rocket car. It’s been nearly 10 years since Diana Spencer’s short life ended after a very short trip from the Paris Ritz to the scene of that horrible car accident. She’d led a whirlwind life, had a not-too-good marriage, bucked tradition and found herself in a horrible scenario that brought all the previous triumphs and tragedies to a stop. She appeared, to a young wife like myself, as though she was reassembling herself into an independent woman with a future as a serious activist, putting her full notoriety to work for some worthwhile and world-altering charities. She wasn’t showing up on a reality television show in an effort to mortify her former in-laws but was getting world leaders to see the possibility of a world without landmines, AIDS patients having enough resources to live on and possibly survive their illness and homes for those without them. These were the thoughts I was having about her and her situation last week as I was lying on the porch over my front step, painting and repairing some damage just under the roofline. I’d gotten out all the tools I thought I would need; a gallon of paint and primer, the aluminum extension ladder and a foam hop scotch game of my daughter’s, since I couldn’t find the kneepads that I know are somewhere in the netherworld that is my garage. Up the ladder I went, having to lie on my back to paint a small, weatherworn area under the eaves. A neighbor drove by and was on the verge of razzing me, when I assured him, at the top of my lungs, that I would NOT be doing this on anyone else’s house. I was so close to being finished when I heard the first loud crack of thunder. An ominous and fast moving Wyoming cloudburst moved over the top of me. I did manage to get that little bit of work finished before I was toasted like a marshmallow, first by sun and then by lightning, but I had to put off the remainder of the house painting for another couple of days. The next time I was up the ladder I got to thinking about Princess Diana again. Did she ever paint her own house? Granted, her home at Kensington Palace was a bit more to maintain than my 760 square feet, but maybe she did get a wild hair now and again to crack open a gallon of exterior latex and trim out the palace fascia. In reality, she probably hired folks that hired folks that hired folks to do that particular job.

My head of muddled thoughts continued as I kept painting in preparation for the summer’s houseguests; shopping lists for the market, plans for activities to keep the toddler and almost-kindergartener busy during the lengthy summer, who is due to the vet for their shots and whether I can get the dog neutered...again. But, for some reason, my mind kept rolling back to Diana and all the things she probably never did for herself. Being the mother of the future king and the ex-wife of the other future king would certainly put a crimp in one’s heading to the hardware for a sanding block and a tub of the new magenta colored spackle. Now, that spackle is something that goes to the heart of any princess. It goes on MAGENTA! It’s almost like frosting the house. All the fun is over when it dries and turns white, but for a brief time I felt like Hansel and Gretel would show up and I could say “little mouse, little mouse... who is nibbling on my house” from up atop my extended ladder. (Thankfully I, being me and not a princess of world reknown, was able to do my little bit of home improvement without having a coterie of paparrazi on Vespas revving their engines. Maybe not having rocket cars available is a good thing.) Maybe all these thoughts of what the princess didn’t get to do cuts to the quick of the fascination with celebrity; knowing that Diana, Princess of Wales, probably never painted her own home made what I was doing seem oh-so-exotic. Who needs yachts and billionaire boyfriends and the drudgery of wealth when I have my little frosted house on the corner, under the fluffy crabapple tree? Nope, I sure don’t need the wealth or the unhappiness that seems to accompany it. I’ll stick with my backyard garden raspberry patch, the kids' chalk drawings on the freshly painted walls, and the beauty of the summertime Wyoming sunsets. I will do my best to be generous in sharing all of this fun I plan on having with our friends as we explore Yellowstone and the Basin in the coming weeks. I’ll keep the bug spray and the sunscreen at the ready and hope that the good works Diana did in the final days of her life brought her comfort and happiness. I hope the upcoming concert in London enriches her charities even more to continue their valuable work. I'm sure her worries wouldn’t have been lessened by opening a can of paint but I know mine has by a combination of Ponderosa Tan and Pre-Mix white for the trim.

Swimming and Fireworks at Big Horn Canyon

Geysers!

