serendipity

Sweet Dreams (a recipe)

The kids were having a hard time falling asleep tonight. It's a mix, I think, of four day vacations, Christmas being just around the corner, overworked parents who never leave their computers long enough and the general stress of modern-day life from which we try to protect them while simultaneously over-exposing them (inadvertently-on-purpose, of course).

Whenever one of them has a hard time getting to sleep, if the lullabies aren't enough, we tally up the things that make her happy. Even with some variations to accommodate age and favorites, it tends to be a pretty consistent list:

Green grass

    Blue Sky

        Sunshine

            Wind

                Ice cream

            Swinging

        Going to the park

    Best friends

Sleepovers

    Gringo

        Road trips

            Baking cookies

                Riding bikes

            The secret beach

        Singing

    Falling stars

Family

 

I usually start the list and they finish it. By having them finish the list, it accomplishes a couple of things in addition to the obvious: it gets them to focus themselves on the things that matter and that make them happy. It also allows me to gain some precious insight into what they're thinking about at the moment.

Most importantly, after we've checked under the bed for monsters (again), we all feel better about going to sleep.

 

 

Chainsaws and Daisies

We listen to the radio in the morning on our way to school. It can be a risky proposition and I have to pay attention, I can't zone out. Radio has come  a long way since I was a kid - not always for the better - and foul language is the least of my concerns.  My kids know what foul language is and they know they can't use it yet. They don't know what IEDs  are, however, nor the fact that the massive explosion in nearby San Bruno was preventable. They don't need to start their days with stories of genocide or kids being kidnapped. There's plenty of time for that later. It's not an easy thing to do, you know, to protect the childhood of another person while simultaneously equipping them to cope with the world. It's a tightrope juggling act with bowling balls, daisies and chainsaws.

I do like it, however, when the radio gives me an opportunity to teach my kids stuff and today's lesson was a good one: Bristol and Willow Palin were being mocked for fighting with a guy on Facebook who isn't a fan of the Palin clan's TV careers (Mom's on an Alaskan reality show and Bristol is on Dancing With the Stars). I'm not even going to touch that one, by they way, Bristol Palin + Dancing with the Stars = me never getting to the point.  In the course of their sisterly attack Willow wrote "Haha your so gay. I have no idea who you are, But what I've seen pictures of, your disgusting. My sister had a kid and is still hot. Tre [guy's name] stfu. Your such a faggot."

Can you guess what today's lesson was about? I'll give you three tries:

1. No, it was not about bad punctuation, although those of you who know me best know this is usually the right answer. Not today.

2. No, it was not about homophobia. We don't have homophobia in our house and our kids totally don't understand it. And they don't need to. They'll come across it in real life eventually and automatically look down in disgust on the homophobes. Which is fine by me.

3. The power of cut and paste? DING DING DING we have a winner! Today's lesson was all about how if you don't want to read about it later, don't put it in writing now. Not on Facebook, not on Google Buzz, Not on Yahoo Buzz, not in IM chat. Because as long as it's on a computer, anyone can cut and paste and send it to anyone and everyone everywhere. Or even better: they can post it. Phone's aren't safe either. If the chat is on your phone you can forward it. And if you can forward it so can someone else. And guess what? They already are.

How much longer until they start altering the "record"?

These savvy 12 year-olds are already gossiping behind each other's backs, cutting and pasting IM threads into other IM threads and "sharing" so everyone can know exactly how foolish, love-sick, mean, ridiculous and pointless they (we) are. Oh, and what truly horrific spellers too. U no wat I mene?

So my pop quiz to my girl, as she's getting ready to hop out of the car was this: "How do we deal with conversations that matter?"

"Orally."

"Yes! I love you honey, have a great day at school!" (yes, I say that to both of them every morning. And I mean it. And not just in the thank-god-they-will-be-out-of-the-house-all-day kind of way.)

"luv u 2, mama" How is it that she can actually speak in text language?

Cue: her half-hearted wave, back turning hair flip with simultaneous eye rolling - earning her a 9.0 from the Russian judge.

 

You hit me and I'll hit her (and so on)

I'd just gotten my car back from the mechanic, of course. He'd taken pity on me (taken all my money too) and washed my car until she sparkled like new. I was happy to drive again. A little proud, even.

That's why I took my car instead of his truck yesterday, that and the fact that my car is easier to park downtown.  I'd promised the girls new sketchbooks and since I'd reneged on the promise to get them from their favorite art supply store in the city, I'd planned to take them to a nice (if much smaller) art store in Palo Alto.  The rest of the afternoon was promising, with plans to spend a nice lunch with friends and get some much needed help for a project.

The sun was shining and the weather was unseasonably warm. We were on time for a change and the day ahead was looking quite bright. We joined the long queue of cars waiting to descend from the freeway into downtown. It's a long two-lane road, suburban with large leafy trees and surrounded by expensive houses, it's downright pretty.

