White Girl Problems

When You Exercise

Rejoice in the Silence

Being a stay-at-home mom sometimes makes you feel a slave. Not to the family or to the society or to the world outside.  No, but to the words/worlds spinning inside of your head. Sometimes you can be your own worst enemy by giving those voices power. Space in your head that had been occupied by screaming children, colicky babies, dogs barking or the sounds of infants rustling bedclothes ekeing out of intercoms. 

When my youngest child went off to kindergarten I wept. My husband walked us to school, and she left, leaving me knees buckling under the memory of walking that kindergartner to school in the stroller. Blonde curls askew around her head like a halo. Now this coltish child stood in line against the wall waiting for her teacher just like her brother and sister had before her. Beloved had to hold my shoulders as we walked away. I went home to her bedroom and sat on her bed and cried, fingering the hem of her sheets with thoughtful purpose.

Now What. 

There were times during that year that Silence was the enemy. It pervaded my days like a wash of Indian ink, coloring the days. I tried to fill it with lunches, coffee dates, walks with the dogs, going to the market together or the gym. While those all have fed my soul tremendously, sometimes I saw those an escape of the reality of what was going on at home. Piles of laundry. Dusty floors. Mildew around the shower curtains. Tub rings... 

(Being in Spain taught me to appreciate the power of a housemaid, that is for sure ;) ). 

But it also taught me a new appreciation for the house we own. While nothing flashy, no cathedral ceilings or crown moldings, it is enough. It is warm and snug and lets in plenty of sunlight. The backyard is tiny but allows me privacy and peace and a place to putter in the garden and to peg out the laundry.

 It is symmetric with a staircase that splits the house in two and takes care of its occupants on both sides of the aisle ;) and each floor has the exact same square footage as the one above it. 

 I came home with a new appreciation for the life we'd made here little things like our house with its carpet (no fitted carpets in Vitoria, friends!) and granite island and working four-burner stove. Oh never underestimate the power of a working stove! And I noticed that now, more than ever, I enjoy it. I like being in the kitchen. I like cleaning the bathrooms. I like the sensation of gleaned carpets. Simple pleasures. 

This past week I was reminded again of the sweetness of Silence. I have discovered a sweet sensation. Doing the dishes in silence. No TV, no music. No cradling the phone impossibly with one shoulder. I stand in front of my sink and look out at the window. Washing the dishes and placing them in their stations in the washer or in the cabinets. In silence.

 Where I listen to the jangle of silverware, the sound of plate scraping against plate. Even the sweet thrum of the cabinet shelves rolling out to meet their responsibility. It soothes me. It reminds me of the meals I served on them, the ingredients I prepared. The stove that worked to cook these items (shocking!). It's just a nice little reprieve from the noise that will be my neighbor as the day progresses. 

I remember reading an article about the simple pleasures of cooking. One woman dismissed the use of food processors. She saw this as a sacrilege against the sensation of your fingers and hands transforming the food. The peels of the carrots as they slide across your wrist. The grit of potato against your skin. The tactile experience of creating your own nourishment. 

So tomorrow I will get up. I will make the children's lunches. I will drink my large bowl of coffee and then check my email, then help them get ready for school. And when the children are gone, I will wrap their pregnant silence around me and take it with me. 

This is the day. This is the day that the Lord has made. I will rejoice and be glad in it. --Psalm 118:24

We did it. We fell in Love with an Orange Cat

Riley died today.
So sad.
Beloved found him in the middle of the road in front of our house. No one deserves to be taken like this. Poor little guy I am so sorry I wasn't there to help you through this. I am so sorry.

...In 2005 when Doe was almost 9, the conversation started about getting a cat.
Some friends of ours told us that they knew of a cat who'd just had kittens. We drove over to their house to investigate. Mom was a beautiful black and gray striped tabby cat with short hair. Dad was either unknown or unseen upon visitation.
We saw this brilliant white and orange striped kitten with a kind open face and fell in love. We put him in a large cardboard box and as were discussing what to name him (He's sort of red it should start with an 'R'? Rusty? Nah? Riley? Yeah!) he took it upon himself to climb out of the box and with much fanfare started clambering around the car.