Geysers & Other Dangers In Yellowstone National Park

Fourth of July at Yellowstone Lake

A Wyoming Fourth of July at Yellowstone Lake

Beartooths & Roosevelt Chuckwagon

Our friends Peat, Zoe, Henry and Ella came to town last week for an adventure in Yellowstone. These photos came from the drive over Beartooth Pass to Roosevelt Country in Yellowstone National Park and a chuckwagon dinner. Mmmmm, steak.

Karmic Fireworks

Our goofy, homebody orange tabby, Dinger, went missing sometime during the night on Tuesday, June 26. He wasn't gone very long before I knew something had gone afoul. His buddy, Mack, was yowling at the back door about midnight and wouldn't come in the cat hatch. I opened the door in the dark, scolded Mack for being in p.i.t.a and assumed Dinger was on his heels. Mack climbed directly into our bed and pretty much didn't leave it for a couple of days. The old cat, Pink, also climbed into the bed and hung on tight. Hardly any food was touched in the cat silo and no Dinger. I called, checked the usual hidey-holes and did my best not to panic. Later, on Wednesday morning, I happened upon an injured dog outside our back fence. I called the public safety officer about the dog and my missing cat. I had pictures printed up by that afternoon:

I kept Scott updated via instant messenger and walked with the kids hollering "here....kitty, KITty, KITTY KITTY" up the alleys and streets on the way to swim lessons. No sign of him. We drove around in the car, doing the same thing. I kept telling the kids that we had to help Dinger, that it was getting awfully hot and he needed to be home.

By the second day I had another, better picture ready. I had had a message from a woman at the medical clinic saying "I saw the picture of your cat but there wasn't a description." Huh? How 'bout orange-furry-cat? errrrrrrrr.....

Scott picked up prints at the evil Big-BOX and made some color copies that I took anywhere and everywhere that was high traffic; the hardware store, the coffee shop, the video store, the lumber yard, the farm and ranch supply, the local vets. I emailed anyone that lived in the vicinity and told the recipients to pass the word along. I went to the animal shelter and saw 18... EIGHTEEEN... adult beautiful cats but the Dinger wasn't one of them. The days were getting hotter, progressively, and I was doing my best not to be the fatalist that I am to my DNA. I continued to search, noticing that each time we got in the car Chuckles would say "Ding...HELP!"

Our good friends arrived from California on Saturday and the clock was ticking. We had reservations for Yellowstone beginning on Tuesday and another worry, beyond Dinger trapped somewhere dehydrating to death, was that he might come home injured and I wouldn't be here to get him to the vet.

On Sunday the 1st we headed over to a big lake at the base of the Big Horn Mountains for a fireworks display. Big booms, awfully windy, a large crowd and a goofy soundtrack including Gloria Gaynor's I Will Survive. Maybe that was a bit of a message and, because I was tired, I was missing the point. On the drive back in town in a long stream of cars, I spotted a Corgi/Corgi mix standing on the yellow line in the center of the busy two lane highway. We immediately flipped around and headed back for it. We turned around again without seeing it. Almost in the exact spot was that bat-eared black dog hugging the yellow line with cars zipping past. Again we pulled over, I hopped out and called to it. It came right over to the driver's side and Scott boosted it in. It jumped right into the back seat with the kids, gave Augusta a big gooey kiss and faced forward. I pulled it into my lap and got a tongue bath. We got back on the road and headed for the town of Lovell's police department. We first found the Fire Department, which had sponsored the night's fireworks display, got directions and headed for the P.D. A very nice officer took the story, didn't recognize the dog, which sat attentively in my arms, and told us to call in a few days to check on it. Scott asked how long the dog had, in custody, since we will be leaving town Tuesday for the park. That plucky little dog didn't survive a string of full-sized cars just to be euthanized due to not being claimed. The officer told me to call tomorrow. I will definitely be calling tomorrow to check on the Psychopoodle's new playmate, the Crazedcorgi. In the meantime, our friends were driving through unfamiliar territory and I'd called their phone and left a couple voicemails with directions back to our house and news of the side trip to the police department. I got a call back telling me they'd missed the turn off, gotten a little lost, but still managed to beat us home. When they got here they saw an orange tabby dart into the cat door.

