booandbunny

I’ve been waiting for you
I knew you’d come
The one who’d look through me
Deep into me
Past all the deflectors I put out there
And into my soul

Yes
I knew you’d come
Now here you are

Your first touch
A touch of knowing
Not of discovering

Your first kiss
One of satisfaction
Not of hunger

I’ve been waiting for you
I knew you’d come

For more Poetry Thursday, visit Liz.

“Our secret ingredient?” Insert tension-building pause here. “IMAGINATION!” Can’t you just see The Chairman tearing the cloth away with that martial-artsy flair he uses each episode of Iron Chef America? Well downtime last night was quite productive as the kids broke out the clay and all the plastic dishes I would allow. They created their own Iron Chef competition (complete with interviews and commentary) and hubby and I “judged” their creations before we ate our real dinner. Of course it was the first three-way tie in Kitchen Stadium history!

Dinner segued to homework and some family reading time. All in all it was great night. Then it happened. Mr. 6 got caught putting his imagination to bad use: He tried to cover up a note from his teacher about a teensy-weensy (not kidding no-big-deal) incident at school. why? Why? WHY as humans must we go through this process of learning that lying really is just too much work?

I remember the bust that really brought it home for me. I was about 12 and had forged my mother’s signature in a similar case … caught cursing on the Catholic playground I was to write down what I said and have her sign it so I could give it to the principal ... yup ... a nun. Anyway, what happened at school was not as big a deal as lying was. So we had to deliver this message to Mr. 6 and I had all those same feelings in my stomach that I used to have when I got in trouble myself. I hate having to teach these tough lessons of life. Lessons such as:

*Just because her parents let her do it doesn’t mean I’ll let you do it;
*Lying is worse than touching stuff on the walls in the hallway at school;
*It takes a stronger person to walk away than it does to strike a blow;
*Sometimes you have to stay and fight, you can’t walk away;
*That rotten feeling in the pit of your stomach is far harsher punishment than I could ever dole out, but I have to punish you anyway.

It’s in the postgame that I realize – as awful as it was for all of us – we handled it OK. He went to bed knowing he was in trouble, but also knowing that we love him. I went to bed knowing he understood these things, but wondering when he’d lie again. He’s a kid. There are envelopes to push. Even the good kids push them. We haven’t even hit the smoking, drinking, sexing years. So I’m going to start asking for advice now. What did you lie about as a kid and what happened when you got caught?

Funny how one word sets the brain in motion. Shall I write about how I discovered this vice, having given up tobacco and beverage upon becoming pregnant? Shall I write about the amazing health benefits of a bit of dark chocolate? I love that my new vice is actually good for me! How about its history in San Francisco? In the days before refrigeration, San Francisco’s cool climate allowed for the perfect processing of chocolate. I’m fascinated by the idea of a man landing in just the perfect spot on Earth to create an empire, seeing the opportunity and seizing it. (Think Ghirardelli Square.) Or shall I write about how a fine Cabernet Sauvignon and a bar of Scharffen Berger make for a date these days? This put me on to something, so I gave myself 30 minutes and 500 words to share part of our trip last year.

We’d learned on our first trip after children that this was a precious gift, the fact that his parents were willing to move into our house for a week so we could get away. This time we would spend several days in wine country, then his conference in San Francisco. So we arrived in St. Helena after a stop in downtown Napa for lunch. We squeezed in a quick tasting before everything seemed to be closing. We weren’t too hungry, and knew we could get a complimentary bottle back at the inn, so we stopped at Dean and Deluca, where we picked up some amazing fresh bread and fruit and, after a near crippling bout with indecision upon facing the selection, some lovely cheeses. As we paid we saw it on the counter: Scharffen Berger … as featured on Food Network … as unavailable in the Midwest. Two bars, please.

At our first tasting the next day we were presented with a plate of delicacies that were to be taken with certain wines. I saw the lovely English Bleu Cheese and just knew Hubby wouldn’t taste it. Then I saw the chocolate and thought: “Oh! I just don’t understand how chocolate and wine could possibly be good together. How do I graciously get out of this?”

Conversation, education and two tastes later, Hubby bit into the bleu. I was stunned! “OK,” I thought, “This IS all about adventure, isn’t it?”

