Memories...

One of the gifts Beloved is giving me this coming year is a hardbound copy of the blog posts I made about our travels to Spain. In the meantime he made this photocollage for us to remember it by. 

Double-decker, Please

Among many of the challenges facing us as parents today are the rising cost of foodstuffs. I watched in amazement a woman who knocked 50% off of her grocery bill by handing the clerk a small pile of coupons. And I think "I need to start looking into this couponing lifestyle a lot more". Because she wasn't one of those scary women from the crazy couponing shows with the Dura-shed built on the back of the house to store her supply of cat food. No, this was an exchange done swiftly and without much fanfare or disruption. And she took $10 off her bill.

Dang.

So I will take the Sunday paper of our left-leaning local news and pore over the advertisements. It might be worth it. I think I could, in fact, become quite skilled at it. Stay tuned.

The other reason behind the obvious renewed need for fastidiousness is the advent of Tweendom in our fold. While having one teenager already in the roost has increased the obvious need for body wash, razors, Gala apples and hummus, when Tank turned 12 he suddenly became ravenously hungry. A bowl of breakfast cereal was suddenly replenished by a large bowl of 3 scrambled eggs with cheese and sausage. And last night he came in and said with all seriousness:

"Mom. I think you need to start packing a double-decker sandwich in my lunch". Basketball season starts soon and he weighed himself at the gym last night. Down three pounds. For our reed thin guy, this is not a happy achievement. So today as he devoured his eggs and cereal, I made him such a huge sandwich of meat and cheese I needed to double-bag it for safety purposes.

And last night he requested that I no longer make GF pasta for dinner anymore. He "knows" I'm trying to go GF, but...what can I say. He's right. The chicken pecan fettucine cooked with rice pasta ended up being a horrific failure. I have to admit.

So the new next adventure in parenting begins...

I should have seen this coming. He suddenly began demanding Baconators or bacon-topped cheeseburgers at whatever eating establishment we go to. I think this is the part they didn't talk about in Sex Ed and Human Development.

No one mentioned Dagwood...

Car accidents are stressful

Doe and I were driving home from a Dr's appointment on Monday. Here's what I posted on my Facebook page about what we saw. 

First on the scene of a car accident. We were eastbound on intersection of Horsetooth and Lemay. Stopped behind a stalled pickup at the stoplight. Compact car going westbound on the other side of the median slammed on brakes. Woman behind stopped westbound car slams into back of car going about 40 mph and pushes stopped car about 500 ft. We saw the whole thing...I thought the car was on fire with so much smoke from airbag. Smoke from hood and interior pouring out the car...Woman who rear-ended car 37 weeks pregnant airbag deployed into her chest thankfully not her stomach kept asking for help...I opened up the car door and asked her name, got her phone and called her husband...wanted to cry because her belly was having a massive Braxton-Hicks contraction. Got her to calm down her breathing. Doe held her little dog. I called her husband and the B**CH who stopped in traffic called HER INSURANCE COMPANY. I'm yelling at her CALL 911 and she's like "Hold on Hold on"....asked the injured woman WHAT MAKE OF CAR HER CAR WAS. Still don't know who called 911...
Stalled car? White pickup truck. Woman who had stopped in traffic? Pickup truck's mother. Woman who was too busy to call 911 because she was calling her own insurance agent? Pickup truck's mother.
If that is not a testament to the EVIL in mankind.
I hope Carla is going to be okay. I am glad she was conscious throughout the whole thing. And I hope that rear-ended woman gets the book thrown at her for obstructing traffic. Gave Carla's husband my contact info...
Giving you all the deets in case someone sees something I should have done differently. Never seen that before. 

Here is a copy of the report Doe filled out to give to the police investigating the accident. She is not a fan of the woman driving the first vehicle.

Update: Joan, the woman who stopped in the middle of 40mph traffic, was cited for impeding traffic. Carla, the woman who had no choice but to slam into the back of her, is being told her insurance will pay for nothing. I told Carla's husband I would help in whatever manner possible. 

I think Doe was a little upset, No?   

Game #1431

Ed. Note: Letter refers to game played on Sunday October 20th.
What transpired is a mockery of the game of soccer. Words cannot express the complete 'implosion' we witnessed on the field.
The end result being we walked off the field in protest.
Soccer is a sport full of vagaries, and we understand the gray areas of judgment. But this was a complete nightmare.
Good on Coach M for making this protest.
Proud to have him lead our girls.