To get downtown you have to pass through a series of traffic lights, and with the high volume of traffic, one tends to go from red light to red light. The speed limit is 35mph  and it's hard to go faster than that unless you're running the light. Running the light under any circumstance is foolish, but on this street it is both dangerous and idiotic. The odds of getting caught are very high -- the  Palo Alto police department makes a fortune here. Midway through our route, the cars in front of us stopped. The car in front of me stopped. I slowed and stopped. We waited for the light to change and I turned to talk to my eldest.

WHAM!

I was so surprised by the impact. I assumed, because all of the cars around me were stopped, that the woman behind me had stopped too. I didn't look for her in my mirror, mostly because the stop was perfectly predictable. We hadn't stopped short for me to wonder if she'd make it in time. Nevertheless, she didn't make it. She didn't stop until she hit me. Which made me hit the woman in front of me. Which made her hit the couple in front of her.

Silence.

Then we all signaled to the right and began our transition out of the lane of traffic. There was a side street and we all went to it. I parked and called the police. The dispatcher was so calm, which was nice because my kids were not calm. This was their first car accident and they were naturally upset. Not injured, that I could see, but distressed.

The woman who caused the accident didn't pull over right away. Stunned, I think, she got out of her van in the middle of the busy street and started walking around. This was, frankly, terrifying. She's in her 70's I think, and I was sure she was going to be hit by one of the cars maneuvering around the scene. I couldn't leave my kids, and I watched her, aghast, silently urging her to get back in her van. Finally she did. She drove into our side street and slowly made a u-turn, her front end smashed and dangling, parking across the street from me.

We were all standing on the street waiting for the police to come. It was strange, we didn't really talk or even look at each other. I asked the other drivers if they were okay and the women in front of me said she had a headache. Other than that, no one spoke. The police came and Juliette began to complain of a headache. The paramedics were called. 

The woman who caused the accident came over and asked me for my insurance information. I knew we were going to give all of our information to the police, that an incident report would be filed that would provide everyone involved all of the relevant contact numbers, but I showed her my license anyway.

I wanted to be nice, really I did. But the best I could manage was to be coolly polite. I didn't think my kids were seriously injured, but they could have been, and I knew I'd be pretty upset about that later. In my best, non-challenging voice I asked her "what happened?" Meaning of course, what were you doing instead of paying attention to the cars stopped in front of you?" She answered "I'm still trying to figure that out."

Ah.

The firemen arrive and I'm relieved that I can pay attention to them now, and Juju,  instead of her. The firemen are everything you'd expect: polite, gentle with the girls, informative and helpful. If I don't want us to go in the ambulance (and I don't), then it would be a good idea to go to the hospital or clinic, they say. Anything can happen in this kind of situation, you might not feel hurt until later. You'll want a medical record for insurance to cover you, should the worst happen later.

It's funny how much I prefer firemen to policemen. Even though the police are also there to help, their stiff, shiny uniforms, reflective sunglasses and impersonal aloofness always make me feel like I've done something wrong. Even when I know for sure that I haven't.

I feel compelled to tell my side of the story, even though the smashed cars tell a pretty clear story of a chain reaction. I had come to a complete stop. I had my foot firmly on the brake. I never saw her coming. His short hair gleaming in the sun, I see myself reflected in the officer's glasses. He takes notes and my license information and then gives me a card with my "incident number." Even though I've done nothing wrong, I'm now officially involved in an incident.

The firemen all take off their sunglasses and look at me in the eyes. They get down on their knees to talk to Juliette and ask her permission to touch her spine and her head. They are warm and comforting, funny yet professional.  I love them. Instantly, I break out my fly shop business cards and start offering them free fly fishing lessons. Oh yes I did.

The woman who caused the accident keeps coming back to ask for my information, even though the policemen have assured her they will give her everything she needs in their report. Why is she so insistent about knowing my zip code? Is she looking for a way to blame me? Okay, Karen. Chill out. Maybe she's just stunned. She must have suffered in the impact and remember? She was walking dazedly around in traffic. Maybe she's having trouble gathering her senses. Maybe she's running on old-school autopilot that says "never leave the scene of an accident without the other driver's license and insurance information." Or maybe she's going to sue me.

The couple who'd been hit last were in an SUV. They were shook up but undamaged and uninjured. They left as soon as the police took their information. The woman in front of me had my license plate imprinted on her bumper but not much other damage that I could see. This surprised me, the noise of the impact was so loud, I thought for sure there would be more damage. My front end was dinged but not smashed. I marveled at the strength of my car, and for a moment I allowed myself to feel affectionate toward it. The car that had protected my family.

The firemen urged me not to let the incident ruin our day. Knowing that we faced hours of waiting to get in and out of the clinic, I went ahead with the visit to the art store. We bought sketchbooks and markers and pencils - I even got a sketchbook for myself although I hardly ever draw anymore. We sketched away the waiting time, with Juliette taking the prize for drawings that looked good and smelled even better (scented markers).

The clinic visit finally over, we left in darkness. We were all pronounced "fine under the circumstances." A little whiplash probably, some muscle soreness for the next few days. Ibuprofen will help. "Come back if anything changes."