So when the time came I took the chocolate with the suggested vintage. It was one of those movie moments where … if it had a soundtrack … Handel’s Messiah would have rang out. What glorious surprise, what gracious simplicity, what grand complexity, what heaven on Earth this combination of quality chocolate and big booming Cabernet Sauvignon. (Let’s be honest: A Hershey bar just can’t be beat when you’re a kid. And, to this day, I simply must have several s’mores every summer. But I’m not 8 anymore, and there are times when the chocoholic in me needs more. I had found it at last.)

The toughest thing about a vacation is that it must end. You simply must return to your real life. (Ha!) But food and photos help me make it last. His parents (oenophiles in their own right) had dutifully signed for all the wine we shipped home and stacked it in our dining room. And on my second-to-last day in San Francisco I meandered through the Financial District to another food Mecca, The Ferry Building Marketplace. I found several non-Midwestern delicacies for breakfast and then, after marveling at the mushroom stall ($400 per ounce for certain dried varieties!) I heard Handel again … a whole stall of Scharffen Berger! I cradled my Nibby Bars in the carry-on all the way home. And so, after the kids are in bed on a Friday night, it’s a big Cab and a Nibby Bar and our Midwestern family room becomes a Napa Valley bed and breakfast.

You don't realize how quickly time slips away until an old friend says: "I've got a conference. Are you free April 21? I'll be in town!" Then you get together and realize it's been five years.
All the kids are, of course older. The one who was 12 is now out of high school ... an early graduate. The one who was in second grade is now 12 and the one who was 4 is now in second grade! And your friend, the married mother of two, is now a single mom trying to be everything she can for her amazing, resiliant kids as well as something ... anything ... for herself. All I could do was listen, give her squeeze, tell the high school grad how proud I was and assure the 12-year-old that, though it annoys his mother, as a man it is his duty to leave basically empty containers in the refrigerator and pantry ... as long as he always ALWAYS refills the toilet paper roll!
My heart ached as I thought of her ex-husband, who is also my friend. From what he suffers it is hard to discern, but all the signs are there for certain struggles within his own mind, as well as his evident addictive nature and refusal to get help. So many people have reached out and, from what we're able to gather, he has walked away from each of them. This team of three marches on, getting stronger every day. I'm so proud of all of them, and so thankful that there are some friendships time and distance just can't touch.

The brown wreckage cried out to me
In what could only have been a Dryad's voice
Scarred earth
Felled trunk
Rootball to the sky
"Your tax dollars at work"
The sign said.
Tears came to my eyes.


Throughout his Chronicles of Narnia I truly enjoyed C.S. Lewis' descriptions of the Dryads, the woodland people connected to trees. "You could tell she was birch," he would write as he described one of the children looking at a Dryad. And then there was the scene in The Last Battle where the Dryad comes to the king and he witnesses her death as, in the distant woods, her tree is cut down. I guess it had more impact on me than I realized, because it was all I could think of as I did my Wednesday night route from karate to gymnastics and back again along a road that's being "improved."

For more Poetry Thursday, check in with Liz.

I grew up in a family just like the one I have. Perhaps that’s why every so often I’m compelled to call one brother or the other to apologize. Siblings will be siblings.

We pounded each other. We egged each other on. We tattled. We kept secrets from our parents for each other. We had a blast. Looking back on my childhood my parents are pale shadows on the walls of a clubhouse filled with friends and my ever-present brothers. We’d dig and climb trees, ride bikes and swim. My friends and my brothers' friends were generally siblings and together these packs of children would comb the neighborhoods.

We wandered through a time when kids were still at home during the day and you could always find someone to play with. Garage doors were up. Adventures were waiting to happen. We’d take our allowance to the pharmacy, which was a much farther bike ride that I can imagine allowing my kids to take, and we’d buy baseball cards and football cards and candy and sit on the steps and rip open the pack and chew the nasty gum and see if we got any Cincinnati Reds or Pittsburgh Steelers. When I was growing up, teams had extra nicknames such as The Big Red Machine or The Steel Curtain. Boxing was a real sport on free TV. And the pharmacy was locally owned, no Walgreens.

On the way home from the pharmacy we might stop at the bridge a street over from our house. Nothing grand, but we could lean our bikes against the concrete barrier and scramble down to the creek. There was always stuff to discover there in the corrugated tunnel beneath the street. We’d get wet. We’d get muddy. We’d capture crayfish or minnows or tadpoles. Then we’d go home and drop our bikes in the yard, cut through to the backyard and see what happened next. Other days we’d ride to the lake near our subdivision and do stupid stuff there. Then there would be the inevitable “No boys allowed” times when I would be with a friend dancing to the soundtrack from Grease or playing Barbies.