Re: Game # 1431
Dear Sir/Madam:
I am writing in complaint of the referee crew assigned to our game # 1431 on 10/20/13, u17g Division 1, CO
Storm Royal vs. Arsenal CO Royal at Dove Valley Field #8.
Our center official arrived late from another field, which is totally understandable, it happens often with fewer
officials these days… He showed up and officiated in a plain black and grey striped hoodie sweatshirt, not his
official uniform, nor was his badge visible. The weather was cold and windy, so I understand that official
uniform spec is not always going to be followed, but it has to at least be under a uniform, and displaying a
current badge.
The AR’s were both extremely out of shape and never kept up with play. The center continually looked to his
AR’s for help on calls. Within the first 2-3 minutes of the game, an AR called a foul against our defender on a
fairly innocuous tackle, in fact, our defender fell to the ground and the attacker kept her feet and shot wide of
the goal. The contact happened about 2 yards outside the penalty box, yet after conferring with each other, the
center awarded a penalty kick. Jim Pereira with CO Storm was the opposing coach and came to me
immediately after and agreed that it was a bad call. The center then called several similar fouls against us,
creating many scoring opportunities just outside the penalty box, in which the opposing team capitalized on 2
more, making the game 3-0 within 10 minutes. His influence on the game with such misapplication of the law
created a very unfair match from the beginning, and we were down 6-0 by half.
I gave my best half-time talk to the girls, explaining that the only thing we have control of is ourselves and that
we needed to battle through the poor officiating, and move on. They told me that he made comments to them
like “I ref 9-year-olds, I shouldn’t be out here.” He was very unsure about many throw-ins and was often heard
saying “I don’t know, I didn’t see it.” Having a lot of refereeing experience myself, I understand that you don’t
see everything, but the players said he said that on every close throw-in call. What is he watching, if not the
play? The referee then came out in the second half with the same attire, (I was giving him the benefit of the
doubt that he rushed over and didn’t have time to put his uniform on, until then…) except this time he tucked in
his hoodie, I can only assume to look more professional?
In the second half of play, I will admit to making very snide comments to his attire and the unprofessionalism of
it, but I never once raised my voice to yell it across the field at him, nor did I ever swear or threaten him. My
exact words were “Well, now that he has his shirt tucked in, maybe he’ll be good,” and “you can’t start making
good calls now that you’ve been consistently bad.” He trotted over to me on the sideline (first time he had
broken into a run all game, by the way), saying “you know I can hear you” my response was “Good. Will you
quit making bad calls?” also, “You don’t belong out here, you are making very bad calls” He then told me that
he warned me, and that I now needed to leave because I cannot make those comments. Wait, what??? He never
once warned me, and now I’m being ejected?????? I never once raised my voice, cursed, swore, or threatened
him in any way. If he has any action to take, it would be to caution me for simple dissent. Yet he felt
compelled to kick me out for no viable reason at all. I got a parent from my sideline to fill in for me, and we
had a staff coach coincidentally on the adjacent field, Luis Dominguez Jr. to help if/when he wasn’t
preoccupied with his own game.
October 22, 2013
Page 2
As I viewed the game from atop the hill (100 yards away from field as required), I witnessed him make the
same ridiculous calls and then start issuing yellow cards to 4 of our players for very innocuous challenges. I
was not near enough to hear dialogue myself, but some of the players told me the reasons he was issuing them a
card were:
; “you were chasing players with your feet” ???? (that was verified by another player…)
; “ you charged into a crowd of people and kicked the ball” She was clearing a ball while her
teammate was on the ground nearby and an opposing player stuck her foot in front to block and was
consequently knocked over from the force of the kick on the ball…
 (straight red card); “you keep fouling players” clear misapplication of the law here… should
only be a caution for persistent infringement (though that in and of itself was questionable, because she had not
been called for a foul since the penalty kick at the beginning of the game), not a straight red card and sendoff.
There was one player from the opposing team (Storm) that received a yellow card for the same ridiculous type
call, and also did not deserve a caution.
Immediately after the game, I walked to the referees’ circle off the field and requested my passes and roster. I
said absolutely nothing else and made no contact with the center official, who had then finally put a black
referee uniform over his hoodie… The younger AR was very smug and over-enthusiastic to me, saying “hope
you have a nice day” I gave him no response and walked away with my roster and passes, all of them. He did
not pull the player and coach passes, and did not refer to the roster for the names of the players he cautioned
either. The roster and passes were under an AR’s bag when I requested them. So I’m not even sure if this game
is even being reported correctly.
The purpose of this letter is threefold. 1) I wish that the appropriate assignors are aware of this situation and do
not assign these officials to games they are not experienced for. I understand that the officials put their own
comfort and ability levels on their availability forms, however some familiarity with the referees is crucial info
for successful assignors and parameters can then be set by the assignors 2) I feel the referee’s clear
misapplication of the laws should nullify any cards given and consequences for such cards. And 3) I understand
that due to the lateness of the season, replaying the game may not be an option, but it is a request. We feel
cheated out of a good experience against a good team in which our players can develop and grow as soccer
players. Even though they received a great life lesson in how to deal with incompetent people and how to
handle themselves in difficult situations beyond their control, I don’t believe this experience best represents the
league, the referees, or soccer in Colorado in general.
I appreciate your attention to this matter and look forward to your response.
Sincerely,

Seasons Will Change You Must Move On

Progrock forever

And we're Live...

More designs on the way!!!

http://www.etsy.com/shop/BirdBallandChain

Cooking Is Freedom

By JIM SOLLISCH

Private Lives:Personal essays on the news of the world and the news of our lives.

TAGS:

COOKING AND COOKBOOKS,DISCRIMINATION, HOME ECONOMICS, POLLAN, MICHAEL

In 1972, I was hungry. Very hungry. After all, I was a 14-year-old boy. I played sports and was constantly working out. I could eat every hour. My mother packed my lunch in a grocery bag.

I was into eating and sports, but there were other manly pursuits I wanted nothing to do with. For example, I had no interest in tools. I could build a sandwich but not a birdhouse. Or a beer-can lamp. Which is exactly what I would be doing in shop class, which all boys had to take in ninth grade at my junior high school.

