weekend report

Sometimes pictures are more effective (and more expedient!) than words.

The Great Wall of China, as expressed in leaves (the boys did all the raking)

Pumpkin carving (I wish I could give the six-year-old credit for the inexpert carve job, but that's all my doing)

Roasted pumpkin seeds (my favorites: olive oil, kosher salt, Golden Fig's maple pepper)

Farmers market haul (clockwise from front): Jerusalem artichokes, red onions, carrots, purple Brussels sprouts (tucked into the carrots, middle), rainbow chard, gigantic Brussels sprouts (no, that's not a baby cabbage), Yukon Golds (not pictured).

Simon's first time curling, St. Paul Curling Club

aw mom you're just jealous

it's the Beastie Boys!

Adam Horovitz, Sydney, and Simon at the Augsburg Obama Rally, 11/1/08

time capsule

Today while destroying some household records, I stumbled upon a shoebox filled with old checks. Do you remember writing checks? I mean, writing checks for something other than the rare, odd utility bill that doesn't currently have an e-pay option?

The small stacks of checks in this box, neatly bundled with purple rubberbands, sticky notes protruding with some arcane organizational system (what was the method for my madness?), covered about six months, overlapping 1996 and 1997. Back in those days, I wrote checks for everything. Everywhere. And in any amount. For example, there were checks written to Dunn Brothers, $2.97 for a cuppa and an almond croissant. I never carried cash, especially not after having been held up at gunpoint in the late 80s (you'd think I'd have gotten over it in fifteen years time, but, there you have it).

During this same time—1996—my then-manager was visiting from New York, where you’ve never been able to write a check, anywhere for anything. She was making a purchase and I challenged her to write a check. Needless to say, she was floored by how easy it was—and, she wasn't asked for ID on her out-of-state check/bank.

Those were the good 'ol days. Now you can’t write a check anywhere in the Twin Cities. So there was a special novelty to looking at these paper slips before they went through the shredder. Talk about time capsule: countless checks were written to the City of St. Paul for either $16 or $32 (pre-kid rounds of golf at the Highland 9), Green Mill (clam and garlic pizza and a delivery tip), Four Seasons (a wine shop and deli, no longer in business), Monte Carlo for $30 (two scotch and sodas for John, two vodka or gin tonics, season depending, for me), NSP (local gas and power, only $200 in February 1997), cable for $35 (no premium channels, digital service, or DVR), and Bober Drug. There were also a few checks written to people, the connection to whom I cannot remember.

One check caught my attention: $6,549.37 made out to Cash, on October 8, 1996. I scratched my head and mulled it for awhile, trying to figure out under what circumstance we would write a check so large for cash—and then it came to me. It was the down payment (minus earnest money) for the first home that John and I purchased.

The next chunk of checks backed up my theory—some were written to the guy who refinished our floors, another was to Best Buy for a TV (27") that would replace three (when stacked, each served as an antennae, allowing us to get a range of three channels per TV). Those were the days...

Don’t ever let me get away with saying that I’m not just a little sentimental.

ready for beddie

Today has been a doozy. Not a bad day, but a long day. Here it is 9:40 p.m., and I'm seriously entertaining the idea of sleep. Not "watch TV and fall asleep on the sofa" sleep, but "put thyself to bed" sleep.

I went to bed last night at 2 a.m. I have been up since 5 a.m., when I got myself awake enough to drive John to the airport (he's gone to Houston to visit his father), and when I returned home at 6 a.m., I had to stay awake to get the boys dressed, fed, and on the bus. Granted I slept on the sofa from 7:30 a.m. until, oh, about 11 a.m. but I didn't feel rested at all during the day.

I did have a good meeting with Maria, my displaced worker counselor. She gave me encouragement that has manifested itself so that I now feel optimism. I may not have a job in-hand before John's severance expires but I do feel more on the way. A debt of gratitude to Maria for a good note on which to end the day!

wiki wednesday

It's time for Wiki Wednesday!

1. Go to wikipedia.
2. Click on "random article" on the left-hand sidebar.
3. Post it.

Learned something new today! I have neither read nor viewed the works of William Monahan and must admit that I'm mildly curious.

This list of works by William Monahan classifies all known works by William Monahan (born November 3, 1960), an American screenwriter, literary novelist, and former journalist. He was awarded a 1997 Pushcart Prize for his short fiction, and in 2007 won a WGA Award and an Academy Award for Best Adapted Screenplay for The Departed, his second produced script.

Monahan attended the University of Massachusetts at Amherst in the 1980s to study English literature, and later wrote fiction in several of the zines and literary magazines that had recently launched in the Pioneer Valley; he also played guitar in a local band called the Slags.[1] His earliest known published piece, a short story titled "At the Village Hall", appeared in 1991 in the Northampton zine Perkins Press.[2] Two years later, his first novel, Light House, was published serially in the Amherst literary magazine Old Crow Review. In 1994 Monahan moved to New York City and began writing for the alternative weekly newspaper New York Press. Over the following years he wrote and edited for various magazines, including the last four issues of Spy.

In 1998, Monahan sold Light House to Penguin Putnam and was hired by Warner Bros. to adapt it into a film. He committed to a screenwriting career while waiting for his novel to be published as Light House: A Trifle in 2000; it garnered critical acclaim but had lackluster sales. However, in subsequent years he worked heavily as a screenwriter; his first produced screenplay would be Kingdom of Heaven, released to theaters in 2005. He currently resides on the North Shore of Massachusetts with his wife and two children.

ballet on tuesday

One of the small luxuries of my employment status is having the time and availability to volunteer at the boys’ school. I have a standing Tuesday morning gig in the first grade to evaluate emerging readers, and, selectively, I chaperone field trips. This morning I accompanied Winston’s class to see the James Sewell Ballet at the O’Shaughnessy Auditorium, and it was a blast.

The top-notch performances were completely (brilliantly, I might add) accessible to elementary students, most of whom have VERY limited attention spans. The Ballet performed pieces choreographed by James Sewell, including “Winter” (set to “Winter” from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons), which stunningly conveyed the season through dance movements suggesting snowball fights and snow angels. Sewell, a Twin Cities native who formerly danced with the American Ballet Theatre in NYC, has also created the “Name Dances” for each of the eight dancers in his troupe. We saw “Hi! My Name is Emily,” set to music by a local composer who used the mechanical sounds of music boxes. During the Q&A at the end, another dancer, who sports significant tattoos across his back and shoulders, told us that his Name Dance explores what it is like to be a tattooed dancer. He explained, as you might guess, that it’s highly unusual for ballet dancers to have tattoos and that most troupes don’t allow them. I’d love to see Chris’s piece.

In addition to the perfect program, I enjoyed observing the first-graders, normally quite energetic and loud, as they became absolutely rapt when the dancers were performing. Winston didn’t tell me much about the post-mortem so we conducted our own on the drive home from school. Concepts of music and movement, as well as the intersection art (dance) and sports (football), were not lost on him. It was pretty exciting to hear his ideas.

I would highly recommend, to anyone who asks, seeing James Sewell Ballet, especially if you like dance and particularly if they’re doing their performances for schools. Go with your child’s class, if you have a chance!

weekend report and other stuff

First, I want to extend huge thank you and to reciprocate the hugs given to me last week. The support of friends does so much to buoy spirits. I hate dropping bombs about personal misfortune, especially if any news has the slightest stink of drama, but conventional wisdom over losing a job is to tell everyone. You never know who might have an opportunity or a connection to opportunity.