I'd not allowed myself to cry but when I heard of the Dinger sighting, a big gooey tear smeared up my glasses. The odds of another orange tabby showing up and heading in the house were slim, but I did my best to not get my hopes up. When we got home the Psychopoodle was pitching a fit in the front yard and cats were darting, but it was certainly the tubby Dinger diving for the recesses of our bed.

Scott said, as I sat in the backyard giving Dinger and his worried housemates some freshly picked cat nip, "I don't go for a lot of this spiritual stuff, but our finding that dog must have had something to do with Dinger's return." Who'd have ever thought that dog and cat karma might be intertwined. Not me. At least not until Sunday night.

I've blathered on long enough that now Dinger is bored with the story and just gave me one of these:

Think he's probably ready to sleep this bender off?

Thanks to all the positive thoughts that helped send this wayward feline home.

He appears healthy, though a wee bit sketchy. I wish he could tell what he's been up to...

Reading Rut

I'm stuck. I've found myself in a reading rut and I'm not sure what to do about it. Yes, I know I should just grab a book and get going, but I am without direction. I began John Grisham's A Painted House because it was here. A couple chapters into it, I laid it down and went outside to paint my house. I don't think that was the author's point.

I've been trudging through Son of A Witch for months now. Months. It's almost like when I read John Irving's A Widow For One Year and it took me a bloody year to read it. And I paid retail for it. Double drat. I really enjoy Mr. Irving's books, but not for that length of time.

Looking at the table next to my bed, I have a Don DeLillo, a thick chunk of a book called Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, The Dress Lodger by Sheri Holman, Simplicity's Simply the Best Sewing Book and Olivia and the Missing Toy. I also have Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. I see Dumbledore's hand and Harry's glasses in the book jacket illustration and I sit here longing for the last installent of the Rowling epic. It all just comes down to me sitting here, twiddling my thumbs as I await young Mr. Potter on his final adventures.

I guess I should grow up and read something deep and life-altering.

OR I should just wait for July.

Turning Five

This took place while I was still sleeping, so Big Daddy related this story when I woke...

So, this morning about 6, I heard little feet get up, run to the bathroom (light on…1…2…3…light off), then out to the living room.

I dragged myself out of bed to try to head off trouble. I found Augusta curled up in a ball under a blanket, sniffing a little, and when I sat down next to her the sobbing started up for real.

"What is it? Did you have a bad dream?"

*sniff* "I didn't turn five."

"Huh?"

*looks cross* "I didn't turn five in the middle of the night."

"Sure you did. Yes, you're my five-year-old girl now."

*more sobs*

Finally, she got up off the couch and backed up to the wall where we tick off how tall she is. I thought, "ah," and got a pencil to make the mark.

"Stand up very straight. Look straight ahead. Heels against the wall."

*Dad makes mark, doesn't cheat*

"See? You're this much taller than you were before."

=========

1/4 inch and all is well.

Happy Birthday, little girl!

WalkAmerica 2007 in Powell

Beyond the Bink

Chuckles is well into his third year. 27 months to be exact. He is interested, maybe even fascinated by the toilet. He feeds himself. He opens the refrigerator door to do his own meal planning. He walks the Psychopoodle. He cuddles cats. Telling him to do "big boy" things is a great motivator. He wants to be a big boy. He, on occassion, wears a size 2 T pair of trousers.

But, still, we have the comfort of the pacifier lingering. He can drag a barstool to the drawer where Nini is stashed. He unearths them from the couch cushions. He rescues them from under his bed. He squeals with delight when he finds one awaiting him, fur-encrusted, in his car seat.

This is a job for Google. Research is always my friend; Dr. Green, Dr. Spock, Swedish Hospital in Seattle. All had their suggestions, insights. Not one really offered a step-by-step approach. One suggested a dip in pickle juice. Big Daddy was in favor of that. Didn't know Big Daddy was serious when he'd offer the Fouryearold a slug of pickle juice for breakfast. I've gotta keep an eye on Big Daddy.