Those kids...they can't get me in here, can they? (2005) 

Riley was a good friend. He assured his place in our hearts early on, by the time he was a year old he was chasing down 18-in long garter snakes that would sun themselves in the juniper bushes by our front driveway. One hot summer day I found a dead snake our driveway coiled up, Riley mowling incessantly and VERY loudly to announce what he had done. Coming out to investigate, bringing Tank and Bumpo with me (then all of ages 4 and 2) he stood there and crowed his achievement. You can hear me on the video telling Riley to back away as I filmed. He wanted to be between us and the snake. 

Later on he would bring home an assortment of songbirds. Not many, because I think he learned early on that while I appreciated what he was trying to tell me by bringing home his prizes, I did not necessarily think this was the sweetest thing he could do for us. We could provide for our family just fine, sweet cat, and you needn't feel like you had to prove anything to us. Your place in our home was quite secure. 

All clear for birds. All finches accounted for. 

So much of owning a family pet is about time. It is understood that pets will not outlive you. We have known our share of loss by having to put down our dog Sam after 10 years in our family. So you would think this would get easier. But it's not. Riley was an incredibly patient and tolerant cat. He survived numerous maulings by the resident tow-headed pre-schooler and toddlers in the house, finding a safe refuge in the tub and in the guest room sink. He loved the sink as a kitten, and would often curl himself up there and watch as we would get ready with our day. He held no grudges though because through the years he would make his bed in all of their rooms at one time or another. We think he favored Bumpo's room while we were gone because her bed was covered in fine orange hair when we came back. 

Wow I really like what you've done with the place. But tell me, when are you going to start leaving the butter out again? (2006 mid-kitchen restoration new house)

When he moved into the new house, we had done some research on how to acclimate your pet to its new surroundings. While Sam the Dog was fine wherever his People were, we knew Riley would take a little longer. So we kept him in the guest bathroom overnight in the new house. When we let him out he was like "Screw this crap. Lemme outside to investigate." Within a week he 'made friends' with Mary Cat, the neighbor's cat across the street. After a few months of quarreling (we think she is responsible for the bite mark through his ear) they came to a detente and made peace. While grateful for that, we did miss the harmonious growling and intermittent hissing they would perform for each other underneath Kelly's white car. So far the past 6 years we had a routine in the house. Riley had the run of the neighborhood, and would spend a lot of time outside. 

Which reminds me of one of my favorite memories of Riley. About two summers ago I was watching TV one night and heard what sounded like a baby crying. Concerned, I opened the front door to investigate. There was Riley sitting like a statue on our front porch, ears up and tail tip twitching staring at something out in the dark. After a bit I saw the flash of two iridescent animal eyes and saw a kit across the street. The kit was talking to Riley. Not threatening but almost questioning, a sort of plaintive cry. Like "Hello? You kind of look like me. Could you tell me where my den is?"

 And Riley's silence answering back: 

"Look here kit. We are not related. You are a baby fox and I am a cat. This is not your home. And so help me God, if you set paw on my property I will unhinge the gates of Judgment upon your mortal soul." 

I don't know what the big deal is about this Infinity Cat experiment. Hey but wait a minute...

When we decided to move to Spain for a semester overseas, of course the conversation included what would we do with our animals. Sadly enough I was not overly concerned with what would happen to Riley, because he's always been a pretty independent cat. And as per expected, emails from the family staying in our house echoed that. "Riley shows up for meals, and that is about it", they would say. "He's not around very much". Which was really not terribly concerning for us. Maybe he just needed his space, and the guest room was being used, and he was just trying to find a place for himself in the house again. I always felt convicted about that.

So it was with great relief to me to have Riley welcome us back so openly and freely. These last few months have been a time of  utter adoration from our sweet cat. Each night as Beloved and I would wind down with watching some television in our bedroom Mollie the Dog and Riley would join us. Mollie would get up when Riley would stroll in and have to investigate where Riley was going, like 'Hey now, what you doing? Where you think you're going there?', all the while Riley would march confidently up onto my chest and set there with his paws on either side of my neck and his purr engine revving up. He would climb up onto me, rub his head against my neck and face and then sniff my earlobe, all the while making this short sort of 'chirping' sound. He was totally and utterly completely content, and I was happy to have his company. 

Pictures below were taken Monday, three days ago. Still can't believe he's gone.

You see me? I am so blissed out I have to close my eyes. <3 

 She's mine All mine.  :)

"Your ear...it needs my kisses"

 I look at these pictures now and reminded of what a handsome regal leonine animal he was. He truly was a handsome fellow. 