Since my penultimate post, I have been frantically applying for jobs—not that there are any positions in my industry to which I can send my resume. Rather, I’m stretching outside my comfort zone to find jobs that require some parts of my skill set, no matter how fleeting. I have no idea what I’m doing scouting out corporate communications jobs (I’ve never done PR) or project management (I have no formal training) but I’m putting myself out there—nothing to lose. Mostly I am allowing all kinds of potential doors to open.

Enough about my crazy job search. For now.

Chez Little Trooper, we had a fantastic long weekend. The boys had a “release” day on Friday so we had a very lazy morning, followed by a long bike ride in which we explored the Midtown Greenway. Running roughly parallel to Lake Street, this very cool bike/walk path follows rails—we even saw a train come through while we were riding—and provides a safe commute between Minneapolis and St. Paul. It’s a flat, smooth ride, and if the weather ever reaches 50-plus degrees F again, John and I have plans to see how far west the path stretches.

On Saturday, after a bliss-inducing yoga session, we collected a few of Simon’s friends (Sydney and Theo) for a low-key birthday celebration. Simon turned nine a week ago and has waited patiently for an opportunity to have a party. He decided to invite two friends for a sleepover, which he carefully choreographed to include plenty of Nintendo DS play, a macaroni and cheese dinner, a birthday cake, and spooky storytelling late into the night. John and I treated the kids to a live performance of eccentric science, Beakman’s World, at In the Heart of the Beast puppet theater. Honestly, the show was lame and Beakman was a little washed up, but the kids loved it and, afterward, stood in line for his autograph.

Winston, my budding phenologist, took special note of the fact that it snowed on Sunday. Still and yet, we had plans to go to the Farmers Market and so we did. Quick as a bunny, we cruised the stalls to pick up cauliflower, broccoli, turnips (does anyone have a great recipe for these gorgeous creamy, violet-tipped wonders?), and Honeycrisp apples. I helped Winston with homework for, pretty much, the remainder of the day, then tinkered over a roasted chicken from Whole Foods, which I transformed into individual biscuit-topped pot pies.

It was a busy and not very restorative weekend but had all the stuff that makes for good memories during a (hopefully brief) craptastic period.

wiki wednesday

It's time for Wiki Wednesday!

1. Go to wikipedia.
2. Click on "random article" on the left-hand sidebar.
3. Post it.

Today, I am pleased (?) to learn about one of Egypt's lesser-known royalty, Osorkon III.

Usermaatre Setepenamun Osorkon III Si-Ese was the famous Crown Prince and High Priest of Amun Osorkon B, son of Takelot II by his Great Royal Wife Kamama-Merytmut II. Prince Osorkon B is best attested by his Chronicle—which consists of a series of texts documenting his activities at Thebes—on the Bubastite Portal at Karnak.^[1] He later reigned as king Osorkon III in Upper Egypt for twenty-eight years after defeating the rival forces of Pedubast I/Shoshenq VI who had apparently resisted the authority of his father here. Osorkon ruled the last five years of his reign in coregency with his son, Takelot III, according to Karnak Nile Level Text No. 13.^[2] Osorkon III's formal titulary was long and elaborate: Usermaatre Setepenamun, Osorkon Si-Ese Meryamun, Netjer-Heqa-waset.^[3]

Accession

Osorkon III's precise accession date is unknown. Various Egyptologists have suggested it may have been from around the mid-790s BC to as late as 787 BC.^[4] The issue is complicated by the fact that Prince Osorkon B did not immediately declare himself king after his successful conquest of Thebes. This is evidenced by the fact that he dated this seminal event to Year 39 of Shoshenq III rather than Year 1 of his reign. Osorkon III may therefore have waited for a minimum of one or two years before proclaiming himself as a Pharaoh of the Theban-based 23rd Dynasty. Osorkon may have felt compelled to defeat or pacify any remaining supporters of the Pedubast I/Shoshenq VI rival faction in other regions of Upper Egypt whether they were in Elephantine, the Western Desert Oasis region—where Pedubast I is monumentally attested—or elsewhere in order to consolidate his position. Hence, Year 1 of Osorkon III is likely equivalent to Year 1 or Year 2 of Shoshenq IV instead, rather than Year 39 of Shoshenq III.

Identity

Osorkon III is attested by numerous impressive donation stelae and stone blocks from Herakleopolis Magna through to Thebes. He is generally thought to have been a contemporary of the Lower Egyptian 22nd Dynasty kings, Shoshenq IV, Pami, and the first decade of Shoshenq V's reign. Osorkon III's chief wife was Queen Karoadjet but his second wife was named Tentsai. A stela of Prince Osorkon B calls his spouse Tent[...] with part of the name being lost. The latter name can be rendered as either Tentsai or Tentamun. Significantly, however, both men have a daughter called Shepenupet.

Secondly, according to Ōhshiro Michinori,^[5] Anthony Leahy,^[6] and Karl Jansen-Winkeln,^[7] an important donation stela^[8] discovered in 1982 at Ṭihnā al-Ǧabal (ancient Akoris) reveals that Osorkon III was once a High Priest of Amun in his own right. The document explicitly calls Osorkon III, the High Priest of Amun. Osorkon III, thus, was almost certainly the High Priest Osorkon B, who defeated his father's opponents at Thebes in Year 39 of Shoshenq III, as Leahy notes. This theory has been accepted by many Egyptologists today, including Jürgen von Beckerath,^[9] Karl Jansen-Winkeln,^[10] Gerard Broekman,^[11] and Aidan Dodson, among others, with the notable exception of Kenneth Kitchen.^[12] Dodson and Hilton sum up the evidence by noting:

“

That Osorkon B is the same person as King Osorkon III is indicated by the fact that the former's last appearance as High Priest of Amun seems to directly precede Osorkon III's assumption of the throne, reinforcing a stela from Tehna[13] which mentions the latter with the additional title of High Priest—an unusual occurrence.

”

Osorkon probably lived into his eighties, which explains why he appointed his son Takelot as the junior coregent to the throne in his final years. He would have been in failing health by this time. Osorkon III's coregency with Takelot III is the last attested royal coregency in ancient Egyptian history. Later dynasties from Nubia, Sais, and Persia all ruled Egypt with a single king on the throne.

Karnak Nile Level Texts No. 6 and 7,^[14] dated to Year 5 and 6 of Osorkon III, calls his mother the "Chief Queen Kamama Merymut."^[15] Similarly, Prince Osorkon B's mother was identified as Queen Kamama Merymut II, wife of Takelot II.^[16] The slightly different renderings of this Queen's name almost certainly refers to the same person here: Osorkon B/III.

Consorts

According to Kenneth Kitchen, Osorkon III's chief consort, Queen Karoadjet, was the mother of Shepenupet I, the God's Wife and Divine Adoratrice of Amun, while his lesser wife Tentsai was the mother of Osorkon III's two sons: Takelot III and Rudamun.^[17] Shepenupet I would outlive both her half-brothers as the serving God's Wife of Amun at Thebes and survive into the reign of the Nubian ruler, Shebitku, where she is depicted on the small temple Osiris-Heqa-djet in the Amun precinct of Karnak, which was partially decorated by this king.

the heat is on

Allow me to explore the literal and figurative meanings to this phrase, with apologies in advance to anyone who gets the song lyrics or Glenn Frey's voice stuck in their head. I am seriously sorry.

Literal
We actually turned on the heat yesterday—flipped the switch on the thermostat. I thought we could hold out until November. In fact, that had been my goal because once you turn on the heat and rooms are nice and toasty, there's no going back. So we've all sported heavy sweaters and padded around the house in slippers, and we've piled the blankets on our beds, but yesterday morning it was so freaking cold (59 degrees F) in our house that I was unwilling to suffer another minute. Fortunately we have the thermostat on a timer, and, beyond that, can lower the temperature from its winter setting. Needless to say, my bedroom was cozier when I went to bed last night and when I got out of bed this morning to hit the first snooze. Yes, there are some things that climate control cannot mend.