Girls took home economics. Boys took shop. Girls learned to cook lasagna and bake chocolate cake. I would be learning to use a lathe. I preferred lasagna. So I did the sensible thing: I signed up for home economics.

The school counselor called me into her office to tell me that boys weren’t allowed to take home ec. I asked to see her boss, the vice principal. Same story. “Well,” I announced, “we have a problem because I’m not taking shop. These rules are discriminatory.” This was 1972; discrimination was everywhere you looked. If you weren’t protesting something, what were you doing? My parents wrote a letter expressing their support for my decision.

My mother was called to school. The problem, it turned out, was that shop and home ec were same-sex classes, and they were worried that a boy would be disruptive in an all-girls class. As much as I wanted to be in an all-girls class — I liked girls as much as lasagna — I saw an opening.

The next day I circulated a petition at school, demanding that the administration establish an all-boys home ec class for the undersigned: some two dozen hungry males whose parents were willing to let them out of shop to learn to cook.

The democratic process worked, the administration backed down, and within a few days, we boys began our experiment in domesticity. It’s true that we spent most of our time throwing hot, wet spaghetti at one another and eating so much raw muffin batter that our muffins came out stunted, but in spite of ourselves we witnessed magic: onions sweetened by fire and flour transformed by yeast.

So began my love affair with cooking. I was given the keys to the castle, the ability to satisfy my largest appetite. It was like the power some kids feel when they get a driver’s license. If I was hungry (and I was), I didn’t have to beg my mother to cook me something or settle for pretzels or chips. I could make spaghetti or meatloaf. I was the master of my domain.

JooHee Yoon

In college, I might have been the only guy to ever use the dorm stove. I sold my meal tickets and cooked almost every night. I started with chili and burgers and soon graduated to making hummus and curried chicken. Along the way, I asked the cook at the local vegetarian restaurant for her blue cheese dressing recipe. It called for two cloves of garlic. I bought two bulbs. When I separated the sections, they were all different sizes. I concluded that if a recipe called for two of something, then those somethings must be pretty uniform in size. The bulbs were uniform, and so I proceeded to blend in about 45 cloves of garlic. Lesson learned.

By the time I was dating Rique, the woman who would become my wife, I knew my way around several cuisines and had a drawer full of spices. I invited her over for dinner and was in the process of roasting fragrant Indian seeds — cumin, coriander, fennel, black mustard — when she walked in. I ground them with a mortar and pestle and let her take a whiff. She was mine.

What started for me as an act of civil disobedience back in the ninth grade became a lifelong habit. I cook every day. I cook because I love to eat. And I want control. I don’t want someone else choosing the flavors and textures of my dinner. I cook; therefore, I am.

Michael Pollan, in his book “Cooked: A Natural History of Transformation,” suggests that cooking at home is the best way to combat the obesity epidemic. Most of us don’t make French fries at home, for example. And how often does a home cook reach for a jug of corn syrup, a common — and fattening — ingredient in so many processed foods?

Mr. Pollan also proposes that we spend more time in school teaching boys and girls to cook in home economics classes, which are rarely required courses anymore. I couldn’t agree more.

But in the end, health is just a byproduct of learning to cook. You could argue that cooking is the activity that most defines us as humans. Dolphins have a language; crows can create tools. But only humans can cook. By cooking, we transform the mundane into something sacred. And then we share it with others. Food is the most shareable currency we have. You probably don’t pass out money to your friends, but you can pass the paella. But first you have to know how to make it.

---

Jim Sollisch is a creative director at Marcus Thomas Advertising.

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Cooking and Cookbooks, Discrimination, Home Economics, Pollan, Michael

Naughty Naughty Austerity

Just a gentle reminder....September 30th our country goes into government shutdown. Republicans are resisting any new spending bills which would qualify more tax funds for Obamacare. If Obamacare spending plans are not cut the government will go into shutdown.
(This is the same Obamacare that Obama, his family and all of Congress is exempt from. Because it's going to be just that good. )
I hope the Syrian conflict is resolved by that time. Because the immediate cut of 20 billion dollars to our military due to a government shutdown might harm our armed service personnel. It just might.

 I may not agree with any military action in Syria (aw hail No), but dang it if they're going to serve they better have a hot meal on the battlefield. (Unlike our military in Afghanistan).

http://www.mrconservative.com/2013/05/18173-obama-cuts-hot-food-for-soldiers-in-afghanistan/

It's a chess match. Could this be a good rationale for our nation to engage in sectarian violence in the Middle East?

Is our President dangling our military as a pawn for the Republicans to spend more on Obamacare? Is our President paying for Syria with a check our country---our military---cannot cash?

http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/plum-line/wp/2013/08/19/dems-have-an-ace-in-the-hole-in-coming-battle/
Greg Sargent, Washington Post, August 19, 2013:

Congressman Van Hollen gets in touch to explain the added $20 billion in cuts to defense further.

“Earlier this year, changes were made that gave defense some preferential treatment under the sequester, and therefore cushioned the 2013 cut to defense,” Van Hollen says. “That beneficial treatment does not apply in fiscal year 2014. In fact, under current law, defense will go back to being treated the same as non-defense. Because defense will not receive that preferential treatment in 2014, it will face an additional $20 billion cut compared to this year. The cut will be $20 billion more next year.”

