Outsourced

The autopsy was final and the funeral plans posted, and in attempting to put together travel yesterday afternoon, I was led to Travelocity by my sister for a plane and car package. In addition, I had to work the better part of the day, still with the washing machine surging in my belly, one ear to the telephone every 30 minutes and one eye on the Internet for news. It seems our friend was stabbed in the neck repeatedly, no suspects announced as of yet and no arrests made.

I was able to get the package, oddly enough sold as Myrtle Beach, SC: Fly & Drive- Reptiles and Relaxation on the Grand Strand. Neither of which I'll be getting any of while I'm down there unless a random green chameleon happens to fall out of a tree and get stuck in my hair (which might and has happened on more than one occasion.) Expensive and frustrating as the whole ticket search was, it was huge relief to have the plan in place and the tickets secured.

Later on that evening, I noticed there was a message on my home answering machine, and when I listened, it was obviously an Indian man calling from Travelocity, though I couldn't make out what he was saying and had to use the hub as a makeshift translator. Apparently, there was some problem with booking my package and they needed me to call right away. Great, I thought. I had just settled down into bed to try and achieve the sleep that had been out of reach the night before, and now, I was gonna have to get riled up with this guy. Had they given away my ticket? Had the price gone up? Fuck.

I dialed and ended up screaming at the IVR as I tried to dial confirmation numbers, say my first name and basically get through the five minutes of stuff they ask you for that they will end up asking you for two more times as you get transferred from one operator to another. Anyway, that's not really my riff.

So, the first operator was very nice, but I couldn't understand a word he was saying. He asked why I was calling and I barked that I was just trying to get to a funeral, man. It took us forever to get through my name and confirmation code.... v as in victory... t as in tank engine... c as it calamity... the connection kept dropping out and he asked for a contact number in case I got disconnected. Right before he transferred me he asked if I would "please remember Travelocity for my future travel purchases" and which point I told him, "We'll see", which got a good chuckle out of him. Then he told me I have a "quite eloquent name" and gave me "condolences" for my loss.

The second man was very sweet but it was like having a conversation with turtle in a tunnel full of echo. He kept asking if he was "audible"... It ended up that there wasn't a problem at all, just that they had to upgrade the rental car "at no cost" to me.

Now let me say, as soon as I heard the Indian voice on the answering machine, I bristled and twisted up inside... I started talking to the first operator with a bull rage and by the end of the conversation with the second man I felt like a racist asshole. I have to imagine that everybody and their grandmother holds a grudge against these guys the moment they hear their voices. The hate towards outsourcing is apparent in everyone you talk to. As I hung up, I imagined that guy somewhere in India, happy and lucky that he has a good job, trying to support his family and get through the day with a bunch of elitist Americans bending his ear. It was a huge hassle to have to talk slowly and repeat everything to them 3 times, but as I did this, I realized you can't be mad at them. Some rich corporate asshole made the decision to give them a job. It is a global world. The really sad thing is that in the next ten years, these guys will probably achieve perfect English accents and lose their verbal sense of country all together, therefore homogenizing the globe even further.

In the end, I am just one person trying to get on a plane to help my mom in a time of grief and those operators are just doing their jobs. We are all earthlings, and I should just be happy that my family is safe rather than expending energy belittling a man his living. Enough said.

Best Friend

Buckets full of woe today. What started as a relatively awesome morning ended hunched over in tears on the side of 281. My sister called to tell me that my mom's best friend had died in a fire. This friend who I'd known since I was a toddler. Who I grew up with. Whose own daughter was a friend and my same age when she died at 15 in a car accident. Who was like a second mom to my family. This was the woman who understood my mom better than anyone in the whole world. Who even though they were eventually two states away from each other would talk to my mom multiple times a day just to vent, laugh and check in.

I spent the afternoon on the phone back and forth between the hub and my sisters and my mom, and it really wasn't a surprise when the details were filled in by the evening that she had actually been murdered.

Someone had killed her -- wounds around her neck and head -- and then set three fires in the house trying to cover up the murder. A neighbor dialed 911 after seeing smoke, and once reinforcements arrived and extinguished the small fire, they found her upstairs, dead in bed. I don't want to say anything until it is official, but we all have a pretty good idea who did it.