Figurative
Life turned on the heat yesterday when John became a casualty in a company-wide downsize. The fact that we have both lost our jobs is so enormously, unbelievably surreal, and I'm having a really hard time wrapping my brain around it. Sure, there are all kinds of big questions looming that I'm too emotionally fragile to articulate here. And, I know that there are jobs out there and that we will find them. But I have already been looking for a job for six months and, well, that's about all I'm willing to say at the moment. We haven't told the boys about John's job. They're so young and I don't want to worry them needlessly. Hopefully soon we can just tell them that Daddy is starting a new job and let it be.

simply gorgeous

Over the weekend, in our little corner of Minnesota, we had postcard-perfect blue skies. I have been waiting for a weekend day with this kind of vivid light so that I could capture the riot of fall colors in our neighborhood. The photo above was taken on the Ford Parkway bridge over the Mighty Mississippi, looking north toward Minneapolis. The Lake Street bridge is in the distance, and it marks the crossing point of my short river loop when I ride my bike. Though it looks really far away, the distance is approximately three miles.


This photo was taken from our alley, right at the spot where John parks his car. We really do live in a "treehouse".

camp mom, the short course

It has been a busy, busy week chez little trooper. I've been running around attending to grown-up business—like finally filing our '07 income tax—so that I may fully enjoy the company of my awesome kids. School is out today and tomorrow for MEA* (statewide teachers' meetings), and I'm so excited to spend this time paling around with my boys, who typically (i.e., if I had an office job) would be in some sort of child care during "release days". Instead, we get to play!!

Both boys were really excited about an opportunity to visit John's office so he's taking each for one morning. That way, I get some one-on-one "quality time." This morning is Simon's turn with John. Simon was so excited he could hardly stand it. John works for a tech company that specializes in building websites for the media, mostly television networks, and, as such, his office has a lot of cool toys, including a Wii in the break room. Apparently Simon and another kid are playing—and raiding the vending machines.

As for Winston and me. Well, Winnie G is a bit of a homebody, so his idea of quality time with Mom is curling up under a blanket in front of the TV. Mom can read. Win can gorge himself on his guilty pleasure, Wonder Pets. Under the pretense of getting ready for the day, I have extricated myself from the mock opera, which is how I now happen to be blogging. The only way I'm going to be able to lure him out of the house is to offer a sushi lunch. We've got a date for California rolls, tekka maki, and hamachi at Saji Ya.

*I remember anticipating SDEA when I was a kid. We always visited my grandparents in Winner, SD, pheasant capital of the world, as SDEA tended to lead right into the Pheasant Opener. In caps, yes, because Pheasant Opener is an event—in fact, my parents are hosting their annual house party in Winner this weekend.

knitting season has begun

With the cooler days of fall, I am able to face one of my favorite activities—knitting. I would like to be able to knit year round. Just think of all the projects I would be able to complete! Handknits for all my friends and for every gift-giving occasion. But I absolutely cannot stand to have a heavy length of knitted wool on my lap during the summer. John chuckles whenever I make that statement, because I'm known, even on most summer nights, to curl up under a blanket while we're watching telly. Perhaps this is yet another issue I can work on with Dr. C.

Knitting just beckons in the fall. It goes with football games, leaves that crunch underfoot, and slow-cooked dinners. It's about staving off the need to turn on the heat. Keep warm by moving your hands and placing your knitted piece just-so on your lap, forming a blanket.

I have a few unfinished projects that I'd like to finish, and I will, in good time. For now though I need to have a fresh start with a new project. A few years ago, John asked me to knit another sweater for him. We went to The Yarnery on Grand Ave., where he pulled down from a shelf, the most stunning variegated bulky yarn. The skein was a Lopi (a thick Icelandic wool that is absolutely airtight—my first sweater was knit in a brown Lopi), mostly green, but with shades ranging from a dark chocolate to a light heathered gray.


Of course, the yarn shop didn't have enough skeins to make the sweater, and they couldn't order more, citing that the color was being discontinued. Calls to other local yarn shops yielded the same information. Thank goodness for our friend the internets! I was able to source thirteen skeins in the same dye lot from one of those large mail-order knitting companies. After it arrived on our doorstep, the yarn sat in a shopping bag, gathering dust for two years.

I received the cosmic signal to knit last weekend. And, little boys each asked me to knit them mittens. Since there is a pecking order, but unable to stave off increasingly colder mornings (hence the need for mittens), I thought I'd better hop to my projects. I pulled down the shopping bag labeled, "Yarn for John's sweater," took out a skein, rolled it into a ball, cast 14 stitches onto a needle, and knit a swatch to check my gauge.

My favorite thing about Lopi is how quickly it knits and how perfect each stockinette stitch looks. It's very forgiving. The pattern I'm following is pretty straightforward, too, which contributes to the ease of knitting. It comes from Yankee Knitter Designs, a company that only offers 30 patterns. Most of their instructions include child and adult sizes, so I could make this sweater—with neck, waistband, and cuff variations—for the whole family. And I probably will. I'm making the version with a roll neck, roll waistband, and roll cuff—you know, that classic 90s J.Crew design? And, until I start the armhole shaping, it's totally automatic knitting, which is ideal in front of the TV.


This is what I have, so far. Isn't it gorgeous. I am so envious of my husband and wish I'd seen that yarn first.

wiki wednesday

It's time for Wiki Wednesday!

1. Go to wikipedia.
2. Click on "random article" on the left-hand sidebar.
3. Post it.

Today I got a book! I've never read Lillian Jackson Braun's "Cat Who" series, but I remember its popularity in the late 80s.

The Cat Who Sniffed Glue is the eight book in The Cat Who Series by Lilian Jackson Braun, published in 1988.

Pickax City is first disrupted by vandalism, then by murder. Harley Fitch, vice-president of the Pickax Bank, and his wife, Belle, are found shot to death, and vandals from neighboring Chipmunk are suspected. After three suspects die in a car accident, the case is closed. But Qwilleran doesn't agree.

According to Publishers Weekly

…this [is a] tame, nonmysterious mystery…When Harley Fitch [is murdered Qwilleran] doesn't discover anything, except for the spotted pasts of the deceased. Eventually, the killer attacks Qwilleran and his identity is made known; there are no clues, no logical way for the reader to figure out whodunit. The author's device of introducing every scene with stage directions, and her reliance on stereotypical characters, may bore ….

weekend update

My multi-day birthday extravaganza has finally concluded—and it made for one fantastic weekend!

Friday, 10/3—My wish of spending the day in the kitchen came true! The pumpkin spice cake was easy to make, smelled incredible as it was baking, and tasted super delicious. Considering a whole wide world of cakes out there, and wishing for more opportunities to improve my icing skills, I am actively looking for opportunities to bake more cakes. Later that evening, we had a great time with our friends Scott and Renee. Scott also has an October birthday so he brought over a special bottle of port, one that John and I gave him for his birthday eleven years ago. He's been cellaring it for all this time. What a treat!

Saturday, 10/4—The boys made breakfast for me. Simon handled the scrambled eggs, while John made toast and sausage. Then they cleared out of the house so I could have an uninterrupted telephone conversation with my friend Krista, who lives in Seattle. And, they came home with lunch (baguette and an assortment of cheese), haircuts (school photos are coming up), and presents (books from Common Good Books, one of my favorite St. Paul indie bookstores). What a day!