Chuckles does have some cuteness going with his Nini, though. I tell him, when we're about to leave the house to go to the market that he'll have to put his Nini in his pocket. His pocket is the front of his shirt. He's become very adept at stuffing the bink down the neck of his shirt. The Nini issue may take care of itself because his shirt is rarely tucked into his trousers.

The only bit of information I can gather from the multitude of web sites (Today's Toddler? Is there also a Yesterday's Toddler?) is that when it's time for the bink to go, Chuckles will chuck it.

Sunday Afternoon In The Park

It was a nice enough day today, so I decided to take the children and the Psychopoodle to the park. I went to the park across town, "across the tracks", in a very working class (aren't we all?) part of town that has a large grassy park with a very modern and fun playground. I've been there with the family many times before, but not on a Sunday afternoon. I wasn't there ten minutes, tossing the ball for the dog, when I got into a yelling match with a 10 year old.

"F*%#! YOU!" he screams at one of the younger, smaller children. I told him to stop using bad language around my children or go home if he couldn't control himself. Speak appropriately around these young children, not just mine.

He was quiet for a minute and then started showing off for some little girls that were up with him on the slide platform. He proceeded to tell me he didn't have to leave, he could say anything he wanted. There was no law... etc. I told him that was not so and he could go home and take the argument up with his parents.

Then, little sister I assume, chimed in. Seconded the "law" argument. I said, simply, that there were small children here and if they couldn't be respectful of EVERYONE there, then they couldn't stay. Both began arguing with me, a total stranger. A total stranger that might be substitute teaching in their school soon. I was the only adult supervising a play area that clearly states, on its playground equipment, "Adult Supervision Required". I asked him if he spoke that way at school and he said yes. I should have screamed, a la Carol Kane in the Princess Bride "LIAR!"
With every response he gave, the little jerk fluttered his eyelashes. It was the weirdest thing and I almost broke into laughter when I realized it. I was getting that shakey/warble-y inside feeling, the feeling I get when I just want to scream uncontrollably and my voice sounds like I'm hollering while on a bumpy road. I knew it was a waste of any effort on these children for the preservation of my own.

In conclusion, as I called Augusta to me from the equipment, and gathered up an about-to-scream Chuckles, I said "come on, let's go find another park where NICE children play. The children here are not nice, use bad language and are disrespectful to others." I left out that I hoped they enjoyed their futures of incarceration and drug addiction but would reflect happily on the time they spent intimidating small children in their neighborhood park, mouthing off to people they don't know.

I drove away, as the little creep was showing off some more for his harem, Chuckles sobbing and me reassuring him that we'd go to another park. Augusta and Chuckles played well with each other and I stewed. I was tempted to head home and call our police dispatcher. Intimidation is intimidation. No law protects that child's foul mouth over the discomfort of others. I told Scott what happened and he said that neither of us are good at reasoning with older children. I told him I wasn't reasoning. I was commanding. Demanding, maybe. Regardless, all those children were told, by me, that they were not nice children because of the behavior of a couple. I do feel for the teachers of these children, who go to the school I used to aide at, but strangely I feel no sympathy for their parents. None. They are not my children to raise but I will certainly protect my children from their influence.

I will return to that park. Should our paths cross, I will demand names. I should have today.

Precedent For A Psychopoodle

In going through family pictures, I'm running across a number similarities with my life today.

I appears there was an earlier version of the Psychopoodle.

This is Pierre, a purebred minature poodle that my dad was given, back in November 1968. A kennel in Fresno had taken him back after finding him left by his owners all day, locked in their apartment's bathroom. I recall my dad being astounded that people would pay that kind of money for a purebred dog and do that. He was never a well-adjusted dog. He was never neutered, never bred and pissed on as much as he could. The name Pierre should have been changed. PeeEverywhere. But, he was devoted to my dad and was never dressed up as a poodle. He looked like a starved black sheep most of his life. He was about the same weight and height as the current Psychopoodle. He lived to be 18 and died in my dad's arms of old age, after a lifetime of hoarding my dad's socks and boxer shorts under my parents' bed.