We moved to a new suburb at the end of 7^th grade. In this neighborhood there were no fewer than 10 of us who ran around together. There were crushes and kisses and nights when someone would sneak out and TP someone else’s house. And as much of it as possible was filed away until one of us needed ammunition against another. After all, we were adolescents now.

We’d team up against each other. Once Red and I locked Mr. Middle out of the house and he got in trouble for breaking down the door. We got in trouble, too, but not as much because we didn’t actually tear the doorframe from the wall! Of course Mr. Middle and I had our moments as a team, too. Usually it involved a contest to see who could get Red to cry first. Siblings will be siblings, and yes it is cruel. But there were other times, too.

There was the time we were home alone and we thought it would be fun to play in the rain. This was all well and good until the lightning started and we kept playing. The neighbor guy pulled around in his El Comino and did something that didn’t usually happen in our house. He cursed at us: “What the hell do you think you’re doin? Dumb kids. Get your asses inside now!” Then he parked in our driveway and made sure all of us left our wet clothes in the garage and went in to change and that we stayed inside. Neighbors can’t do that anymore. I can’t imagine what would happen these days if a neighbor made three idiot kids remove their wet clothes in front of him and go in the house. He was right to get us out of an electrical storm. He was no weirdo. Today he’d likely be jailed. I can’t decide if this is good or bad.

I came along a few weeks after the 1970s started and came of age in a Donald Trump/Duran Duran world. But Easy Bake oven? Whatever. Strawberry Shortcake? Whatever. I was more of a General Lee and Millenium Falcon kind of a girl. Like my daughter, I’m a blend of princess (I totally coveted my neighbor’s Barbie Styling head.) and TomBoy (I loved dismantling our clubhouse with my brother’s new tool set.). Neither my daughter nor I could be like that if we didn’t have our brothers. I was the girl who was friends with all the guys in high school. To get a date I had to meet guys from elsewhere in the city.

And looking back that was OK. Because the few times I did date someone from our school my brothers hated it. Like Dash on The Incredibles … “Stay away from my sister!” Who knew? Not me. Not then. Now the whole idea of it just makes me smile.

They are two of my best friends. Despite the poundings, the eggings, the tattlings. Despite the fact that they recall our childhood in dramatically different ways than I, part of how I am is all because I got to grow up with them. And, despite them running my stuffed Snoopy under the sink and turning him gray by leaving his soppy, floppy body on my purple bedspread, I wouldn’t trade them for the world.

He scared me the other night … really he did: “Its funny how we always move right when we get a place the way we want it.”

Alexandra’s post was in my head. And the truth in his words would have had me quaking in my shoes had I been wearing any. I had just scaled the biggest wall in our house (the one that has whispered to me for nearly six years: “Heehee. You can’t paint me!”) with a coffeeish, chocolaty smoothness Laura Ashley calls Sand 5. The wall reaches from the floor by the front door up through the staircase to the ceiling above Mr. 6’s bedroom door. With it scaled I have three smallish walls in the hallway upstairs remaining and the main areas of our house will finally be conquered … before the out-of-town guests arrive in just a few weeks.

But his words echoed in my ears. Perhaps it was all those moves … eight places in eight years! Once upon a time getting a place the way we wanted it meant actually hanging pictures on the walls. It meant no mysterious closed bedroom door with packed boxes stacked behind it.

This is different. All of those places had white walls, cheap mini blinds and white dishes. (After almost 14 years we just replaced the dishes we received for our wedding. Very exciting to the chef in me!) So this time “getting a place the way we want it” is something more.

We’ve colored our world. At last … we’ve colored our world. With the “Mock-me” wall newly tinted and the hallway done all that remains are the odd angles of the master bath. It will be dark blue with a splash of “Pumpkin 6” (Thanks again Laura Ashley.) that picks up our beloved Blue Dog in the next room.

The colors move through the house, the kitchen and family room share a hue, but feel different because of the way the light plays. Each of the kids chose the color for their walls (with a touch of parental restraint, of course!) so lavender, pale green and cornflower blue are splashed against the corners of our house. There’s the striped wall in the dining room, the product of a stormy January weekend a few years back. And the modern look of the black shelving against the chambray walls of our room, which I surprised him with after a business trip.