Letter to IM

Facebook never ceases to shock:

keep taking money away from education, year after year, then call what's left inadequate and not worth it... yep... perfect logic. <sarcasm intended>
"my nigg", "my bro", "my friend", "BFF"... take your pick... there are many more to choose from...

13 hours ago · Like · 1

Oh IM. Really?
So just to clarify since you 'liked' Tina's last comment, you think it's okay for your friends to call you 'my n*gga'? Because you did refriend me after all. And you continue to 'refriend' me time and again even though I seem to hit on every last nerve of your liberal ideology.

Which is okay.
It's okaaayyyyy.
We have a shared love of New Wave music and shared memories from high school.
Plus we also love little fluffy kittens and furry puppies.

But your 'Like' on this comment leaves me a bit ferbimmled.

Just trying to maneuver around this minefield of political correctness.

I'll be honest. I'm a teensy bit uncomfortable with that type of language.... so if it's okay, Ill refrain from that type of language. But maybe we just need to be BETTER friends.

......No, pretty much not going to use it then, either.

This makes things just so hard!

Particularly since the last time I saw someone called that the boy ended up with a tray of paint in his face. It was Jefferson Elementary School and the boy got offended. He has that right.

(Yay for public schools in the 1970s!!! )

Just wondering if the tides have turned so much in the world.
Since you are a 'progressive Democrat woman of color' can you guide me through the proper usage of that word?
Because apparently I am behind the 'cool curve' here.
 (Clasping hands in anticipation!)
Can't wait to hear what other words are okay. Like 'bitch' or 'ho' or 'slut' or 'whore'.
I kind of like 'whore', actually.
My whores. Like 'my n*ggas'. But no. Because you're not my whore.
 I'm not sleeping with you.
So that won't work either.

I don't like 'my n*gga'. If I were to use any term of endearment, it would probably be 'my houseslave', since those were the prettier women with the more pleasant demeanors. They were the ones the Massa wanted around to look at. The 'n*ggas' were the ones in the fields away from the plantation owners and their families.

But the houseslaves!
Those would have been the ones to tighten up my corsets or turn down my bedsheets (hey  I saw 'Gone with the Wind').

So no, I will never ever call you 'my nigga' and no, I'll never ever call you 'my houseslave', either.

Being friends with Liberals is so complicated!

Is her permission to refer to her as a word -which I'd grown up believing to be hate-filled- an implicit 'okay' from all women and men of color?
Is there different standards of conduct given to different groups of people? Should we feel more comfortable with the usage of those words with only SOME people, but not others? How do we maneuver through which ones are appropriate?
'My n*gga' to my best friend: Okay?
'My n*gga' to my President: Not Okay?
It gets confusing for us white folk.
So many different lessons we're taught growing up.

In the 1970's there was a series of Mattel dolls called the "American History Collection". I remember going to PayLess Drug with my Mom one evening after school. The toy aisle was close to the fabric section where my Mom was perusing the bolts of fabric for some new sewing project.

I stood in the toy aisle and held on to the Civil War plantation doll for a long long while. I was admiring her tilted cartwheel hat, her coppery ringlets and the tiered dress of her surprisingly authentic costume.

Mom came to find me and I announced that I'd found a doll that was like the characters on that miniseries we were watching, 'Roots'.
(BTW, great cross-marketing schedule there, Mattel! Tying in a new doll introduction with a major network mini-series! Brill!)

I said, I'd really like to get her.
Mom said, 'You know, that wasn't the greatest time in our nation's history. People owned slaves. That woman may have been the daughter of a plantation owner. It's not a time period we should really be proud of. I'm not going to buy it for you. '
I said 'I wouldn't be mean to my slaves. I'd be a NICE Master! I wouldn't beat them!'

Mom turned her back and started walking away.
'No one should even joke about owning slaves. It's not funny and it wasn't right then and it wouldn't be right now. No one has the right to 'own' another human being.'

35 years later those instances and experiences defined who I am today.

I have a dream
 that my children will never use words like 'my n*gga' as a term of endearment to their friends. Regardless of their skin color.
History doesn't change.

Mommyrant on MLK Day

I have a dream:
That our nation's President would not identify himself as a relative to a teenage gang member.
That our nation's President would identify with an Australian native gunned down in gang violence. 
That our President's largest political donors would not have made their money by selling drugs and making rap music that promotes misogyny, rape, gang violence, gun violence and racism. 
That our President's largest political donors would not make money by using words like "Nigger" in their song lyrics.
That our President's social programs would not continue to enslave our downtrodden and underserved.
That our President's international policies would not continue to enslave our nation to Middle Eastern vagaries and Middle Eastern oil.
That our President's treatment of our white Ambassador and our white servicemen killed in Libya would garner a moment's notice---but the death of a black teenaged gang member would not made the nightly news for months in a row.
That our President's response to the death of a 88 year old white man WWII veteran killed by black man in Washington would not be silence.
That the legacy of our first 'black' President would be one of skyrocketing debt, drone strikes, major metropolitan areas being abandoned, the exclusion of his family and our federal elected officials from his nationalized social medicine program and the spying on and bigotry against some of our country's own citizens.
I have a dream.
Go on, President Obama, go to the Monument and make today all about you.
This was not Martin Luther King Jr's Dream.
This would have been his nightmare.