Riley thank you for taking care of us for these past few years. Thank you for protecting us from the snakes, the mice and the confused baby foxes who lost their way. Thank you for protecting us from those scary neighborhood cats and from being so patient and kind with our children when they were babies. We will never forget you and will always cherish the time and memories you gave us. You were a sweet cat and we were blessed to call you ours. We love you so much. 

Your Family 

Gypsies Tramps and Thieves

I was born in the wagon of a travellin' show 
My mama used to dance for the money they'd throw 
Papa would do whatever he could 
Preach a little gospel, sell a couple bottles of Doctor Good 
-Cher, 'Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves'

Today I was reminded yet again of what it means to be "environmentally conscious". 
"Environmentally Conscious" means you do many good things. You compost. You recycle. You use chic fabric bags to carry your unpasteurized milk and your brown eggs home from the organic market.You ride your bike home from your local produce co-op with the bike trailer and your Bolivian-sweater-clad toddler clutching your sprouted wheat bread and organic kale, all the while threatening to kick at cars who drive too close. But not doing it because your Tods shoes are meant for pedaling bicycles, not denting hubcaps. 

That bike trailer better be from Whole Foods

Now personally and not to brag...I was hip before all you all. My mom raised us organic.

 No white sugar, no white flour, very little red meat, lots of fish and (what I deemed horrible at the time) veggie messes like quinoa and tofu and falafel, and goofy things like smelts and fasulye pilaki. Know what we used for pasta? That's right rice noodles which I'm sorry taste suckful when served with spaghetti sauce. And I think the first time I had a hot dog was in high school, back when the risk of bringing a nitrate and pig-bone-riddled sausage home was about as even as being a pagan (I jest.)
We clapped when the one pumpkin seed my brother planted sprouted 27 pumpkins. Growing up in E. Washington state the abundance of fresh fruits and produce was almost an afterthought. 
We were bloated with providence. We would glean the apple, pear and cherry orchards and lay under the heavy branches of apricot trees in our backyard. The raised beds my parents built were always full of tomatoes and peppers and squashes.  Concord grapes flourishing along the back fence like beautiful velvet ropes of globular goodness were painstakingly picked and transformed into the most delicious grape jam. I have decided, if I get a choice, that Heaven will smell like Concord grape jam recently sieved and sealed off the stove. We were duly blessed.
We did not use toothpaste.' Fluoride ingested caused stomach cancer' we were taught. And of course the pendulum would swing to the extreme...huge masses of toilet paper crammed into every closet due to the impending Apocalypse. 

 Remember, this was during the Iranianiac 70's where the Shah was some glowering ember in a turban and each day a little number would appear in the corner of the newscast. 
Day 47 of the Hostage Crisis. Those were anxious times, and having a world leader with whale blubber lips and two bee-stung eyes did nothing to assuage the worrysome state we found ourselves in. The world was going to end.
....Of course now I wonder..really, how much petroleum is used to process toilet paper? I can understand lines at the gas pump, but really? Lines at the paper goods aisle as well? I think someone was just overly concerned about covering his @$$ ;)

Somehow the 70's transformed us into the materialistic nobs of the 80's. I blame Disco. 
 I mean come on. 

How do you go from a world-altering oil crisis to $80 plastic Swatch watches? 

Those were heady times then. Reagan gave us permission to buy all the petroleum byproduct we could imagine... like those God-forsaken Moon boots?

 The pendulum had swung back and now we were gobbling up all the goods and services we could muster. (Because really, one Swatch watch was bourgeois. You needed at least 3 to truly make a statement. --Ed.) Somewhere an oil emir was saying 'fetchy-fetchy', rubbing his fingers together.

Now as if on cue the world has taken its pendulum back to its earthro-centric self.

                                           Trees are the Answer. Hug a tree, Save an Owl. Fracking-Bad. 

Windmills-Good. And not the charming wooden windmills we'd see scattered across the European countryside.

Sinister blade-looking devices that line the Wyoming landscape. 

Beloved would wave his arm at the latticework of spinning windmill blades and announce to anyone who would listen (his captive audience in the car)-- "All of those won't add up to the energy production of one acre that an oil well needs." Having toured a 'wind farm' in the far away and beyond of Wyoming (because when you marry a Internal Combustion and Pollutant Emissions engineer--Bish, that's just what you do!) I stood mouth agape at the height of this windmill. I then commented on the monumental gash skived out of one side of it and learned it was from one of those windmill blades snapping off in a windstorm (ironic!). The blade keened off of its orbit and went spinning off into the Wyoming landscape, taking a large portion of its base and possibly a few antelope heads with it as it landed nearly a half-mile away. 
What I would have paid to have witnessed that. Dang.