After lunch, we took a family bike ride, which was one of the most harrowing rides I have ever taken. Winston fell off his bicycle now fewer than four times. Twice, he landed in the middle of the road. And, I just have to add that we had been riding on a bike path—not in the bike lane on the road. Another time he ran into a lamp post on the side of the bike path. He never injured himself seriously, just a few scraps. But, it was an exhausting, trying ride for him. I really felt for the little guy. Still and yet, he's doing a fantastic job—it's been no more that two months since we took the training wheels off his bike. And, he wanted to ride his own bike rather than on the tagalong. I'm proud of him, even when I've got to push my heart back down in my chest.


Later, one of the neighbor girls came over so John could take me out for dinner. We had an incredible meal—and an audience with executive chef, Alex Roberts—at Restaurant Alma. This is my favorite restaurant in the Twin Cities. The menu has a local and seasonal focus; the food is innovatively prepared. The dining room is comfortable, with exposed brick, high ceilings, and an open kitchen. The wait staff is warm, welcoming, and utterly unpretentious—something on which I place a premium. The wine list is approachable with many interesting bottles. You can order starters, firsts, and mains on an a la carte basis, or you can order one item from each of three columns for an affordable prix fixe price. We always choose the latter. I started with smoked white fish with beets (a surprisingly pleasant riff on the starter I served friends on Friday night); John started with bison tartare. My first course was spicy sticky rice with crispy shallots, bok choy shards, and mushrooms; John's first was masa corn and black bean cakes with shrimp. For a main, I enjoyed the most sensational—and perfectly cooked—duck breast (meat was tender and juicy, skin was crispy and salt, the layer of fat in between was liquid gold) with a port and fig sauce, and a bonus confit duck leg; John went with the seared scallops with rosemary sauce and hen of the woods mushrooms, also divine.

Sunday, 10/5—We had intended to ride our bikes (or walk) over to St. Thomas so we could cheer on runners during the Twin Cities Marathon, one of our traditions. But when we awoke, it was raining, and neither John nor I could get out of bed. And, it just felt right to lay in bed, listening to the rain hit the skylight, burrowing a little further under our quilt. After a late breakfast, we took the boys to see Igor. I remember that the trailers I had seen over the summer showed promise, but ten minutes into the movie, I could tell it was going to be a long one. Even though I adore John Cusack in any form, I am mindful of the 86 minutes I will never get back. The boys had a great time, though, which is, to me, priceless. The rest of the day was lazy and restoring, just like Sundays should be. IMO.

TGIF

My birthday is tomorrow, and part of this year's wish is the luxury of time. To do what I please. So for one day, I am casting aside the job search and most domestic duties (cleaning, laundry), as well as the angst I generate over all the unfinished projects in our home.

I want to spend the entire day in the kitchen, cooking. Some friends—one of which is a fellow Libran—are coming for dinner. Our habit with Friday night dinner is nibbles, take-out, or pizza delivery—and tons of cocktails, wine, or beer. This Friday, my goal is to maximize my birthday celebration by executing a somewhat extravagant-for-Friday-night dinner. Oktoberfest is the theme. We'll be eating sausages from Clancy's (beef, bleu, and bender; pork with fennel pollen), roasted potatoes, and red cabbage (rot kohl) as our main course. I'm making homemade mac and cheese for the children (four boys—5, 6, 7, and 8 years old), and we'll feed them first. While the kids occupy the dining table, the adults will nosh on a smoked-trout pate (which I am making) on pumpernickel toast, pickled beets that my mother made, and assorted cherry and grape tomatoes. We'll serve the hard cider I bought in Stockholm, WI, last weekend. The cider is semi-dry and still, and I can't really imagine the mouth-feel. So it will be a new experience, and I'm excited about that.

And, I'm baking myself a cake. I conducted an informal survey on my Facebook page, asking friends to cast a vote for chocolate, pumpkin spice, or red velvet. Many weighed in for red velvet; one friend suggested all three. In the end, the season dictates pumpkin spice, with a cream-cheese frosting. Yum.

John is still asking what sort of gift I want. This is a difficult question to answer, and, apparently, "nothing" is unacceptable. The cocktail ring (square-cut blue topaz surrounded by tiny diamonds) seems frivolous, and I'm kind of against frivolity. We've reached a point in our lives where, if we can afford the thing we desire—iPhone, bikes, books, music, expensive wine, meals out, cooking gear—we indulge in instant gratification.

In the spirit of the day, here's a short wish list of things I'd really like:

~ a peaceful day where each member of the family is happy and helpful
~ a decluttered house (much of that, actually, is up to me, but I'd like carte blanche to throw)
~ energy to overcome inertia
~ a job
~ world peace
~ an Obama presidency

Is it asking too much for just one of these?

wiki wednesday

It's time for Wiki Wednesday!

1. Go to wikipedia.
2. Click on "random article" on the left-hand sidebar.
3. Post it.

Today I got a train station—a truly random entry.

The Hattiesburg Amtrak Station, located in Hattiesburg, Mississippi, is served by the Crescent passenger train. The street address is 308 Newman Street, in the heart of downtown Hattiesburg.

closing the book on September

I’m back.

Contrary to rumors, I have not gone dark. I’m trying to resume good blogging habits, despite many interruptions, such as technology challenges, family responsibilities, and the distraction of other media (books, namely). Believe me when I say I have missed writing. But here we are at the end of the month, making amends and resolutions for a new month.

Some September highlights include the following:

~ school. This fall, both boys started a new school, Capitol Hill, joining many of their friends who were either already there or who also transferred. Simon is in the third grade. He is an eager, disciplined learner, keen to do his homework each night, which sort of knocks my socks off. Winston is in the first grade and lives in perpetual denial that he has any homework. So you can see, I have my work cut out for me. Both have a fair amount of homework, which we’re trying to juggle with two nights of soccer each week. We’re managing, but getting into a good groove has been a bit of a struggle.

~ soccer. Simon and Winston are both playing with the Blackhawks club this fall. Tuesday nights are development nights (an extra practice for Si) and Little Hawks (Win’s main program). Simon is super casual, strolling around the field, not exerting himself terribly hard. Winston is super competitive and never stops running during his hour-plus on the field. I watch contentedly from the sidelines—reading books and playing with my new toy and chatting with other parents—glad not to be the team manager.

~ iPhone. No longer able to resist the temptation, John and I bought matching iPhones. 3Gs. I have spent much of the past few weeks learning how to use the thing, setting up contacts and accounts, synching iPhoto and iTunes, and so on. It was pretty easy, especially after I upgraded my OS. A little extravagant, I know, but I couldn’t synch iTunes to my phone without downloading version 8, which my OS didn’t support. So I coughed up the money for Leopard, installed it, and synched iTunes. Shortly thereafter, I discovered I couldn’t open iPhoto or view any of my pics, the last three years of which I am storing on my laptop. So I shelled out for iLife. In a few months, I’ll have forgotten about the time and expense. For now, I love surfing the web or collecting e-mail when I’m away from my computer, as well as using Google Maps for directions. Next up: apps!

~ books. In September, I read a three books: The Invention of Hugo Cabret (Brian Selznick), The Man Who Ate the World (Jay Rayner), and Thirty-Three Teeth (Colin Cotterill). As my friend Caryl said, when she handed over her copy, “Hugo Cabret is a must-read,” and Caryl is rarely wrong about such things. I loved this middle-reader novel, heavily illustrated in Selznick’s amazing pencil sketches and set in Paris, and I look forward to reading it aloud to Simon and Winston. Also, Thirty-Three Teeth introduced me to a fantastic new character—Dr. Siri Paiboun, the reluctant national coroner. This novel is part of a character-driven series, set in Laos, following the Vietnam War. The non-taxing mystery reminded me of Alexander McCall Smith’s Precious Ramotswe series, but the exoticism of Asian culture and superstitions put in mind John Burdett’s Bangkok 8 (and subsequent books). Currently, I’m in the middle of three or four books, which isn’t unusual for me but it has been awhile since I’ve been able to split my attention in this way. My book group is meeting on October 9, so I’m motoring to finish The Annunciations of Hank Meyerson, Mama’s Boy and Scholar—a mouthful, I know, but I’ve really enjoyed this first novel. And, I know I’ll be talking about it quite a bit in the months to come. The author, who is local, is a friend of a friend, and the book is being published by a small press, which means that it won’t get a lot of attention, so word-of-mouth helps. I am happy to loan my copy to anyone interested. Simply put your request in comments or e-mail me.