At this point, it is just overwhelming how much shit our two families have been through together. My mom actually met this woman in church. Mom noticed a woman crying during the service, and afterwards, she went over and engaged her... it ends up they both were coming off of heavy and turbulent divorces and the two just connected. All through my youth, our families ran together. And I have to say that she was probably the best friend my mom ever had. They had a real bond that was a delight to see. When together, they were like two girls plotting a secret party, so engrossed in conversation and feelings and love that it was often hard to be with them... outsiders were very rarely let in.

When her daughter died, the bond became even greater. Because my mother seems to be a beacon for the sad since she has struggled so with sadness herself, this woman often thought my mother was the only one who could really understand losing a child. She was racked for years and years with the what and the why, often turning to my mom for spiritual guidance on how to move forward, what is the afterlife and what is the meaning of it all.

My late adolescence and young adulthood were heavily marked by that death. Because she died in a car wreck, driving with her learner's permit, I was terrified to learn how to drive. Even though she was a few months younger than me, she always seemed so much more sophisticated and together, and I always felt like such a nerdy little girl in her presence. Plus, I'd never had a friend die before, someone my own age. My first look at just how mortal we all are.

I feel absolutely devastated today. I really don't know what else to say. I weep not just for our friend, but for my mom. A thirty year friendship. Over. My mom will be alone in her everyday.

I suppose the only hope in all this is that now her friend has the answers she was searching for. Now she knows.

Realize

The hub and I went on a date last night to see the Flaming Lips, and man are we old. Even though the band is technically of the generation between me and the hub, everyone in the audience was of the 18 to 25 set. Plus, it has been a while since I went to a concert. I'm guessing the last one was either the White Stripes or Spoon in Austin and even that was a couple of years ago.

I have to imagine this one would have been absolutely incredible had I been 19 and on drugs. The show was actually more of a spectacle with art installation aspects and lots of confetti and huge yellow balloons. There were giant screens that you could text message to that would then appear for all to see. The cell phone and cameras and treos were out, replacing the lighter sways of yester year, and looking around it was easy to picture my son there, immersed in instant technology and hormones. The band itself was surprisingly uplifting, a sort of feel good “light at the end of the tunnel” in of sea of tumultuous youth.

They closed with Do You Realize, which despite its mainstream appeal is really a great song. The lead singer, overcoming past drug addictions and the lot, seemed to be singing it with the gusto you ordinarily find in new things, rather than an old hat you’ve been singing for a few years. I’ve often wondered how bands get up there and play their hits year after year after year without wanting to jab their eyes out with the microphone stand. I suppose you have to think of it in this sense… that hit is probably what has made it possible for you to spend your life on stage, living off the excitement of the crowd, acting like a complete lunatic, and basically getting to be young forever. So hey, it’s a small trade off for a desk job.

So yea, melancholy nostalgia for youth highlighted the evening and the five (ahem six) beer hangover of this morning helped to drive it home. I dropped my son off at preschool and headed downtown via Broadway, still listening to the mix CD I made him over the weekend. Marvin Gaye… John Lennon… The Shirelles… The Four Tops… Jackson Five… Sly and the Family Stone… and as I reached Incarnate Word, Israel Kamakawiwo'ole’s Somewhere Over the Rainbow came on… and for some reason I started thinking about my recently divorced friend’s three-year-old. About how even at such a young age, he has such a weight to bear… from there I thought of my high school sweetheart at 20 riding in the front of the ambulance the night his father had a heart attack and died… and then to my sister-in-law’s nephew, who was injured ala Terry Shivo when he was sixteen, living like that for over a decade, who now is having seizures for some unexplained reason, causing his lungs to fill with water…. Hoping for the best, but… and I just started to cry, for all of us and our little lives, played out a million times over and over and over again. All those bouncing smiles at the concert living out some brief moment of happiness that they might think back on years from now with fondness. The elation of being young and rocking out without a care in the world. That first kiss. That first broken heart. That first feeling of losing something. Do you realize?

My husband’s uncle died on Christmas Day. He ate a big meal, kissed his grandchildren goodbye and went upstairs to rest for a while and was gone. Just splendid really.

Bobcat

Love this weather. It was an absolutely perfect day. Cool and sunny, just the way I like it. We went out to the farm right after lunch, and the weather was gorgeous. The bub went right down for his nap and the hub was able to begin tearing down the old smoke house which he is planning on rebuilding. As for me, I plopped my sewing machine down on the picnic table under the front oak and knocked out the hat for my son's Halloween costume, complete with appliquéd spots and long floppy ears. I had sewn the shirt yesterday, so now I'm totally done, thank god. Let's just hope the little guy doesn't have a massive growth spurt between now and the 31st.