But I can see the point. Fossil fuels are the dinosaurs of days gone by some would say. Fine. Losing our dependence on foreign oil is critical to our nation's stability. I totally agree. And I support whole-heartedly the idea of alternative energy resources and discovering newer, smarter ways to support our families without exhausting our planet. 
It is common.sense. 
Waste not, want not. Pesticides and chemicals, no.
                                          Apply-cheeked babies and mercury-free vaccines, Yes. 

Which brings me to the following harangue. Why with all of this talk about mercury-in our fish-our food-our vaccines-why would I ever allow mercury willingly into our home? 

"Mercury is fluid and has a unique property for being a liquid metal at room temperature. 
Generally though, it is to be avoided", says the resident Emissions Engineer. 
My point: 
I believe with all of my heart that mercury lightbulbs are-
like anti-bacterial soap-
the downfall of Western civilization. 
Mercury is the biggest scam foisted upon this generation. 
It is the Gremlin of the interior lighting design idea. 

It will not pass, says I, the Gandalf of the New Age of Cynicism. Not through our Bag-End.

It is like the song says, 'the Preacher Man selling Dr Good' by the wayside. 

Why the dislike you ask? 
Let me explain. I've tried to do my part.
 I've tried numerous times to buy the 'right bulb' for the world and for my children. (Yes please let's exploit our children one.more.time in this political season shall we? Ha). The end result? 
I end up with a dangerous, toxic and lethal health risk in my home. These pieces of mercurial crap don't last "for decades" and "never need replacing". 

They have, on average, lasted similarly long if not shorter than the regular 'naughty bulbs' I continue to stock up on. And these lethal balls of poison end up collecting in boxes in my garage. And after today's replacement of the lightbulb I had changed 4 months ago in the basement, I was livid...what a complete waste of my money. Thrice the price, thrice the risk, none of the foreseeable benefit.

So yes, I do believe that the Environmental Movement is participating in one of the biggest foists on the Planet. Selling us crap goods, at three times the price ($9 for one bulb? Bull...sh!t!!!), which need to be transported to an  appropriate disposal site approved by the EPA. 
This disposal site is normally not within city limits, and is usually denuded of all foliage.

 Not unlike a Prius engine production plant. 

So I refuse to follow the Preacher of the Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves. I will never buy another mercury lightbulb. Now I hear that the 'naughty tungsten lightbulbs' are to be completely phased out  by October 2016. Time to start stocking up every nook, cranny, shelf, closet and pantry. Not to cover our @$$es, necessarily, just to be able to see them after dark. I guess the apple don't fall from the tree. 

I wonder if I could buy an oil lamp from a Gypsy. 

Soundtrack to Spain

 Kids are all back in school...

Hearing these songs on the radio brings me back to where we were this summer and the COUNTLESS times I heard them sung by the children...Good times

 Fun. We Are Young

Carly Rae Jepsen Call Me Maybe

Maroon 5 Payphone

Loomas Vamos a la Playa 

What are the songs of your family's soundtrack?
Happy New Year!!!

Country Squire in Snow

One of the happiest memories I have growing up is the family station wagon. 

This was the Mom-mobile for the majority of my childhood. In 1979 my parents bought a VW van

 to take on a trip cross-country. 

We spent three weeks driving back East to New York, Virginia and Tennessee in that van, seeing all of the relatives my parents had left behind in their maiden voyage west with their only child in 1965. They left the University of Rochester and drove with my older brother to Washington, where they made our family home. 

The Ford Country Squire was full of memories. Sitting in the backseat facing backwards with no seatbelts. Being left behind in Kaiser's grocery mart because my Mom believed I was in the back seat cavern of the car. :) Watching in awe as one of our housecats climbed out of the open back passenger window and crossed the width of the front windshield as we drove down our street. It was probably far too long that we, my mother and I, sat in the car in wonderment and pealing laughter and watched the cat walk across the hood of our moving vehicle.

The Country Squire came to mind again this afternoon. I was driving down one of our neighborhood streets and saw a construction sign. The sign read "Ice Removal Crew" and there was a panoply of large construction vehicles massed on the side of the road. Lights flashing, loud rumbling noises and the requisite scraping sounds of ice removal equipment used to get rid of the dikes of compact snow and walls of ice that had collected over the cold winter of 2012 so far.