~ bike. I put just shy of 95 miles on my bike this month, 61.5 of which happened in one day in Door County, Wisconsin. As the weather turns colder, I’m finding it altogether too easy not to hop on my bike. So I’m ordering a long-sleeve jersey and knickers, and I’m setting a goal for myself before I hang up my bike for the season. In October, I’d like to ride 200 miles, which, I figure, can be achieved by taking one 25–30-mile ride a week, supplemented by a few short trips to the Cathedral and back.

~ travels. In September, I made two quick weekend trips, exploring parts of the Midwest I’d not yet seen. Earlier in the month, John and I visited Door County, Wisconsin, which was beautiful and wooded, with Lake Michigan lapping the shore on one side of the peninsula and Green Bay on the other side. We traveled there in the splendid company of friends, Tom and Bonnie. Last weekend, I drove to Lake Pepin, a bulge in the Mississippi near Red Wing. My mother and sister accompanied me, ostensibly to help me celebrate my birthday. Again, the area was beautiful, all bluffs and trees and Old Man River. We enjoyed a wonderful dinner at the Harbor View Café in Pepin, WI, which features local, seasonal fare, and we stayed at a comfortable B&B with an eco theme. Please, go stay at Journey Inn. It’s a great getaway, not far from the Twin Cities, and the owners were neat people. More on this later.

Bring on October, the very best month of the year!

what I talk about when I talk about cycling

~ Chastise myself for waiting so long to ride today that my twenty-mile ride turned into an eight-mile ride.

~ Wave to my neighbor, Lindsay. She and her husband have matching white Audi station wagons. They each handwash their cars. Often.

~ Admire the Obama yard sign I installed earlier today. We've never ever before had a yard sign. My friend Katherine had a Wellstone sign for me in 2002. I was meant to pick it up from her the day before his plane crashed. This election is too important to lose. I have been grappling with my conscience over volunteering. Afterall, I have the time to give. This time around, merely voting is not enough so I marched myself down to Obama's St. Paul HQ today, picked up signs (one for the front yard, one for the more heavily trafficked alley) and filled out a volunteer form. I was told, "Someone will get back to you." The office buzzed with phone calls and a steady stream of middle-aged women requesting yard signs.

~ Absolve my guilt over not taking a longer ride. Before the halfway point in this ride, I'm relieved that I've chosen the nine-mile route today.

~ Worry that the horrible condition of the bike path will cause a tire to blow. Remember that I've left the tire-repair kit in my other, larger, heavier handlebar bag. Think about moving from the River Road bike path to the road, but, ultimately, can't be bothered. I'm on the path because I need am automatic ride, i.e., no cars or buses or traffic lights to filter. Just ride.

~ Notice that the really cool modern house on East River Road and Franklin is no longer on the market. I'd love to get in this house.

~ Listen to the absolutely undated tunes and lyrics of the Sex Pistols on Never Mind the Bollocks. Wonder if anyone can hear me singing along, aloud.

~ Try not to freak out about the economy and our current banking crisis.

~ Wonder why only seniors and joggers use the bike path. Feel like a goof, momentarily. Dudes on Specializeds and Orbeas blow past me.

~ Reflect on John's answer to the question, "what do you think about when you cycle?" He thinks about cadence and rhythm.

~ Attack the hills, as best I can.

wiki wednesday

It's time for Wiki Wednesday!

1. Go to wikipedia.
2. Click on "random article" on the left-hand sidebar.
3. Post it.

Never heard of the Boo-Yaa T.R.I.B.E. or their seventh album, Angry Samoans. Have you?

Angry Samoans is the seventh album by Samoan rap group, Boo-Yaa T.R.I.B.E.. The album was originally going to be released in 1997, however the albums release was scrapped in the United States and remained unreleased until 2006. Unlike the groups previous albums which were mainly Gangsta rap, this album was mainly Rapcore. Three singles were released, "Skared for Lyfe", "Buried Alive" and "Boogie Man".

See the entry, linked above, for a playlist.

weekend review (in homage to DFW, RIP)*

9/12. On Friday night, the whole family attended the first-grade potluck at school, a sham of an event that confirms my severe dislike for school functions. The head of the PTO** urged parents to join, that first grade is such a crucial year to become involved. Seriously, I wanted to join (I am so not a joiner) but now I fear I'll burn-out before my kids reach eighth grade. After the potluck***, with a few families we knew from preschool, we endeavored to find a place where the parents could have bottomless glasses of wine, while the children colored and ate cookies. D'Amico couldn't accommodate. No room at the inn. So we stood around and named every place on Grand Avenue, working our way through greater residential St. Paul, shooting down every suggestion, guessing most restaurants would have waiting lists at 7:30 on a Friday night. I can't believe that neither couple, each of whom lived in the neighborhood, had a bottle of wine at their homes. John and I gracefully bowed out, went home, popped a couple Bell's Oktoberfests, and called my father to wish him a happy birthday.

9/13. John took soccer duties this morning. Called me mid-game to announce that Simon had made his first ever goal! What a triumph. What a boost for the little guy. I am so sorry I missed it. The whole day after that was kind of weird as I was trying to reach my friend Tracy, with whom we were to have dinner and see The Walkmen at the 400 Bar, to let her know we hadn't found a sitter and were bailing on the evening. In the end, we took the boys with us to have dinner with Tracy and her beau, Bill, at Bill's house. They fed us so incredibly well with an amazing cheeseboard and a Chateaux Donjon Chateauneuf de Pape, followed by a shrimp and mussel stew on Indonesian black rice, chased with a Claudia Springs pinot gris, easily one of my favorite whites. Dessert was blue cheese and a port. So delicious and civilized. The boys gorged themselves on movies, viewed on Bill's 52-inch flat screen, while playing with Bill's Yorkie mix, Harvey. The boys loved Harvey and can't stop talking about how we need a dog like him.

9/14. Winston and John rode the 14-mile course of the Minneapolis Bike Classic while Simon and I went to the farmers market (Black Russian cherry tomatoes, beefsteak tomatoes, broccoli, green beans, a stunning orange buttercup squash, a muskmelon, and green bell peppers) on our way to his noon soccer match in Woodbury. Simon had a rare-for-him meltdown when we reached our turn to the farmers market. He didn't want to walk around in public wearing his soccer kit. He said, "I don't feel normal." I negotiated with him, unsuccessfully for fifteen minutes, at which point I was running out of time for shopping and so left him in the car. With the doors locked. Of course. He's eight years old and knows to stay put. I remember when I started to sit in the car while my mom ran her boring errands. I loved it, especially if it meant more reading time. But, I thought he was being ridiculous, and I was mad when I consented. I shopped as fast as I could. Ran into a friend who assured me Simon would be fine. When I returned to the car, we had a hug and a heart-to-heart. I don't want him to stay in the car every time I need to run an errand, but I am willing to let him be mature enough to do this (with the doors locked and a book for him to read) occasionally. Mostly, I missed his company. He's a great kid, and I like hanging out with him. Simon's team played a great soccer game. When we got home, we watched the Vikings lose a game they had seemingly wrapped up toward the end of the third quarter. For dinner, I made some amazing, 90% local stuffed peppers, loaded with Big Woods Bison ground bison; onions, garlic, and tomatoes from the farmers market; oregano, sage, and thyme from my herb pots, grown from early-season farmers market purchases; and manchego cheese (obviously not local).