So, little did I know, Pierre has been reindognated into the current Psychopoodle. I just wonder if my mom was as annoyed by the first Psychopoodle as I am by the current Psychopoodle. I guess I may have to now call him Psychopoodle Junior.

Eyes

3-25-07sailors.jpg
Originally uploaded by Scott & Justine fromWyo.

These sets of eyes seem to be taking it all in and on the verge of voicing their opinions.

Happy Birthday Song For Daddy

Talking Heads At The Table

It's hard to stay awake after a long day, a pile of strawberries, noodles and a frankfurter. Chuckles tried his hardest, nonetheless.

Scuffed, Bruised, Chipped But Trying To Smile Through It All

This pictures of Chuckles encompasses about every sensation I'm having right now.

Scuffed. Chipped. Bruised. The waters rising, about to overwhelm. Still trying to smile through it all.

It's been a rough weekend. I've had the plumber here twice this weekend. Scott didn't get the job for which we were sure he was a lock. We spent yesterday completely discouraged. Today was a little more sunny, but then Chuckes took a header off the front step and scuffed his nose with a rock. I couldn't tell you which of the many head bonks resulted in his multi-layered forehead bruise. I locked the "tot lock" to the cupboard under the kitchen sink, which is leaking in three places, in that very damp cupboard. Augusta is recovering from a nasty ear infection, the first in her four-plus years. I was nearly too clueless to even take her to the doctor for her complaint of a "sore ear." And, now I have to call the plumber back because the toilet in the guest room is backed up.

I'm trying to smile. I really am. Through it all, my Chuckles can easily tell me a few things; the bruise will go away, the scuffed nose will heal up, the chipped tooth will eventually fall out and the waters will, someday, recede.

I just have to be bright enough to remember all that.

Chuckles & The Chocolate Sauce

A New Dress

I do believe I am beginning to resemble the fuddy in Fuddy Duddy.

I'd been looking for dresses for the fouryearold. Just something simple, not overly out-of-season -- since we still have many moons of winter left before it is actually warm enough for a "spring" dress. Easy to wash, easy enough for her to put on since she enjoys dressing herself for preschool each day. And, most important to me, the overbearing mother-type, something that didn't make her look like a hoochie-mamma-in-training. Too tall an order, I guess.

I looked at our local stores. I looked online. The closest thing I found to what I had in my mind's eye was at Land's End, on clearance, but STILL over 20 smackers with shipping. I went to the fabric store, looked through their pattern books and NADA! I finally settled on a 99 cent pattern that I had to find and make sleeves for from an old nightgown pattern. Am I this out of touch with what is the current style and what my tastes for my little girl are? I just want her to be comfortable, I don't want to fret over broken zippers and lost buttons and have her look like a LITTLE GIRL and not ParisLohanSpearsOlsenWhatever. Granted, I'm as sloppy a dresser as can be imagined, but I've got a girly-girl on my hands, so I try my best to be accomodating.

So, out of old, unused fabric (FSM KNOWS when I actually bought it!) and the cheapest, modified dress pattern I made this frock with my underused sewing machines yesterday afternoon. Fortunately for me and my aching back, my little girl likes it.

Tumble Action

A Return To Laundering

It's arrived and partially installed. At least installed enough for the maiden load of laundry.

Eventually it will be put in its permanent place and tucked in with a new cabinet to its left and space for a roommate gas dryer to its right. I am just happy to not have to haul baskets down basement steps across town.

It really is the little things in life that mean so much. That and the Energy Star rating and the 126 (on a scale from 113 to 680) kilowatt hours to run the new darling.

Say hello to Frigidaire Tumble Action. We'll call her Action for short.

"Dinger, Action. Action, Dinger."