It was such a waste. How sad that so much energy and exhaust and effort was put to task to remove such a common sight in the Colorado landscape. What we need in this country is more Mama Pats and more Ford Country Squires. 

Mama Pat was from Rochester, NY. And while the ever so often emanance of a 'Rochester A' would commence from her lips ("You say an A but you draw it out and STOMP on it" was her explanantion of a New York accent) would remind us all of where she hailed from- it was her outright confidence behind the wheel during wintertime that cemented it. 

Mom would pull on her black floppy beret with the sparkly pailletes and her fishing creel bag and we would pile in around her in the Country Squire. I would always call 'shotgun' (okay I think it was more "I call the front seat"!) and clamber in beside her. With the blue nylon seatbelt and heavy buckle cinched tight around me, now the fun could start. 

First was the driveway. The house's driveway of my childhood was added post-purchase. My father and his friend Al poured the concrete, and there was some discussions about physics and angular velocity and engine compression and clutch mechanics when deciding the angle of the concrete. That was all nice and good, but in the end we ended with a driveway that required a brave amount of skill to master. I considered great accomplishment to drive up the driveway in reverse in our VW van without the car stalling as it reached the apex of the driveway. I think mathematicians would calculate the angle of the concrete driveway to be  approximately 35 degrees...

It required a punch on the ignition at approximately 10 ft down the driveway to allow for the vehicle to make it up the steep incline. Stories were varied about the danger of this driveway in certain weathers. My parents' friends would have discussions upon arriving at the house. "Better not park in the driveway. You'll never make it out in this ice." These conversations were confirmed by childhood friends who were sitting behind their parents in their own station wagons ;). 

So yes mastering the steep driveway and the van's automatic floor shifter was no small feat for those children who were required to learn how to drive on an automatic. And of course we all learned how to drive from Mom.

When the icy Pacific NW storms would hit, they were no little deal. There was lots of snow and lots of ice. And unlike balmy dry Colorado, ice would not melt away readily. It would melt and then like a rebellious child re-freeze overnight. It would rise up again each morning into ice dams in the middle of the streets and arterial roadways. These ice dams would rise to a rather impressive 1-2ft in height while the rest of the roadways would get driven down and compacted. Like lone sentinels of winter they would stand guard in the middle of the road. While Mama Pat was more cautious on the main thoroughfare of town (even though I recall she telling my father to 'Hit it!' when a teenager challenged him to a drag race) when she would turn the corner onto McMurray Ave all bets were off. 

Mama Pat would veer directly into the ice dams at full speed. She would then commence to give her ritual speech about how it was her Civic Duty to break up these ice dams. THe laws of safe roadway circumvention and maintaining safety by driving on your own side of the road did not apply. These ice dams were her nemesis, and had probably haunted her from back in the days of her own young adulthood driving down C Avenue. I can picture my beautiful mom in her red party dress and string of pearls as she drove the turquoise and white 57 Chevy sedan that she paid for herself. 

Nevermind that the Country Squire fishtailed like a dying fish on a icy boat-deck. Nevermind that our bellies would roil and turn like sacks of Jello Mama Pat would engineer the Country Squire like a galleon in a howling Greenland rainstorm. I could almost hear her now "Woo-hoooooo" she would call out when the Squire would make contact with a chunk of ice. The Squire would face the beast and swallow it underneath the car and eject it behind the tires. She was a lawful woman but when she saw an ice dam in the street she considered it above the law to commandeer the Country Squire and make the ice dam---disappear. 

I thought of Mama Pat as I witnessed all of the city personnel called upon to make haste of the ice dams collecting on Swallow Ave. The smell of exhaust and -sadly-some unknown harsh-smelling sulphurous smelling chemical reminded me of her bravery and her crazy spirit. It reminded me that sometimes it doesn't take chemicals or a crew of men and women in orange safety vests. 

It only takes one mother and a station wagon.

And so today after I passed the construction crews, I took it upon myself to perform my own civic duty. I commandeered my own 'Child-catcher' and plowed into the lanes of ice and snow that were lining up along all of the sidewalks. I am sure the house residents would not understand and nay may even be fearful of  the sight of a large SUV plowing through dams of ice in front of their houses. 

But my Mama taught me better.