Weekends like this make me wish I could live in a land of nothing but weekends!

*David Foster Wallace, author of the door-stopper Infinite Jest, was found dead, of self-inflicted injuries, on Friday. That fucking selfish idiot—how could he? Suicide is stoopid. He was so brilliant. And he had a wife and a family who loved him. And he battled serious depression. He did electroconvulsive therapy this past summer. Damn demons. One of the world's brightest bulbs has been dimmed and I'm really really sad about that.

**The "O" stands for organization, the answer to the question that parents with advanced degrees asked repeatedly, mostly to make small talk. Remember, advanced degrees don't buy common sense. Followed by the equally important corollary, offering stupidity as an ice-breaker will not make you popular.

***What a pathetic potluck dinner. I know a lot of parents work, thus don't have time to whip up, or even reheat, something in advance of a 6pm school event. Heck, I used to have an 8-6 job so I get that. I also acknowledge that not everyone likes to cook. But it scares me to see what some folks pass off as food. All those accusations of our lousy American diet are writ-large in convenience and processed food. I know because I saw a lot of it at this dinner. And, I know potlucks are challenging even if you like to cook and have the time because, heck, I never know what to make, either. But, jeezus, what was with the macaroni and cheese? There were no fewer than 12 mac-and-cheese casseroles, including my own (homemade) version, as well as a few that had clearly been made from a family-size box of Kraft, then poured into a serving vessel. People, let's take back the potluck. Look here for inspiration. I know I may have gone too far with this rant. Sorry if I have offended.

personal phenology

9.1.08 first regular application of hand lotion and lip balm
9.6.08 first bedtime socks
9.7.08 first yellow and red leaves
9.8.08 first early morning jacket
9.9.08 first winter squashes at the grocery store
9.10.08 first late-night cuppa (English Breakfast, white)

wiki wednesday (special 200th post)

It's time for Wiki Wednesday!

1. Go to wikipedia.
2. Click on "random article" on the left-hand sidebar.
3. Post it.

My first entry for a book! Although I hadn't heard of the anarchist collective CrimethInc., I'm very familiar with the contemporary social-protest movement in which they participate. Even if you don't believe in their politics (which are extreme) or their tactics (ditto), you have to applaud the good fight. It doesn't seem as if our traditional electorate system or current political candidates speak for the truly disenfranchised. Our sociocultural values, especially when it comes to consumerism, are very, very warped.

Days of War, Nights of Love is a collection of political, social and philosophicalanarchist collective CrimethInc.. Most essays advocate the fight for personal freedom, alternate choices and lifestyles. Some of the book is devoted to the criticism of capitalism, statism, and mass-consumerism, arguing that these things dehumanize the individual and decrease the general quality of life. Published in 2000, by the CrimethInc. ex-Workers' Collective, many of the writings contained therein are currently available free online. essays written and published by

Likewise, a "copyright" statement in the book allows for the book to be redistributed freely:

English language (and all applications thereof) used without permission from its inventors, writers, and copywriters. No rights reserved. All parts of this book may be reproduced and transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, especially including photocopying if it is done at the expense of some unsuspecting corporation. Other recommended methods include broadcasting reading over pirate radio, reprinting tracts in unwary newspapers, and just signing your own name to this and publishing it as your own work. Any claim relating to copyright infringement, advocation of illegal activities, defamation of character, incitement to riot, treason, etc. should be addressed directly to your Congressperson as a military rather than civil issue.

– Days of War, Nights of Love, page 4

There are whole passages taken from Hakim Bey's Temporary Autonomous Zone^[1] word for word that are never acknowledged and it is unclear whether Bey has been informed, as per his desire.

The title of the book references Days and Nights of Love and War, by Eduardo Galeano, a book about political struggle in Latin America, and has in turn inspired the title of rock band Papa Roach's album Days of War, Nights of Love, which has since been renamed Metamorphosis.

Translations

Days of War has been translated into Icelandic as Dansad Á Ösku Dagannaimage),^[2] and is in the process of being translated into Czech by the PragueIdeozlocin. It's already translated into Polish and looking for a publisher.

a little stiff, a little sore

Door County was all that and a bag of chips. The weather was beautiful, to spite a forecast of thundershowers, not overly warm, which is perfect for riding. And, I had a chance to wear my new arm warmer/shrug thing.

Prairies, wooded areas, farms, sailboats, and shorelines mark the landscape on the peninsula. Illustrating this entry with photographs would be lovely, but I don’t have any pics. I brought my camera with me but left it in the hotel room. This has to be a first since I tend to document the heck out of every place I travel. But, we were in Door County to complete a century, meaning that our priority was riding bikes. And, my handlebar bag—containing windbreaker, inner tubes, compact emergency tool kit, ClifBars, lip balm, sunglasses, bandana, cell phone, Chamois Butter—was very, very heavy and full and the camera didn’t fit. And, yes, I needed all that stuff. I guess it may be time for a better camera on my phone.

DCC had four different distances to choose from—30, 60, 78, and 100. I set out to ride 100 miles, which I has been a goal since completing RAGBRAI (70 miles a day for seven days) in 2005. In May, I started riding ten to fifteen miles (an hour to an hour-twenty minutes), three to four times a week. I wouldn’t call that sort of riding training. By any means. I could have done with at least one twenty- to thirty-mile ride a week. About forty-four miles into the Door County ride, I was toast, and it became clear I wouldn’t be riding 100 miles. And I was okay with that.

The Door County route was gently rolling and really pleasant, but occasionally a short, steep hill would present itself, with no notice. I avoid hills at all cost, normally, so these really took the wind out of my sails, if I may borrow a sports metaphor. And the voices in my head started chattering about how I'm not in as good shape for a ride like this as I thought I was. Once they start, well...it gets really, really ugly.

My quads were screaming. And then all my cycling mojo left me. My lower back was quietly spasming, my shoulders and neck were crunchy, the balls of my feet and my hands were numb (actually preferable when the extremities merely hurt), my saddle was post-delivery tender (I’d forgotten how horrible this feels because I hadn’t done more than thirty miles in one sitting this year).

At the end of my ride, I’d put 61.5 miles on my cyclometer, which is this longest single-day ride I’d done since the last day of RAGBRAI in 2005. Not shabby. I will finish a century at some point, even if it takes a year of training. Next September: the Headwaters 100. Anyone want to join me?

The Door County Century marked the beginning of my fall training. Kicking off with 61.5 miles certainly helps the personal motivation. I’m still a tad bit sore today, but not too sore to spin the wheels so I did an easy ten-mile ride up to the Cathedral and back, stopping to vote on my way home.

tgif

It is with great relief that the week is ending. Finally.

Earlier, I met John for lunch in Lowertown, a district in downtown St. Paul. On the way, I noticed that the cyclone fencing that lined Chestnut (winding up from Shepard Road, past the Science Museum, up to W 7th, past the Excel Center and up the hill to the I-35 ramp) is gone already. The troops are gone. The RNC is done. Good riddance.

And, not a moment too soon. Events got a little hairy, starting yesterday in the afternoon. Law enforcement was seriously ramped up—police on horses, on bikes, in riot gear, with gas masks—to “provide protection” from permitted anti-war protesters, who had gathered at the Capitol for a rally and were marching downtown. Downtown businesses closed early at the recommendation of police. State officials were encouraged to go home. Police officers were stationed at all the major freeway ramps nearing downtown and at the major intersections of Shepard Road (John’s office is at one of these major intersections and the boys’ school is at the last exit before downtown).