In huge news, while I was inside the house playing around with the bub, the hub swears he saw a bobcat. Now, his brother shot one out there many many moons ago, but that was the only bobcat they've ever seen out there in 50 years. (My brother-in-law claims he thought it was a feral cat at the time, thus why it is now dead and stuffed up on his friend George's wall.) The likelihood that what he spotted today was actually a real live bobcat is small, but still... it could have been one, and that "could have" is good enough for me. How awesome would that be?... coyotes, ring-tailed cats, skunks, roadrunners, rattlesnakes, jack rabbits, armadillos, deer and now a bobcat. It doesn't get much cooler than that for spotting Texas wildlife.

Later (inside) we all watched the original Dr. Doolittle with Rex Harrison, which I remember loving as a kid, though I didn’t recall the entire plot, just the two-headed llama and the giant pink sea snail. It was fun to see it again with an adult perspective and get all the sexual innuendos and lame drunk Irish jokes. At more than two and half hours long with music that less than sparkles by today's standards (not including Talk to the Animals which is still a great song), I have to suspect audiences had longer attention spans back then. And what was the deal with Rex? Could he not sing? Because he talks the songs instead of belting them.

Anyway, still love that swinging 60s vibe, and though the kid didn't sit through the whole thing, he still dug the animals BIG TIME. The best part about it was the opening credits. Really great retro illustrations of animals. I shot some crappy, black-lined footage, but I was hoping it might prompt somebody to go out and rent it themselves based solely on the awesomeness of the graphics. (Plus I am still practicing, so even crappy to OK.) Check it!

Bracken

Made it out to Bracken Bat Cave tonight. Just amazing. The people. The place. And of course the bats. This is my favorite thing about San Antonio hands down. Check it out! I'm still learning how to use imovie and youtube and all that, and I cut out all the audio of my little guy honking at the bats like a goose and soundtracked it with The Count. Too much fun...

Tail

Soooo.... in the weeks leading up to the still month away Halloween, my son has repeatedly proclaimed, "I wanna be a black dog with brown spots and Amalie wants to be a white dog." (Amalie being his little girlfriend who lives down the way and who has no intention of being a white dog for Halloween.)

I've asked him over and over again for several weeks just to make sure he isn't going to change his mind, and every time he has repeated over and over again the words “I wanna be a black..." and so on. So today, as we head out on our big Halloween splurge, he is still repeating the words happily and with feeling... up until the exact moment that the woman in the craft store is beginning to cut the two yards of black fuzzy fabric that with make up the crux of his outfit. At which point he starts screaming and pulling at the cloth... “I don't wanna be a black dog... NO NO NO!"

He screams this while she cuts. He screams this in the checkout like. He screams this all the way home. He screams this as the day wears on and he sees me begin to cut and pin the pattern. I keep telling him... "Well, if you don't wanna be a black dog, then how about a spider or a black horse or a black goat".... or really anything black just so I don't have to shell out another $25 bucks on fabric. He was being so unreasonable; I just forged ahead, thinking he would change his mind eventually. The epiphany for him didn't come until he saw me sewing the tail on the pants I had just spend two hours slaving over. The tail.... oh yes, the tail.... The tail changed everything. The tail that could be wagged. The tail that could be held and tugged. The tail that all of a sudden turned a totally unwanted Halloween costume into a work of majestic awesomeness.

Yes, now he won't take the pants off. He spent all afternoon strutting around in them as if he was a terrier who had just killed a garter snake or a peacock getting ready to taste the fruits of his fancy. Oh yes, the tail made all the difference in the world. It doesn’t matter that I still have yet to craft the shirt and the ears, the thing has a tail and to my wee little guy, that's all that matters... After all, you can't be an animal without a tail and this puts him one step closer to being a creature of the wild, what he wants more than anything... even perhaps more than seeing wee Amalie in a white dog suit.

(Sorry if this photo looks a little lude, but it's a child's Halloween costume for god's sake. Get your mind out of the gutter!)

Miles

It feels like I'm moving a million miles an hour. It would seem that my son doing preschool twice a week would allow me hours of alone time in which to meditate, write, sleep and otherwise.... Yet, this is the third week of departure and I can honestly say, I've only had one day that was all my own. For the most part I am going and going and going, just hoping I can get everything done that I need to do before 2:30 when the hounds are loosed.