Quiet and subdued, but feeling grateful (that was me), we went home. Grandma came over and gave soup and hugs to everyone, then it was bedtime.

I took my car to the body shop today even though they're closed on Sundays. I didn't want to look at it on my driveway anymore. There are pieces of silver plastic mingled with the ruined black of my formerly shiny backend. The silver is ugly but I can't bear to pick it out. I'm a little afraid that any one of those interlopers may be the thing keeping the bumper attached to the car. Like a game of pick up sticks, one wrong move and the whole thing could come crashing down.

Chucking it

For those psychologists in the audience, armchair or otherwise, you should know that I'm not actually looking for an explanation of my about-to-be revealed eccentric behavior. You're never going to find my clothes laid out neatly by the edge of a cliff, a large body of water or the train tracks. Just so we're clear about that.

Our retail store is located right next to a tidal lagoon.  Sometimes it's full of Bay water, deep enough to swim in. The ducks and geese do swim there, as do rays and sharks and other fish that should know better than to venture so far inland from the Bay and so close to a fly shop. At low tide the canal is reduced to a sludge pit, in fact I'm not entirely sure it's not quicksand. It looks like if you took one false step down the hill you'd be permanently asleep with the fishes. So it's funny that when I walk by it I want to throw my completely irreplaceable car key into it.

But I do.

In fact, I sometimes have to hold on to my key extra tightly when walking past. Even though I know I won't really throw it in, the temptation can be overwhelming.  The funny thing is, I love my car. It's a 2001 seven-series BMW. It was made the last year of the "good body." No, not mine. The BMW body that used to be beautiful before they let that crazy guy redesign it to look like an overweight Jetta (damn, they put such an ass on that thing).

If something happens to this car it will be really hard to get another one. The Mister will pressure me to get something newer with fewer (and less costly) maintenance requirements. Since I hate everything new there is no way I want to be in the position of having to replace my beloved and completely paid off car. And if I lose my key and can never get it in again I will have effectively sealed my fate.

The canny Bavarians, deciding they were not in the car key business, decided to put their collective foot down at 10 keys per car. They send four with the actual car and leave six in The Vault.  They figure, I guess, if you're dumb enough to lose 10 car keys (at $200 a pop), you're too dumb to drive their cars. Which is probably right.

I only have one working key. The other one lost it's programming a few years back and has no idea it even belongs to a car. It spends its lonely, mindless days sitting in the key box, waiting for us to send it back to the Doctors for regression therapy. Guess when that will happen?

So chucking this singularly precious key into the lagoon would be incredibly foolish.  The dealer might have the other two (kept, at the time of sale, for "safekeeping." That, and the minor detail that I wouldn't give them extra money for more keys). The other six are out there somewhere. In the "Vault."

Which means that if I chucked this key there would be no way to drive the car home that night or any other night for at least a week or two -- or longer. I have no idea where this so-called vault is, it could be buried underground in Antarctica to ensure the survival of our BMWs after the Ap0calypse.

By the way, I have no idea how to spell apocalypse. If it weren't for my spell checker, you'd be laughing your ass off right now at what I think the spelling is. Let's just say it involves a few too many ohs and not enough ahs. I actually view my inability to spell the word as a sign of my optimism (how's that for marketing spin?). I don't get a lot of chances to write it down, 'cause frankly I don't let myself think about it all that much. I'm good at denial. Look how willing I am to believe that nothing will happen to my precious car key -- as long as I can keep myself from throwing it into the canal.

My car key is not the only thing I want to chuck into the canal. There are days when I am almost overwhelmed bythe compulsion to throw my cell phone in there too. This, I think, is easier to understand, until I tell you that I'm not usually talking to anyone when this happens. Oh sometimes, you know, I'm hating the caller on the other end of the line and wishing I could throw them into the water/sludge pit. And even though I am one of those AT&T customers who overstate their level of satisfaction with our crappy iPhone service, it's not the connection, or lack thereof, that makes me want to throw it. I just don't want it anymore.

For about 30 seconds.

After that I'm giggling with relief that I didn't actually do it, and laughing at myself for having had the compulsion in the first place.

Go figure. If I were going to head-shrink myself (or let you head-shrink me) I might venture that I sometimes  long for a simpler, less connected, mileage-driven life.

But mostly I think it's a way of saying "screw it, I'm outtie." Something I can't and wouldn't and genuinely don't want to do, but is worth, nevertheless, 30 seconds of daydreaming every now and then.

You know you've had enough of your project when folding laundry becomes an appealing alternative. At least you know when you're done with laundry.

Oh who am I kidding? One is never done with laundry.

Email Fortune Telling (or how to procastinate for 2 more precious minutes)

I like to treat my spam email as a kind of fortune cookie or magic tea leaves. It's an easy game to play, just open up your spam folder and read the message headers (or senders) in order. Go with the flow and all will be revealed.

Behold, today's prediction. As you can see, it is a step by step instruction set that, if followed would soon see me divorced. Perhaps these tea leaves are yours?

I swear, all I did was crop the image. One doesn't change the order of the spam tea leaves lest you mess with the Order of the Universe.