It’s more our house than ever … though the landscaping still exists only in our heads. That will be another few years more, but it’s OK. The place will be the way we want it on the first try.

This week I decided to take an approach to fiction that went back to those good ol’ days when I wrote on deadline: Timed and trim. I gave myself 30 minutes and 500 words. So when my time was up I couldn’t edit anymore. (Hope there are no typos!)

It wasn’t a big deal that the electricity was out. It was 2 p.m. and they could see just fine to read or play a board game. The kids whined a bit about no TV. It was amazing to her how little they associated the need for electricity with the things they do every day. They just do them, and don’t understand that in real life something makes those things work. She’d never thought about teaching them this until these moments when the power was out. And she had never really thought before about how much electronic gizmos distracted them from things they enjoyed.

Dinner was interesting. Her husband suggested keeping the fridge closed, saying it would keep the food colder longer. It made sense, but it annoyed her. She hadn’t thought about the fact that, if the power were out too long she might be replacing hundreds of dollars in food.

So, it was peanut butter and jelly for everyone. They found some graham crackers and chocolate bars in the back of the pantry, even a few marshmallows that weren’t too hard. He had left a few logs under a tarp, so they had dry firewood, which was a blessing. It was early April and, though the daytime temperatures had been pleasant, the heater was still needed at night.

He got out his guitar and played while the kids tried to figure what else in the house didn’t need electricity. Ms. 8 realized that playing hair salon with her dolls wasn’t like a real life salon. It didn’t need electricity. They all got great new ’dos. And the boys discovered just how many battery-powered toys lit up and looked very cool in the dark. They brushed their teeth by candlelight and were tucked into their beds with extra blankets and socks on.

Mr. 6 had talked his dad out of some batteries and was quite content reading by flashlight. His sister did the same, but it didn’t take long for all of them to fall asleep.

Normally he might be online or watching TV. Or she might be. But this night, alone in front of the fire he grunted at the inconvenience and she again worried about the cost of replacing the food.

“It’ll be fine,” he said moving in for a kiss. And, instead of pushing away for concern of the kids coming downstairs she did something she hadn’t done in a long time. She let herself melt into his touch. It had been nice just being together, no distractions disguised as necessities of life. And there was no way those kids were going to walk around the completely dark house. She gave in and it was like it used to be, back in those days before kids, alone in that tiny apartment where they kept the heat low to keep the bill low. For some reason it felt more real than it had in a long time.

Real life is what happens when the power goes out.

I've been very excited by the return of our favorite Louisiana hot sauce to grocery store shelves. Baumer Foods' facility on Tulane Avenue in New Orleans suffered so much damage they have decided to rebuild in nearby Reserve, La. Until they are at 100 percent this summer, they have been working with manufacturers in other parts of the country. A press release said they are in touch with employees and there will be jobs for all able to return to work at the new plant. They produce quite a few sauces, etc. We just love Crystal. Internet sales aren't up just yet, but I'm adding them to my Shop N.O. list out of pure excitement. On another New Orleans note, my dear friend tipped me off to a Newsweek article March 20 that listed several re-opened restaurants and several more intending to be open by Jazz Fest. The story offered a link for updates. If you have a a favorite something New Orleans please send a link to add to my list. Thanks!

I have just been obsessed with culling the Sunday Scribblings site. I have had so much fun, been so inspired, so moved, so shaken by reading answers to Laini and Megg's question. I have many questions to answer, too, and hope to do that later today, but I have to cross some things off of the list you'll find here. It's just been so exciting scrolling through so many new blogs!

I've never tried to meet Liz's poetry challenge before, but when all this stuff was in my head yesterday I took a stab at using my to-do lists as a creative writing challenge. Why not investigate how I feel about some of these tasks? It might tell me exactly why I put some of them off. I loved Ticharu's comment on my last karate post. Really, truly, the wickedness in some tasks is all in my head. That he mentioned the cat pan truly crystalized things. It truly is a loathesome task, one I haven't been responsible for in almost 9 years! (Love you, honey!) Speaking of Hubby and Ticharu, here's a link to their internet band. Allrighty, I've stalled long enough. Here's a little thing I've decided to call Sinus Pressure.

Plucking my eyebrows
nit nit nit
Wince
Breathe
Swirling ramblings
Thoughts bouncing about
Sinus Pressure.