Though I seriously doubt I am literally OCD, all this busy busy has been stressing me out and causing me to worry about all sorts of things that I should not be worrying about. School for instance. I feel guilty having my son in school at all at this point, and now, the thought of true preschool just a year away is making me bonkers. Back a few years ago when my son was fresh and dewy from the womb, I set out to evaluate all the local preschools so I could make an educated decision on where to sent him when the time came. Right now, I am torn between the upper crust Montessori program of my dreams and the hippy co-op that more likely fits my style. Perhaps I am romanticizing, but all my mom's friends when I was wee sent their kids to Montessori and now all those kids are grown up and interesting and fascinating and great. So, my whole life I've always thought that I would send my child to that kind of program when the time came. We fell in love with a school here, and I thought I was done with it, but since you have to be accepted in the program, I’ve kept my options open just in case he doesn't make the cut.

Another option we explored is the parent-involved co-op just down the street that is wonderful and thoughtful.... where the kids ring the peace bell every morning and put on plays and dance and garden and do yoga and all sorts of earthly delights. There is a huge part of me that would love my son in this situation as well.

Since I've done more research into Montessori, I thought my son would benefit from the structure and calm that I never got as a child and in turn probably can't offer him. He is going to get all the fantastical play-acting he can stomach at home, I thought having a school environment that was more together might be a good counter balance to my artsy fartsy inclinations. What worries me is that my son at almost 2 and a half years old is not interested in anything really except reading and animals and pretend play. Actually, he is interested in everything... but really couldn't care less about drawing or puzzles or anything that requires a lot of small motor skills. He would rather dance and sing and play make-believe with his hordes and hordes of small plastic animals. Literally, he can spend 1 to 2 hours uninterrupted listening to music and creating species herds. So I worry that an environment that is all reality based might squelch his little creative spirit.

At the same time, I like the Montessori reasoning behind discouraging pretend play. In that a child would rather cook than pretend to cook. Give a child an instrument and on his own he might use it as a hammer, but teach a child to care for a violin and play it, and you’ve given him a real gift. So I am torn. My husband really feels like we are both so free at home, that structure will be good. And he doesn't really want him going to a counter culture school because he feels if our son is going to be exposed to that sort of stuff, it should be filtered through us rather than some tattooed dingdong, and in a sense, I agree with that too. I want my son to love nature and the earth and other cultures but at the same time, I think he needs to be able to stand on his own two feet and begin to build an intellect and a thoughtfulness that he can use to give back to the world around him. I know I know. I shouldn't be worrying about all this so early, but god! You put so much into your kids... emotion, love, everything, that you just don't want to make a misstep that might end it all too hell.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I know I can't be second guessing myself, and that my son will be who he will be no matter where I send him (it's just preschool for god's sake!), but still... It is hard not to want everything even in a world where there are no guarantees. I suppose I have a lifetime of worrying for my son to look forward to. I'm just tettering atop the tip of the ice berg. Geeeeezzzzzzzz.

(I know I haven't said jack about our trip to Indiana. It went well, but was probably too emotionally charged to continue thinking about... ahhh, parents. God love them. This shot is my son with the Director of the Children's Museum of Evansville.)

Crummy

You know. I grew up on horror movies fed to me via VHS from my eldest sister. Man, remember when we used to rent VHS players from the video store... AWESOME. I can't tell you how many times we watched Buckaroo Banzai on one of those things.

Anyways....starting with The Omen when I was just a wee five-year-old and moving on from there, I sat along side her and cheered for Norman Bates... completely freaked over The Birds... didn't really get Carrie...thought Rutger Hauer's Hitcher was a fox... got terrified over Magic... sat through every zombie movie from Day of the Dead to Dawn of the Dead to Return of the Living Dead and even though it was a comedy, I was forever changed by Fright Night and its ultimate awesomeness. Now, I'm still not sure if I really thought those flicks were cool, or if I was just trying to be cool in front of my sister with her mohawk and her early adopting views.

You know it's bad when you've seen Blood Diner more than five times.

So, now as adult, completely free of peer influence from my sis, I still find myself drawn to crap horror flicks and over and over again, as I sit through some slasher/monster/werewolf/vampire/gore fest, I think... why the hell did I rent this? Nostalgia? Boredom? Am I really enjoying this?

My husband hates horror movies of any kind because he hates being manipulated. So tonight, when I Netflixed yet another stinker (ahem Vacancy ahem), on top of watching an unwatchable film, I got to listen to him berate me for making him sit through yet another awful movie.