Not a TS Fan

I'm sorry
I couldn't help but think about this when I saw the picture of Taylor Swift and Bruno Mars.

Holly Homemaker Tip #9,360

Tip:

When a Loved One chooses not to cover the food they are reheating in the microwave, therefore leaving you a crusted-over impregnated mess into your oven interior do the following:

Pour a cup of vinegar (any old plain kind will do don't waste your yummy balsamic vinegar. This is a disaster not a dressing.) in a microwave-safe glass and heat in the microwave for about 1 min.

Then clean with a papertowel. Foodstuffs swipe right off.

Respond. Not React.

Jump Higher

There are many milestones to reach with parenting.
Sleeping through the night.
Potty-training.

Among these and many others within the Clan lies the learned skill of trampolining. Trampolining is actually a fussy term for flips and acrobatics on the backyard 14-ft trampoline.
 This is actually our second one, our first one was used and abused so often that it wore holes in the nylon, threatening to release a stray ankle or elbow into the ground below.

{Which reminds me:does anyone remember the old school trampolines, the ones with the straps crisscrossing across the face of it? I went on one trampoline like that as a child, and quickly got my foot caught in the strap. Scared the crap out of me. }

As a mother I have sat patiently in lawn chairs watching in anticipation each child master the skill of the perfect front flip. At first was Doe, who mastered the skill readily and with little effort. But let's be clear, she was the type of child to get up at 6 am and go out on her own into the backyard and do flips by herself. Again and again and again.
 I had to tell her that she was not allowed out on the trampoline when I was in the shower or when I left them to run an errand.
Within months she was doing back flips, jackknifes, forward rolls, diving rolls, double twists and on and on...which is all better than her literally climbing the walls and wrapping herself around furniture and appliances.
And also running into traffic.

Tank took his time mastering the skill set. He was a bit more fearful of the contraption, acting casual as he hung onto the supports. You could see the fear in his eyes. But in his own time he became a skilled acrobat.

Because of early vision problems in pre-school we were referred to a vision therapist who recommended doing activities such as gymnastics and acrobatics to work on his peripheral vision and 'his place in space'. He loved tumbling and eventually started doing his own types of flips. At first he would do sideways twisters, not fully symmetric, and always land on his side, but in time he would flip in tandem with his sister.

So imagine his joy when his younger sister and biggest competitor, Bump, decided that this was the summer she was going to master the front flip.

Front flip for those unaware: Involves jumping straight up and then flipping completely forward, landing with both feet standing up on the trampoline. This is the elementary skill set required to do more complicated maneuvers.

Today was the day for a crash course. And I was sitting there patiently watching her, as I had done before and again, (because they always begged me to be their audience), it struck me how time has brought me to this point.

Last baby. Last front-flip skill instruction. Sort of bittersweet.

As I sat dreamily watching her from the patio Tank came outside to investigate. What followed was a comedy of sitcom proportions. Yet again I am near prompted to contact TLC and see if they want to make a reality show about us Olsens.
But we have no disabilities or quirks or socially unacceptable behavior.
We don't belong to a cult, we aren't married to sister wives, and we don't have a large pumpkin patch in Oregon and spend our days beating the sh*t out of each other with verbal warfare.
We're just plain old Amurricans. Who like to squabble but not in a mean-spirited Roloff sort of fashion.

Tank took up his post on the trampoline while his sister was jumping repeatedly on it. He would lazily call out instructions.

"You're not going to get anywhere in Life if you don't jump higher".

Deep esoteric thinking there, son. That needs to be made into a t-shirt.

After a few minutes of good-natured squabbling and shooting soft barbs back and forth, the volume got turned up.

"Bump you are the hardest child to teach. I was able to do a flip a whole year before you did!"

Bump (pausing for comedic effect): "Well...maybe because you didn't have YOU for a teacher."

I usually don't encourage insults among siblings, but that one earned a LoL and a "Good one, Bump!" from the impartial Mother.

Tank would get increasing screech-like in his instructions, shouting that she wasn't doing it right, that she needed to get over CLOSER TO THE SPRINGS TO JUMP HIGHER and OH MY GOSH YOU ARE NOT LISTENING YOU ARE NEVER GOING TO GET THIS. WHY CAN'T YOU LISTEN?

After 20 minutes of listening to Tank's commands, she was starting to show progress. When she would jump she would not bend her knees but jump jackknife straight, only to pull her knees up at the last minute as she started her front roll. She would land time and again on her heels and fall back. Donk. Donk. Donk., Donk. Donk. Fall backwards and land on her back, long blonde ponytail swishing. Baby hairs around her scalp starting to appear and her angelic face looking all the more angelic haloed by golden strands as the Tank's demanding style became more voluble.

In a tear of frustration Tank got off the trampoline and went into the kitchen, where Doe was inside baking cookies. He was squawking at her to come help their sister, because she "wasn't..." and "she won't..." and "Can you come out and show her because she...". Doe breezed past her brother out the back door across the patio all the way speaking under her breath said to Tank "Stand back. You've done enough."