Oh, here's something now that needs a good sudsing.

I Guess...

we're beginning to look alike.

A Story By The Fouryearold

Taken in dictation at school:

Floral Fripperies

I've been working, answering phones, at a local florist in the lead-up to Valentine's. I've been congratulated on my ability to answer the phones, take the orders, be pleasant and do a fair amount of sales to those, mostly men, that want to send something nice, are willing to pay, and are somewhat clueless about what they want. I have not asked to "design" or pushed my way into anything, but in less than 12 hours I've detected a weird vibe- not from the owners but from the other employees.

Yesterday I heard "Justine, are you DESIGNING over there?" from one of employees.

"Nope, putting up cards." was my response.

Today, I was told SPECIFICALLY where to place the orders. I asked and had it confirmed that I was putting them in the right place. Less than four hours later I hear, "you have to put them in THIS BASKET, not the box that says Wednesday." Uh huh.

I've owned a business, a business that is in its 11th year and I can tell you that I wouldn't hire half of the nitwits working in this shop. It's too bad, because the owners are great and obviously too good to people.

I asked another part-timer, Kelly, if the local college had a floral design tech degree. "Nope, all taught on site. Nearest school is Denver or Seattle." Uh huh. A little knowledge is obviously a dangerous, snipe-making thing. As an aside, Kelly has a long-time, successful business here, a busy, busy life and only comes in to help in these very-rushed times of the year at the florist. She was very good to work with the last few days. I couldn't count how many arrangement she put together that looked stunning and were finished and in the cooler in no time at all. She knows a thing or two about production.

But, I'll walk away from this with some useful information. I won't ever be owning a flower shop. The next business I have won't include baby-making, part-time girlies that can't answer a phone or be pleasant or helpful to someone that is in to save their ass; fortunately these individuals have the jobs they do because it's not terribly likely they could do much else.

It makes me happy that I've made a few people --who don't know me or have seen my face -- laugh a bit when they were placing their order. One of the highlights was when the manager of the local cemetary called to order a dozen roses for his wife.

"Would you like an assortment or all red roses or another particular color?"

"Like I know? All I know about flowers is that I have to clean them up out here."

"Well, think of the lovely compost it will make." He just laughed at that.

I do like knowing, by these little experiences, that I'm not wired like most women around this little town. Things that make me laugh don't seem funny to most, I can make complete strangers laugh on the phone, and my life is not dependent on trimming flowers in a back room a few days a year and thinking I'm "so stressed!". Tra la la.

Here is what is really important to me on a certain Wednesday in February and every other day of the year.

To add to annoyance, I woke this morning with a weird hot, throbbing spot on my back. I got up and sat in the massage chair-thingy I have. Then I went into the bathroom and I've been barfing ever since. 5 yaks in 4 hours, all over body aches, I AM SO HUNGRY, and little Chuckles coming into my room, saying "Muuum? Muum?" As I write this I'm up to 8 runs to the toilet between 7 am and 10 pm.

The person who'd questioned whether I was designing brought her fouryearold by the flower shop on Monday, after ,he'd started puking that morning. I called the owner at 7:15 Wednesday morning and told her what was going on. She said it long before I did. "That was rude bringing her boy in while he was sick." So, I spent Valentine's day in bed, mostly. I think this may be the longest I've been upright today. I just hope my kiddies don't get it.

I hope you had a nice Wednesday.

A Serenade For Chuckles

A Birthday Book

Observation Of A Fouryearold

Today I picked up Aunt Dorothy at the airport. Just before the drive home, I had to stop in at the bigboxstore and pick up some pictures. Aunt Dorothy waited with the children and dog in the car where she and the Fouryearold had a brief conversation. It began by talking about Aunt Dorothy's dog and where he was, where he lives. Dorothy explained that Booker lives with her at her home in California.

Then the big question was asked. "Aunt Dorothy, why do you live alone?"

"I don't live alone. I live with Booker."

"Is it because all the MENS are taken?"

What does this Fouryearold know that the rest of aren't aware of?