So... the question is, do I really like scary movies? True, I like haunting movies... ghost stories and the like... but do I really like those kind of new wave slasher/monster movies they've been putting out that I keep getting conned into renting? HOSTILE... THE DESCENT... SAW... ETC? And if I don't like them, why do I keep renting them? As I sat there tonight watching Kate Beckinsale and Luke Wilson romp through this train wreck of a film -- not really a train wreck, but more a predictable, anxiety-ridden bore -- I questioned my own choice in movie rentals. Am I still somehow under the spell of my older sister's movie tastes? Am I still trying to impress her?

Who knows, but I can guarantee you I am not renting 30 Days of Night no matter how cool the trailer is!

Short

Short & sweet tonight as we just flew back in from Indiana. Four days of wrangling the boy on foreign soil, and I am tuckered out. In the meantime, enjoy the funny!

Midwestern

Heading to Indiana today to have the yearly visit to my Dad's homeland. Just me and the bub.... flying solo. Thank god he has his own seat now. I know it's gonna be a pain in the ass switching flights hauling the car seat around, but hey, it's the price you pay for jet-setting. So, if you don't hear from me for a few days, it is not because I have quit writing or am slacking off, it will just be because I am lost in the midwestern farmland of America.

7360

I know I always wax poetic about perfect days, but anyone living in the San Antonio area today would have to attest to this morning. PERFECT. After all the crap rain and heat we've been having, I'll take 84 and sunny any day. It is absolutely glorious outside. Our weekly trip to the zoo this morning almost felt sweater worthy. It was cool and beautiful, and it seemed as if every flower in Texas was blooming right there along the rock walls next to the gibbon cage. We spent several hours taking our time... checking out the baby komodo dragons and butterflies... I even let my son tromp around the zoo barefoot, it felt that nice out.

Later, as we sat on the bench in front of the Central Market, our tummies full of sushi watching the world go by, I thought about the number I noticed on the "Now Entering Alamo Heights" sign a few days ago. If I remember correctly, it said something like Population 7360. When I was little I used to wonder how they kept those numbers up. Did someone come out and repaint the sign every time a baby was born or someone died? In a flash I had a thought... if my son and I died in a car crash right then and there, would someone come out later tonight to make the numbers read 7358? So as I sat and watched the parade of old ladies and men swapping in and out of expensive cars with the valet, I thought only an American or someone else in a selfish Westernized country would think that their own life was so fucking important that a city would need to employee a worker to man the population sign 24/7. That we are all so important that a girl dying in a parasailing accident is national news. That one millionaire disappearing would spawn a multi-hundreds of thousands of dollars on-line manhunt, the likes of which the world has never seen. That I could sit here and think my little perfect day matters to anyone except a few select family members. I'm gonna go a little Harpers now, so bear with me.

2,974 (People who died on 9/11 not including the 19 highjackers)
3,774 (Coalition soldiers killed in the Iraq war to date)
46,000 (Soldiers who died at the Battle of Gettysburg)
58,202 (US casualties in the Vietnam War)
78,403 (Violent civilian deaths in Iraq since the war began)
200,000 (Killed by the US by the nuclear bomb over Hiroshima)
230,000 (Died in the 2004 tsunami)
1,100,000 (North Vietnamese casualties in the Vietnam War)
55,000,000 (Casualties of WWII)

Anyway, all these numbers are out there, floating around in the world. Right along with our 7360. Right along with my little house of three. As I listened to the news stories about 9/11 and remembered the smells and sounds of that day and felt a little sick to my stomach.... I thought who really gives a shit anyway. All we are is dust in the wind man. Just try and be nice and kind to people. That's all you can do. Listen to the giggles of the little man and be happy that my life is sometimes near perfect. There are millions and millions and millions of people out there who can't say the same.

Biscuits

How in the hell do you make good biscuits anyway? The answer to that question has eluded me for years. For some reason I've been on a home baked bread kick for the past few days, and this afternoon, I decided to try my hand at the biscuit again. No luck. They came out flat and hard and although my husband ate them with a smile, I think he secretly might have been vomiting in his mouth a little bit.