Gotta send some e-mails
Gotta make some calls
Gotta clean the house up
Gotta paint white walls
It’s likely I’ll put that off

Plucking my eyebrows
nit nit nit
Wince
Breathe
Swirling ramblings
Thoughts bouncing about
Sinus Pressure.

Chance to interview hot chef in town
Mr. 5 has to come along
Chance to win website contract
That would make new skills strong
Chance to breath in spring
It’s likely I’ll just skip that

Plucking my eyebrows
nit nit nit
Wince
Breathe
Swirling ramblings
Thoughts bouncing about
Sinus Pressure.

No school next week
No schedule really
No hope the boys will get along
No plans means imagination roams free
No limits

Plucking my eyebrows
nit nit nit
Wince
Breathe
Swirling ramblings
Thoughts bouncing about
Sinus Pressure.

Grocery lists
Unwritten to-do lists
Crayons across the table.
“Let’s color, Mommy.”
I’ll organize my thoughts tomorrow.

What would you attempt if you knew you would not fail?


If I knew I wouldn’t fail, I’d attempt to become a carpenter, to build things with my hands that could function for lifetimes. I love the smell that comes from the wood, and the power that comes from the tools and the amazement that comes from seeing pieces rise together as a single entity. My grandfather was quite gifted, creating portraits in inlaid wood; furniture; and functional items such as candlesticks and cup racks and salad bowls and tongs. If I knew I could turn the lathe and get a candlestick, I’d start turning. If I knew I could swing a hammer and hit a nail, I’d come out swinging.

If I knew it wouldn’t look like a melted marshmallow on the end of a stick I’d draw someone’s face.

I’d create art … any kind of art … without paper or a keyboard … maybe even without words.

I’d tell my mom how I feel.

I’d run onto the floor during my daughter’s gymnastics class and tumble the length of the gym.

I’d strap on ice skates and do a triple triple then reach backward, lift one foot over my head and spin until … until … until the wind created by my own whirling numbed my ears and burned my lungs.

I’d sail alone for a day, with nothing to listen to but my own thoughts and the waves, and see if I could go 24 hours without talking!

Have to: Pay bills; Tend to Spring duties such as scrubbing/weeding/pruning.

Need to: Make some headway on a story assignment due in one month.

Want to: Take a long walk on the neighborhood trail, scrapbook next to the open dining room window while listening to hubby try to get the kids up and running on their bikes in the cul de sac.

The havetos are the things in life that can only be avoided for so long. I am very good at avoiding them as long as possible. I hate my checkbook. I hate doing laundry, although I hate it less than I hate cleaning bathrooms. (By the way, I hate the word hate, but it is the shortest linguistic route to the dreadful mood these jobs bring over me.) These things I can avoid until, like dust bunnies on a hardwood floor, they tumble across the room at me one day and say “Haha! I won again! I am now too big and too menacing for you to avoid. You HAVE TO take care of me today.” And, once these mountains are made molehills, my mood is brighter.

The needtos are an odd combination of wants and musts, a neverland where responsibility and desire embrace. They are the things in life that need to be tended to, but don’t bother me so much as the havetos. I need to cook dinner tonight. I need to write that story on infusions. I need to help the kids with their homework, chores, etc. If I take care of enough needtos in a day I don’t worry about avoiding the havetos and then I sit down and indulge myself in the wanttos.

The wanttos are quite obvious, they are all the things I’d rather be doing in place of being responsible. They are the things I stuff inside because they seem too silly for a mom, for an adult, for someone who must balance her checkbook. And no matter how many wanttos I check off a list, whether it’s for a day or for life, this is the list that never seems to stop growing. And that just makes me feel greedy and selfish.

So I stop to ask myself “Where is the line between self nurturing and selfishness?” Because the more I tend to myself the more I feel I have to offer others, but do I push those I love to the edges some days in order to tend to myself? Isn’t that selfishness?

A person’s unbalance is the same as weight.

It’s so true. Anytime I feel one area of life not getting what it needs, I feel heavy, slothly, defeated. Unbalanced. So, the mail can’t go out today, so who cares if I pay bills? And I pull a few weeds each morning while waiting for the school bus, so it’s never one huge job. And, hey!, I cleaned the downstairs, so that’s that. Now I’ll scrapbook, listen to him with the kids and savor some of his fabulous grilled chicken for dinner. Here’s to keeping your balance.