"Bump" she said "When you do it, you have to ACT like you're grabbing the air" and she did a grabbing motion with both arms.
 She came out in her Sunday best, walked over to the trampoline with a Charlie Chaplin expression her face and did a perfect rolling dive. Walked back off the trampoline and back into the house. Duly impressing her sister, possibly inspiring her form, and frustrating the hoo-haw out of her brother.

Bumpo started in again mimicking the air-grabbing motion, and again landed on her butt, Donk. Donk. Donk.

Tank again started to criticize.
Bumpo in her lowest point said "Shut your pie-hole".

"I don't like that language!" I sing-songed.
Really to no one in particular.
Doe came out again and then determined that her Sunday church clothes were not really appropriate for jumping, so she said "I'm going to change into jumping clothes" appearing later in a tie-dyed shirt she'd made and shorts.

Meanwhile, as a bit of a reprieve, Bumpo took to climbing up the aluminum support beams that once held up a 'safety net' that my children quickly punched holes in with their bony feet and knife-like elbows and knees. She would shimmy up the beams, across the top support and then hang upside down, arms flailing nearly as much as my heart as I watched.

She mocked her brother as he was a bit more wary. He would do the shimmy but not release his arms. Finally he did, and even for a split second let them dangle below his ears. But just for an instant. Then self-preservation set in. And the reality of hanging is: upside down on an aluminum bar the diameter of a shower curtain rod did not bode well for the continuance of the Olsen name. Which is true because he is the only male out of this side of the clan. Different pressure on him.

"Everybody should a fear of jumping and breaking their neck" he said so matter-of-fact. Like, helloOo?

After the somewhat humbling experience of watching Nat crawl like a gibbon across the aluminum support structure, the return to flipping instruction recommenced.

Higher.
Faster.
Hush, she said.

"You're not going to make it without me" he proclaimed with such finality that we all believed that he might be on to something.

Meanwhile Doe returned (after putting another tray of cookies in the oven) and touched on an announcement that Tank had made earlier.

" 'Legs of Steel'....What does that even mean?" she queried.

The harping and language became coarser.
Until I came up with the brilliant Sermon theme from last week: "Speak Life. Not Death. If you aren't encouraging or lifting each other up, you're speaking Death. Speak Life."

Bumpo: "Yeah Tank. Speak Life."

All the while, Bump never stopped smiling.
Fun day.

Moab... with a side of Lorazepam

Well scheisse it's been over two weeks since me last journal entry. And I watch with sad abandon the viewing numbers on my blog go down down down. Sigh.

Je regrette.

It's been busy though. Kids schedules are insane.
Swim team soccer 3v3 soccer basketball track.

I have been fortunate to stay on top of things as of yet, minus a minor hiccup that occurred while Beloved was on his second full-week business trip in a row.

The highlight of our Family Summer Holiday was to be a quick road trip to Moab, Utah. Moab is barely a day's drive away, really only about 6-7 hours. But we got a late start our first day (Sunday) and chose to spend the night in Grand Junction. We used Beloved's points and stayed at the Hampton Inn, which was pretty much par for the course in American travel. You got the fluffy leaf-patterned duvet, the poofy pillows, the shower curtain with the large white grommets. Not bad.

After our Continental breakfast (always fruit peanut butter toast cranberry juice and two cups of coffee) we buckled in for the last jaunt into Moab.

It was with a certain amount of anxiety that we drove into Moab. It was the end of June after all, and the overwhelming consensus of everyone we talked to was that Moab was going to be hot. Hawt. Hot. HahahaHahohohot.
And sure enough, upon looking it up on Weather.com the overall forecast was going to be
Sunday Hades
Monday Global Core
and Tuesday Equatorial Summer.
So, nicer by the start of the week ;).

Saturday night found me in my bedroom scowling over my pack list and in a bit of a snit about even having to go anyways it's going to be so HOT.

But I did. And it was hot. But I survived. And in the end we had a good time.

But not without its moments of utter terror.

The plan was to drive into Arches the first day of leaving Grand Junction.

                                                                  It did not disappoint.

The Three Gossips 

This is about 40 minutes outside of Moab. 

The Tower of Babel 

Balanced Rock 

Skyline Arch? 

Hiking in to see Landscape Arch

Landscape Arch. Due to a section of the arch calving off and shattering below, hiking underneath the arch is now prohibited. 

Wow is it hot. About 105. Lots of water on board. 

But it still makes for some purty pictures I believe 

Tank was totally in his element. He was scrambling over rocks, hiking up into all over the rock formations, and basically taking years off my life. But he loved it. 

The children trying to hike up into the crevasse where that rock is blocking the path. 

Meanwhile here's me trying to look pretty

Tank chases a lizard into the underbrush.

Pine Tree Arch. My personal fave :) 

The children see a roadside attraction that they must climb to explore. 

They free-climb into the back of this keyhole. I am on the other side of the ravine and it is about a 20 ft drop from their trail. Sometimes I just had to trust. 

  After a long day of hiking we decide to return back to camp where we are met by an assortment of blue-bellied lizards. These are called 'fence lizards' and are harmless, except for the fact they like to surprise you in the vault outhouses on-site. With many unknowns in those outhouses, having two lizards jump at your arrival is about enough for you to lose your bladder.

Sunday night was spent getting camp set up. We found a site in Goose Creek, about ten minutes outside of Moab. The site we chose had two large trees on the south end of it and we set up our two tents under those.