So what's the deal? I am an expert recipe follower, so I know that isn't the problem. I've always known there was a trick to it and that's why for the most part little old ladies can make biscuits and no one else can. I feel like the little old ladies have the market cornered on biscuits, and they will all go to their graves with the knowledge of what it takes to fashion a superior biscuit. Ever since I went to Marathon, Texas and visited that little biscuit shop on the strip, I've been obsessed with them. I thought secretly that it would be so cool to open up a little place in Alamo Heights called "Just Biscuits" where I could make everything from biscuits with sausage gravy to rosemary biscuits. But hey, I stink at making biscuits, so what is the point of even fantasizing?

Two nights ago I made dinner rolls that were pretty darn good despite the fact that the yeast (I believe) was defunct. But these biscuits, yea well, they blew. Even the sautéed thyme, butter and cracked pepper couldn't save them. I do however think my son genuinely liked them, but hey, the kid will eat anything including dirt, capers and his own pee pee, so I wouldn't count on his culinary opinion.

The county fair is coming up, and since moving here, I have promised myself I was gonna win a blue ribbon in the baking section just for the hell of it. The first year we lived here, I got motivated and won a blue ribbon for a photograph of some sheep I took in New Zealand, but everyone knows the arts and crafts category is a joke. The baked goods are where the real heat is. So unless I plan on taking out a few blue haired old farmwomen Tonya Harding-style, I better skip the biscuits and head right to the chocolate chip cookies. My husband has a doozy recipe that apparently won someone the blue 20 years back. Let's see if the thing still holds up.

Branded

Finally made it out to the rodeo by the farm out in Bulverde. I am loathe to admit that though I rubber-necked a rodeo once late at night on a lone highway in Montana, I've never actually paid admission to one. So having finally experienced it up close and personal... I have to say, it was an $8 well spent. It's remarkable how few ten-gallon hats you actually see living in Texas, but at the rodeo, it is part of the dress code. There were women dressed to the nines, teetering upon heels that barely lift their expensive (yet hefty) boobs while using their well-manicured and brightly colored paws to balance a combo of long necks and Frito pies. There were real live cowboys with swaggers in their walks and Wrangler shirts and boots and lassos and tough guy attitudes. There were jiggling groupies with their digital cameras and tights jeans and body glitter, reeking of Jean Nate and Jäger shots, who hollered and whistled and giggled their way through the night. And there were animals, and lots of them.

Even though the signs shouted warnings against it, our little guy was right up on the rail, taking in an eye full of the falling calves, the bucking bulls (just like Ferdinand’s brothers!), and the real work horses who have the unglamorous job of rounding up the livestock when it wanders astray. It was a great American drama played out in the awesome arena of wafting BBQ smoke, bright lights and suffocating red dust. It was AWESOME. (Who knew bull riders wore gore-proof vests and helmets that make even football players look under protected?) And though this sort of thing might be ho-hum to all those real Texans out there, I thought it was spectacular.

Notice I have no photos... well, that's because I suck. And didn't even manage to tote along my trusty camera phone to this once-in-a-lifetime Texas first. Though I'm sure we will be back again and again, there will never be another first time. The fresh-brewed ice tea will lose its briskness, the honest awwwwwww produced when you see your first herd of under twelve-year-olds running in masse in an activity laughingly called the "Calf Scramble" will dissipate, and all the romance of the cowboy life will run stale once you see the behind-the-stable antics of one too many of the good guys on an all night bender. (How much money and how long would it take for me to buy a horse, train the horse and myself and get on the rodeo circuit as a real cowgirl cause that would be fucking killer!?!?!) Ahhh yes, but for now, let me think sweetly of the memory that was.... my first real Texas Rodeo.

Springs

The family (husband/son/me) is trying to get in the habit of taking our Saturday morning constitutional down to the Central Market again, and the last two weekends have been fruitful. Because of the awesome amounts of rain and the super high level of the aquifer, a few springs have sprung up on our regular route and watching them prosper for a few weeks has been refreshing. The first one we walk past is on Torcido Drive at the Episcopal Church headquarters. It looks like it is literally bubbling up directly out of the ground. Crystal clear water beating a sparkling path through the woods into nowhere. The second runs through someone's yard on Patterson, under the road and into the side field of that weird high-rise apartment complex just a block off Broadway that is filled with what I assume to be rich elderly folks.