Just a little stressful, especially when you read minute-by-minute accounts from the street (scroll down for the good stuff). The stress wasn’t unwarranted either. As the protesters reached the John Ireland bridge over I-94, they were met by a full battalion of law enforcement and snowplows. The stand-off was ugly, but it never turned violent. Because, guess what? Minnesotans are really nice. It was an anti-war/peace protest made up of citizens who have a constitutional right to voice their opinion, not anarchists hell-bent to break windows. Sheesh.

But it’s over. Yay! On Tuesday, I’m marching myself down to Obama’s headquarters and giving what’s left of myself, after wife and mother duties.

The boys survived their first week of school. Getting up earlier than usual—not just earlier than summer, but earlier than last school year—has been a challenge for all. But, I’ve found that the boys can be lured out of bed if I promise oatmeal or scrambled eggs. They both like their teachers, and each has revealed the courses they’re most excited about. Simon easily exhibits the maturity of matriculating another year at school. And, Winston is surely coming into his own.

Simon had his first soccer practice this week. I could tell that Si really got a lot out of the coaching and play from the summer. He looked more confident on the field. I’m glad we let him “play up” to the next age group with older, more experienced teammates. Initially, he was the only player from his summer team, but just yesterday, another kid joined the fall team. Not just any kid, either, but the best player from the summer team. The first game is Saturday morning, and I’m truly looking forward to it.

Right after the game, John and I are driving 300 miles to Door County. Many friends have recommended this area in Wisconsin—the thumb of the mitten—as a great destination so I’ve always had it in mind to travel there. When a friend invited us to ride a century with her and her husband, we jumped at the chance. This 100-mile bike ride loops around the peninsula, with Green Bay on one side and Lake Michigan on the other. Should be scenic. Also, cold and rainy, as scattered thundershowers are predicted. John said, “That’s what rain jackets are for,” as he scurried out the door last night to buy a new windbreaker at REI. We love our gear.

The boys are staying with their favorite sitter, one who has been with us for five years and recently graduated from college. Since the ride ends late on Sunday, we’re going to take an extra night and revel in some couple time.

Be back Monday... or Tuesday…

atmospheric pressure

This morning, as I was driving east, into the blinding, rising sun, following my kids on the school bus they were riding for the first time (yes, I did that because I’m totally neurotic and they’re the most precious thing I have and a stranger is driving them to their destination and I watch way too many godawful crime dramas and I drink way too much caffeine)*, I couldn’t help but think that something about St. Paul is "off". Sure, the start of the new school year brings a certain bustle, missing during the summer, but the atmosphere is all wrong at the moment.

And, I know what is causing this feeling. The RNC. We’ve been talking about and preparing for the Republican National Convention for so long. And, by we, I do mean the collective we that is St. Paul. For weeks, spare green spaces, such as those near freeway ramps, have stored concrete barriers, fencing, and other material meant to create a perimeter defense. The city passed an ordinance, temporarily extending the hours that bars can serve liquor, from two a.m. to four a.m. This would be welcomed news if I was in college, required little sleep, or was childless. Then the barriers were installed; the cyclone fencing created a corridor and a dead-end to Kellogg Blvd. The National Guard arrived in full riot gear. Law enforcement agents and vehicles appeared from all over the state to lend a hand. Helicopters fly surveillance through the day and night.

It looks like—feels like—martial law has been enacted. Independent of each other, John and I each came to the conclusion that the convention wouldn’t be so lock-down if the Democrats were hosting. Denver couldn’t have felt like this.

If you don’t get to0 close to downtown St. Paul, you may not know it, but I’m hanging out at Dunn’s right now, at the corner of Grand and Snelling, and for all intents and purposes, it’s business as usual. Mac students studying and housewives waiting to pick up their preschoolers. Same ‘ol.

One block over, though, on Summit Avenue, the bike lanes are busy. These aren’t your garden-variety, spandex-clad, VPs on expensive bikes, squeezing in a quick club ride before returning to the office, which is what I typically see on my afternoon rides. No, these are twenty something, grungy road warrior-types on vintage single-speed bikes, no helmets, riding in a small packs. And, there is something slightly menacing about them. As my friend Colin, who also has witnessed this phenomenon, says, “They ride over the hill [into downtown St. Paul], and they never come back.”

*for the record, I didn’t follow the bus so much as meet it at school, and, from a safe distance, I watched the boys get off. Roly-poly, tumble-bumble, pell-mell. They made it!!

boys safely off to school

This year, we're trying something new: John and I decided the boys would ride the school bus. The bus stops half a block (plus the two-block alley) from our door so it seems foolish to drop them at school for their early start (8:05 a.m.). We spent so much time talking about the bus—where they get on, what to expect on the ride, and where to get off—that we failed to mention what happens after they arrive at school. Their new school. The one they've only visited once, at the Open House last week. Putting together all the information seemed to be a little much for them.

Okay, I can't lay it all on the boys' door. It was a little much for me. (hangs head in near-shame)

Last night when we were tucking them into bed, Simon was a little concerned about how to get from the front door of school, a heavy bag of supplies and his little brother in tow, to his classroom. Winston was totally panicked about finding his classroom. Poor little guy. He even had a whopper of an anxiety-based nightmare (a blue monster was in our house, so I had to get everyone out, then I killed it and buried it the backyard, but then it came back to life and got free). I never slept well before the first day of school, either. Mostly because I was so flippin' excited to get back to school and see my "town" friends, most of whom I hadn't seen during the summer (don't ask—it's not like we didn't have a car or drive the ten miles to town, daily). Unlike Winston's monster dream, my dreams were along the lines of forgetting homework—or my shirt, arriving at school in only my bra.

John and I offered the boys a ride to school and a walk-through from the bus drop-off. I have to admit I feel better, too. Don't get me wrong, I'm really excited about the independence afforded by riding the bus and navigating their way through the school. I just wasn't ready for it this morning.

At school, we ran into our friend Steve and his daughter Z, who looked adorable— carefully dressed in pink short-sleeve oxford shirt with ruffles, a pleated, plaid, knee-length skirt, and leggings. Steve mentioned that she'd been planning her back-to-school look for weeks. Boy did that unearth a nostalgic pang. When I was in elementary school, my preparations for the first day of school involved setting my hair on bristle rollers the night before so that I might have glamorous, wavy hair. Going to bed with rollers in my hair only ensured that I had a lousy night sleep. And, my stubborn, thick but poker straight hair never was wavy, rather bent at the ends and poufy on top.

My apologies for the lack of photos. We've done a traditional "first day of school" photo for the past couple years, but in our haste this morning, I forgot to pack the camera. When I mentioned it at school, Simon said, "That's okay, Mom." Not in an "I forgive you for your error" sort of way, but in an "I'm so glad you're not going to embarass me" sort of way.

We've come to that. Sigh.

wiki wednesday

It's time for Wiki Wednesday!

1. Go to wikipedia.
2. Click on "random article" on the left-hand sidebar.
3. Post it.

At first I randomly received few-body systems, which pretty much made me want to put my eyes out. So I exercised my seldom-used right to click the "random" button again. Seems we're having a science-tastic day! Even if you don't read the following selection—and who could blame you if you didn't?—please click on the link to voltage-gaged potasium channel to see a very colorful diagram of the structure. This is just of taste:

Voltage-gated potassium channels are transmembrane channels specific for potassiumsensitive to voltage changes in the cell's membrane potential. They play a crucial role during action potentials in returning the depolarized cell to a resting state.
and

Camp Mom: Day Four

Today we paid obeisance to the retail gods. I’m not proud of it, but occasionally shopping must be done. As I may have mentioned, I bribed the boys to clean their rooms. Bribe is such an ugly word. I prefer to think that I incentivized them, because, let’s be honest, they weren’t going to clean up out of their undying love for me. And, it worked. The promise of LEGOs motivated the boys to whip their rooms into shape.