Camp. Making spaghetti...

Sunset 

western view. Goose Creek is a BLM site and has about 20 sites. At night a boat tour lights up the canyon walls for a night boat cruise. It's kind of neat. 

Beloved reading by camp lantern light. My favorite book of all time, 'Unbroken" by Laura Hillenbrand. He cannot put it down.

first mistake: setting up the rain fly. (If you say that in sort of a malevolent whisper it sort of captures how that decision impacted our evening). Dude. It's not going to rain. So chill with the plastic tarp and the Glad-lock seal action on your tent. 

second mistake: not getting in the river to cool off. Silly girl. It's less than 500 yards away. Stop with your ninnying and get into God's golden answer for the overheated. The kids all went to the river and slept like kittens. Me? I slept like an overheated house cat. Big mistake. Lesson learned. 

third mistake: trying to go to bed hot. Not like 'BringingSexyBack' hot, mind you, but rather going to bed intemperant and sweating. Honestly I was sweating in areas that I never knew I could. I felt like I had been coated in Vaseline and then laid to rest on a hot buttered down jacket (ie, our sleeping bag). It sucked. At about midnight to the sounds of my husband snoring blissfully I grabbed the car keys, undid the windows and crawled into the backseat of our Suburban. How desperate was I? I was asleep in an unlocked car with the windows down in a public campground off a major highway near a national park in my skivvies. I was desperate. I woke up pissed. 

And after a fitful night's rest I unfolded myself from the back and got going with our day. Breakfast (after a dinner of spaghetti) was a bowl of Cracklin Oat Bran and a large glass of orange juice. Then nothing but gallons of water for the next 8 hours. 

Canyonlands 

Grand View Point. Pretty much a straight drop from where Rachel is walking. 

If it's an overlook someone has to throw something

Bumpo looking very much at home. Notice the whistle 'round her neck. This whistle could prompt an entire other blog entry about compromise, trust and common sense. But that is for another day. 

Mesa Arch. 

Pretty sick. 

Mesa Arch again. There's my Doe. Had we taken the time to go to the Visitor's Center we would have learned that climbing across Mesa Arch is in fact strictly prohibited. Over 330 people have died from falling off this arch.
Pretty much a straight drop down from where Doe is standing. 

So hey let's take the baby out on it. 

Tank chooses self-preservation and stays on  more firma terra 

My picture idea. Yes Doe is jumping forward not straight up. Pretty much a straight drop from where Tank is sitting. 

I like this picture because I look skinny. That is all. 

Islands in the Sky 

Pretty much a straight drop from where Tank is

I mean the pictures don't do it justice I loved how the clouds wheeling overhead would color the canyon.
It really was breathtaking. In a good way ;) And truthfully during the day the heat was tolerable. We used frog toggs around our necks and drank lots of water. It was not too bad. And we were shocked at how many tourists from around the world were there.

The girls climb up into an overhang. 

Running to catch up 

I like this picture. You can see the canyonlands behind Beloved. 

Beloved takes my phone-did I mention these  pictures are all taken with my iPhone? Camera is kaput. Stands over a slot to get this picture. He says he could not see the bottom. Meanwhile Tank is jumping back and forth over it.
Which then prompts another happy memory of me shrieking at Tank to STOP JUMPING OVER THE SLOTS. Doe takes takes umbrage at my parenting and I tell her to SHUT UP.
Good times. 

Lots of hawks and ravens. 

After hiking around Islands in the Sky mesa and taking lots of pictures we decided we definitely needed to find a place to cool off after a long day of hiking. So we drive back down the highway about 20 minutes and find a small beach along the Colorado River. This. was. Heaven. There was just a breath of a current, shallow depth and cool but not cold water. Utterly refreshing and the perfect end to a blazing hot day.

Love these guys so much

This is another great shot of the family. Including Beloved, who is *we think* shaking water out of his ear behind them. We all had to laugh at his expression. 

Tank has really gotten the hang of diving this summer. 

peaceful easy feeling. A few other small families close by. 

The perfect end to the perfect day. 

got our towels and drove back to our campsite. Had a delicious dinner of breakfast burritos. Thankfully I'd impulsively bought a deck of cards at City Market earlier and we spent the night teaching the kids how to play gin rummy and 21.

21! 

An important life-skill....shuffling cards. 

Our last day of our trip to Moab was to highlight a slot canyon we had found online called Holeman Slot Canyon. This was apparently the only slot canyon we could find in Moab, and Doe had done some research to figure out how to get there. We had no map with "Holeman Canyon" on it and only the promise of a blogger's insight into how it can be found.

It ended up being a bit of a pucker, actually.
After driving for 35 miles on a dirt road onto the White Rim Loop, we started looking for Mineral Bottom Road.

Suddenly we were there. And it was not fun. And once I realized this was not fun we were down a steep incline on a single lane unpaved road with exposure to a nearly one thousand foot drop.

The road, having been washed out in a rainstorm in 2010, had been recently re-graded and was now open again for travel. Here's a picture of what the road looked like after the washout.

This road is a popular destination for mountain bikers and believe it or not there is a boat ramp about halfway down the canyon. But don't be fooled-this is an intense little drive of at least 6-8 switchbacks on a one lane unpaved red narrow dirt road. The road is carved into the steep side of the valley and many of the switchbacks feel as if they are on top of each other. Meaning the canyon felt very very steep.