This spring is much larger and has actually attracted a family of ducks and a few egrets. Like a mini-ecosystem, the spring comes with perch and algae and all kind of awesome pond stuff. I just find the whole thing terribly romantic. The Witte Museum has this really cheesy computer-animated film about the aquifer, and I balked at it for a while, but on one visit when I finally caved into my son's urgings and sat down to watch, it was actually really cool. I guess I'd never really visualized the aquifer being an underground river. Who knew that thousands of feet in the ground lives blind salamanders and albino catfish? It takes me back to all those childhood fantasies of other worlds and Journey to the Center of the Earth kinds of stories. Now I've got my fingers crossed that some little spring with gurgle up out of my dog's watering hole and the back yard will flood and the whole lot of us will be sucked underwater via a gentle whirlpool that transports back to the Land of the Lost or the Island of the Gold Monkey or some other place with fairies and three headed wolves.

Schoolove

Update.... Dr. Schoollove or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Preschool

So yesterday was day four. No talk of stomping away the school. No crying as we pulled up to the drop-off point. He looked in the window and saw all the toys he'd played with on previous days and said "I wanna go behind the window." I put him down and he was off, without so much as a glance back at me.

At the end of the day, the teacher even told me he'd made a buddy. A real, true schoolyard chum. How novel!

Later on at the bookstore, as we sat and read a few ditties about the first day of school, the little guy leaned over and said, "I had fun at school"... then he hugged me and whispered in my ear, "I missed you today.... soooooo much."

Regurgitated lines from a heartsick Mommy, but from the heart none-the-less.

Homebound

Was over at the Office Max this morning buying a new printer, and now I am in my office trying to liven up my second home. I spend so much time out here, and yet the floor is always layered with trash and the desk is covered with unpaid bills, scratched CDs, canceled checks and other Dilbert paraphernalia.

I am thinking back again to that book I read (now the name escapes me) about that writer who was vertically challenged who moved to Maine and renovated a home, spending extra special time on her "working" cottage out back that she so loving referred to as her "thimble." Ever since reading that, I've always wanted one, but the dream is far less difficult to muster than the reality. I have the space, but alas, there is no time. Every day I see about 80 things undone that need to get done, but you have to pick and choose, and for the most part you are only able to get done the same 20 things over and over again every day.

Wake up
Feed the bub
Get the bub on the potty
Read the bub a million books
Drive to some off-site activity with the bub
Paint/since/dance/play guitar with the bub
Put the bub down for his nap
Write/Blog/Work/Eat
Feed the bub again
Get the bub on the potty again
Make dinner
Clean the house
Eat dinner
Tub the Bub
Read more books
Get bub on the potty
Brush the bub's teeth
Put the bub to bed
Brush my teeth
Pass out

Notice I did not list all the things I used to love to do... read, watch movies, take a shower... Mind you, those things do occur, they are just so few and far between that sometimes I feel like they don't actually happen but rather are just dreams or some brain fart from too much acid in the 90s.

I know whaaa, whaaaa. It is really not as bad as all that. I do love my life, and for the most part my whining and procrastination stands between me and what I want to do far more than the wee one. It's funny. I went out with a group of other mommies last night for wine and salutations, and it was strange how everyone was having a different version of the same problem. Kind of the "Who am I?" syndrome that comes from having spent a few years pouring every ounce of your being into another life force.

Don't get me wrong. I wouldn't trade staying home with my son for anything in the world. I think it is important and honorable and the best thing I will ever ever ever do for my life, but I don't want to give too much of myself away, otherwise I'll end up one of those moms who lives for her kids and wakes up one day to find they've all abandoned her and she is all alone with only Wheel of Fortune and reruns of Matlock to keep her warm.

I really am not obsessing about this today, it's just, I was void of anything else to talk about so I thought I'd head back to the basics. That and I have to do something about my chlorine-fried hair. I fear my chronic bandanna-sporting is starting to agitate some of my friends and win me a sour reputation as a "sad sack." Awesome.

Vacations

Thinking about vacation recently, with the upcoming Christmas vacation being at the forefront of my thoughts. Once again I am having the dilemma of what to do about seeing my family at the holidays. I know this is a woe as old as the hills, but now that my son is getting older, I really want him to wake up in his own bed on Christmas morning. Something about him knowing that Santa actually came down HIS chimney makes my heart soar. Every year since I left home, I've spent Christmas with my mom in VA (except one year, but that was because we were in New Zealand).

You know, I spent my youth in someone else's house, and it would just be nice for my kid to experience the warmth and comfort of (I imagine) waking up in his own space and having his own Christmas. But then that pretty much cancels out my family being able to spend Christmas morning with him. So this year we are thinking if we leave by 10:30 Christmas morning, we can have Christmas at home, travel in the relatively empty and inexpensive airwaves of a traveless holiday, and still make it across the country in time to see my family in Virginia for Christmas day dinner.