Legoland at the Mall of America was a natural destination, and, while we were there, I decided we’d do some back-to-school shopping. Both Old Navy and the Gap were offering deals on jeans so each boy got four pairs, which, in addition to a few pairs left from the spring, should take us to Christmas. The boys also got to pick out one long-sleeve T-shirt, just to have a something fresh (i.e., unstained) in their wardrobe (they’ve got tons of T-shirts and Winston is happy to wear all Simon’s hand-me-downs, which is a relief).

We capped our day with cones at Izzy’s—Heath Bar for Win, peppermint bonbon for Simon, and izzy-sized scoops of s’mores and lemon custard for me. The s’mores was exceptionally good—graham cracker-flavored base with graham-cracker crumbs, studded with marshmallows and chocolate chunks.

Tomorrow we’re looking forward to a very special excursion!!

camping: gear

According to Heather Menicucci, in Let’s Get Primitive, my camping primer, these are the five big-ticket items you’ll need to camp:

~ tent
Menicucci suggests that any three-season tent will work in warmer weather but that your tent should also be waterproof and well-ventilated. As I mentioned in a previous post, John and I have a very cool two-person tent that we use when we do RAGBRAI. It’s clearly not big enough for four people. Last weekend we bought a six-person tent at REI—the Kelty Grand Mesa. I’m not exactly sure about how we arrived at this particular tent. We went to REI knowing only that we needed at least a four-person tent. REI has, posted on a wall, spec sheets for all the tents they carry. I gravitated toward the color and shape; I thought a dome with some headroom would be nice. John leaned toward weight and price, not wanting to spend too much money. I wanted a large vestibule for storing things that don’t necessarily need to be in the sleeping space. We got a great balance of all those things (okay, maybe not so much color, because I would have chosen an orange tent over such the Grand Mesa’s light tan), and we were able to make the leap to a six-person tent for the same price as many of the four-person tents that I found appealing.

~ sleeping bag
Warmth and lightweight are key. John and I have matching mummy-style sleeping bags that we bought for RAGBRAI. And before you say, “Awww, how romantic,” I have to confess that I have never, in my entire life, felt as claustrophobic as when I slept in that bag. I am a tosser and a turner, and I need room for hurdling legs. Plus, because I have hips, I could never get the zipper completely closed. Since we were camping during the last week of July, and it was hotter than Hades in our tent, I almost always slept on top of the sleeping bag. This won’t always be an acceptable solution. Last summer I bought a granny-style rectangle sleeping bag, after test-driving it in the store, and I am confident it is up to the task of a good night’s sleep.

~ backpack
Size and carrying capacity are important here. Menicucci suggests picking a backpack that specifically fits a woman’s shorter torso because you want the shoulder straps to be comfortable and weight to be properly distributed on your hips. I don’t own a backpack. I have borrowed small backpacks from each of my kids, which I mostly use as a purse when necessary. Otherwise, John has many, many backpacks that I could borrow. True, none of these will properly fit my shorter torso, but we’re car camping. When we’re ready to do a backpacking trip, where we’re carrying all our gear from site to site, I’ll splurge for my own pack.

~ water purifier
I’m not going to dwell on this item. Again, since we’re car camping and don’t need to worry about carrying in the weight, we can fill a collapsible container with water from the filter at home. That said, when we get around to backpacking, I’m going to spring for one of those ultraviolet sterilizing pens, or whatever happens to be the comparable technology at the moment.

~ tarp
Menicucci writes, “A tarp is straightforward. It’s a piece of sturdy waterproof material with grommets—reinforced holes—for easy hanging. Think shelter, shed, raincoat, and ground cover. Camping stores sell durable tarps for about $20.” I’m totally sold, but I can’t seem to convince John that we’ll need a tarp for car camping, especially not when we’ll be 400 feet or so from a concrete shelter and our car will be even closer. Again, I’ll invest when we get around to backpacking.

We should be good to go.

Camp Mom: Days Two and Three

Camp Mom is turning out to be such a blast, and, as I’ve suspected, I’m having a difficult time documenting it. Mostly because I’m pretty exhausted at the end of each day.

Day Two: Cascade Bay
I’m a water park newbie, having played at my first one last summer. For the past few months, to narrow down choices in the Twin Cities, I have been asking around for recommendations. Most Eastsiders, including many who have or work with children, quickly answer Cascade Bay. A quick bit of online research indicated that this water park was close-ish to our home, which made it very appealing. My friend Sarah was looking for some company and had no counterplan so we schlepped our kids to Eagan on Tuesday.

We arrived at the stroke of 11 a.m., which is precisely when the park opened. I’m a big fan of arriving everywhere early and leaving the minute a place gets busy. The moms found lounge chairs to park our towels and the kids ran off as if we were the only people there and the place wasn’t small. And so we took the plunge.


(not sure who to credit for the photo, but I took it from the City of Eagan's website)

Tuesday was hot and very sunny in greater St. Paul so spending the day in the water was ideal. Most of the time, we rode the Lazy River on inner tubes. I loved just floating along water, propulsed by jets. It’s so care free. The kids had a great time jumping into the pool that was five-feet deep. Simon was sink to the bottom and push up. He also practiced his backstroke starts, curling his toes around the side of the pool and pushing off.

The biggest draw, however, was the slides. My favorite was the enclosed purple slide that you could ride down on a tube, which Winston and I did together a number of times. A twisty white slide, open at the top, was fast and fun, but the slides’ seams hurt my back (something that the kids didn’t seem to notice, must be my old back). Next to the white slide, an enclosed green slide offered a sharp drop-off, allowing the rider to pick up serious speed. My experience on the green slide was capital “m” miserable. I bonked the back of my head on the drop, after which I could never quite recover my bearings. So I closed my eyes and waited to be spit out.

Even though I had no other comparison in the Twin Cities, I would highly recommend Cascade Bay. Just two things:

1. Wear sunscreen
I failed to reapply and have a nasty sunburn on my chest.

2. Arrive early
By the time we finished our lunch break, at 1:30 p.m, the crowds were pretty intense; there were long lines for every “attraction” that I didn’t find worth waiting in and the pool was pretty full.

Day Three: Clean Up
I know, I know. Cleaning up isn’t an activity that merits much on the fun scale. However, just as at sleepaway camp, where your cabin must pass daily inspection for cleanliness, so Camp Mom “cabins” are evaluated for tidiness. Both bedrooms have been minefields of toys, paper, clothes, pinecones, rocks, posters, and plastic crappies for a very long time. At best, we manage deep cleans twice a year. Heading into the school year, we are very due for reorganizing and tossing.

Here’s what I learned: Simon is attached to stuff. Gods help us. Every drawer in his bedside table is stuffed with papers from school, including unfinished homework. Ditto the desk drawer. When I told Simon I thought he should keep pens and pencils and his calculator (or “calcliator” as he's want to say) in the desk drawer, his pained look suggested I was ripping his skin off.

Winston is not attached to anything. I could purge his room, and he wouldn’t know a thing was missing. Which is exactly what I plan to do as soon as school starts. In the meantime, he picked up every item from the floor and dresser surface, chucked into bins, and placed in the storage units provided for such. It took him ten minutes. No lie. Would that it was always this easy.

Then we went out for ice cream at Conny’s Creamy Cones (Dale and Maryland) and back-to-school haircuts. In addition to being fun, the day felt productive, too.

Up next: rewards are doled out