Driving our Suburban down there I suddenly started experiencing a panic attack. We're talking teeth-chattering, arms shaking tears a-flowing panic attack. As we would drive the roadway in front of us was dropping off, literally stones and chunks of the road were peeling away from the edge as we were bumping along the ridged road.

This video gives a pretty fair assessment of what the experience was like. Here's a link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yUMUOvGi9sY

(particularly at 1:13 for a true fright). Keep in mind this video was filmed in 2013, after the regrade.

Now this is a road that had been suggested for 4WD vehicles, and obviously our Suburban is 4WD. But it is also not unlike driving an Abrams tank onto a donkey trail. By the time we got to the trailhead (about 10 minutes later) I was a blubbering mess. I was utterly terrified. I'm not ashamed to admit it. And the knowledge that there was no other way back out of the canyon except up that same trail filled me with abject fear. I literally thought of walking back up the road and not getting back in the car. Yes the road was plenty wide at spots, but again, as you are going down the canyon on the passenger side of the car, you cannot open your car door without plummeting nearly a thousand feet into the canyon. It is just that narrow. (I love how the video author writes "good road but lots of exposure"-exposure to sheer dropoffs!). The knowledge that I was going to be on the inside of the roadway, closest in to the mountain, helped some, but still...if the Burb was going to go off the roadway, I'd still be going down with the ship.

After I calmed down and we were all buttered up with sunscreen and each carrying our two bottles of water and Beloved with his PackH20 I thought we were relatively prepared for our trip into the Canyon. We had looked on the map and figured that the trail split that would take us to Holeman Slot Canyon was about an 30 minutes of walking in on the trail. The trail was flat and no elevation gain, but also no shade.

The temperature at the canyon floor was 107.

Mom made some rules. Kids stay on the trail the entire time. We do not stray off the trail for anything. We walk in for thirty minutes total and if there is not trailhead (there was no signage for the slot canyon) we turn around and go back directly the way we came in. There would be no discussion. It was 11 oclock, and we planned on turning around at 12. Fine.

12 rolls upon us. No slot canyon. The trail split- Doe insists- is where that junction is up ahead, and could we please just go a little further. Signs of snake and lots and lots of buzzards in the air. After my boo hoo at the car I didn't want to be the total buzzkill of the way so we walked in for an hour. The trail curves to the right and Doe is adamant- the slot canyon is off the trail to the left where there was a canyon and it looked like it narrowed. She scrambles off the investigate, all the while whining that I am demanding she stay within eyesight. Meanwhile, Tank is scrambling above us on the rocks overhead. She walks in for five minutes. No sign.

Let's get back on the trail. Back on the trail a Forest Service truck pulls up alongside. The two men look a little worried. They act a little worried. Mention that they saw our lone car at the trailhead and went in to find us.

Beloved mentions that we are looking for Holeman Slot Canyons. Ranger looks at him as if he is speaking dog and says "That canyon is about 35 miles away on the opposite end of this valley". He then asks if we want a ride back to our car. Since it was only an hour back on the road we said No, we're okay, and Yes, we have plenty of water.

Run Forrest Run ;) 

Here's our car at the trailhead. Note the little notice I left scrawled on the back window. Hey 127 Hours scared me. 

Road restricted. Beloved determines we could have driven in further about 15 minutes, taking at least a mile off our walk. 

Cut for sign. That is the sign for snake. 

Green River. We saw no sign of the river for the first 25 minutes or so of our walk. 

 After our pow wow with the park rangers, we determined it was probably in our best interest to just turn back and go back to the car.

But not first without a little stop in the Green River to cool off...

 While the boys swim out to a rock, us girls stay on the shore and get our feet sucked into the mud.

Tank has become quite the diver this summer. I am in awe of his fearlessness! 

It's hot. We're about 30 minutes from our car at this point. 

Tank . He was starting to slow down substantially at this point. Starting to worry me a little...

We made it back to the car. Here's the temp reading from the car.

Cool amphitheatre-esque rock formation on the way back up out of Mineral Bottom.

The drive back up was easier for me. I was on the inside of the road this time, and found a towel to cover my eyes. While the jostling and jumping of the car and the sharp turns still caused my bowels to protest, the end result was we popped out of the canyon with no permanent damage. And believe it or not, some day we might even laugh about it.

But in retelling the story to a friend she remarked that she could get me a prescription for Lorazepam on our next excursion. After Mineral Bottom we drove to a gas station, picked us some snacks for the drive back to NoCo, and made the long drive home.

We stopped in Dillon for dinner. A nice sunset and great way to end the day.

Overall there was lots of lessons learned on this trip.

One: sleeping under the stars is not an invitation to be robbed or attacked with a hatchet by a crazed hitchhiker.

Two: depending on a blog to tell you where the Holeman slot canyon is in Utah is probably not the best decision.

 Three: Go to the visitor center to learn about climbing around on Mesa Arch.

 Four: If a ranger offers you some free water as you are hiking in 107 degree heat, better take him up on that offer.

And finally Five: Try to be less fearful. Sit back and enjoy the ride.

And if the view makes your head swim and stomach drop, grab a dishtowel and drop a Lorazepam.

You won't regret it.