I'm just starting to talk to my sister's about this, and I feel bad cause I know it screws up all the time off they'll be getting for the holidays, but at the same time they have to understand on some level. My mom is another story.

I really don't want her to get mad at me or take it personally, but I hope on some level she will understand too. Almost every vacation I've been on in the last, uh, 35 years has included her with the exception of one trip to Europe, one trip to Belize and Guatemala, my seven month round the world trip, a handful of trips to see my pops in Indiana and a few dozen weekend getaways. So I see her as much as I can... But I have to hold out I think on Christmas morning. It's gonna suck to do that traveling on Christmas, but ya know... it sucks almost any day. And this way, my son will really get to have two Christmases instead of one. How cool is that!

Let's just hope the rest of the clan thinks so.

Stomp

OK. So day three and my kid hates school. As usual when he dislikes something he says,

"I'm stomping it away."

So on the way to school this morning.

"Mommy, I'm gonna speed away from school."

"Mommy, I'm stomping school away."

So yeah, exactly how many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Pop? And when will my kid learn to love school and be excited to go?

This sucks big time.

Volkswagon

The weekend went as expected. Fun was had by all. Saturday morning, we spotted two relatively tame bucks just to the north of the farmhouse. They were only about 20 feet away from the road, hunkered down under some oak trees. We idled the car for about five minutes and one by one, they got up and walked deeper into the woods. One was a bit of a gimp, and the parks expert who helped us get our wildlife exemption had seen it in some of the census photos my bother-in-law had taken and had told us then that it should be shot on sight. It has a very wide rack, but one is just a single thick antler, which leads you to believe there is something extremely genetically deficient with that one. Needless to say, the mutant was not shot, and we preceded on with our morning. (We prefer to leave all killing to Unky Charlie -- though as I write this, I am indulging in some holiday Frito Pie made with deer meat chili culled from the farm. Yummers.)

Later that evening, driving home from a friend's house, as our stereo was blasting my son's current tune-du-jour "Doe a Deer", we rounded a corner to see a sweet little doe smack dab in the middle of the road, looking all innocent and magical. As we drove further along, we saw a giant fireworks display that helped round out an already lovely Labor Day weekend.

No real labor was done, but I did start ogling the VW bus some more, making plans in my head for the future playhouse of Scribbler Junior. I questioned my husband on what it would take to actually move the thing from its current location to one that is more easily accessible to the house. By four years old, my little guy is gonna be ready for a room of his own, and it might take me that long to rid the rig of any wildlife, clear out the junk stored inside, smooth out and repair any jagged/rusty edges, make the inside livable and psychedelic-asize the paint job. It is gonna be the ultimate weekend project, and with the heat on its way out, now is as good a time as any to let the renovations begin.

Our neighbor's forklift should be enough to relocate it, but then there is the matter of what should the foundation be. Currently, the bus is supported by jacks, but I imagine once we move it, it's gonna need more permanent footing.

Oh, so many questions. Let me just say, if we can actually get this thing going and off the ground, my childhood dream of having a clubhouse ala The Boxcar Children will be realized. Man, how awesome would that be!?!

Labor

Headed out soon to spend two plus days at the farm, and I am psyched. I don't know why I feel totally spent this week, but I am definitely looking forward to some fiddle-farting around. Not that hanging at the farm is a walk in the park...

We are still making so many plans for the house and the property, and it feels frustrating that we are broke"ish" at the moment and can't get things done. Recently we've been scheming to attach a screen porch to the "Airstream" deck my husband built a few years back. Then there is tinning the ceilings so that the pesky leavings from animal visitors don't sift down into the living room. (When you have a place in the country that is not inhabited 24/7, it is hard to ask the squirrels/ snakes/ scorpions/ rats/ ringtailed cats to be reasonable and not infest our rafters.) Then there is putting a heating unit in my son's bedroom. Then there is rebuilding the front porch and adding a side porch. Then there is always working to clear the cedar that is choking the oaks. Then there are the dozens of old cars that need to be hauled away. Turning the old burnt-out VW Bus out back into a play house for the little dude.... I could really go on and on and on, but when you don't have the $400 it would cost to fill up the propane tank, really, what is the point of fantasizing?

So, I'll sit back and look forward to a weekend filled with sifted coon dung, cheap wine and good food cooked on the grill and/or microwave. Now, that's country living!