OverThinker

Mama's Little Comedian

2011-03-04T15:23:00.004-06:00

As I dropped off Luca this morning, I reminded him to grab his Gogurt as he got out of the car.

He replied, quite seriously, "Mama, it's not Gogurt, it's yogurt."

Trying to make him smile I asked, "Are you sure? Maybe it's wo-gurt."

"No, Mama. That's only when I drop it."

Ba-dum-bum ching!

Eating dirt in the South

2010-10-28T14:28:00.004-05:00

I made edible grass last night using shredded coconut and green food coloring. It was for Paolo’s class project; they are studying soils. In a clear cup they are making dirt layers out of two kinds of chocolate pudding, Oreo cookie crumbs, brown sugar, including gummy worms and, of course, green grass on top.
Some days, I would like to trade jobs with my seven-year-old.

Summer Runs On and On

2010-07-01T12:58:00.000-05:00

You are belatedly on notice that school is out. Last summer this was a bad thing, as we socked Paolo away into a crappy daycare that closed halfway through the summer, and then begged our way into a decent summer program that he didn't enjoy because all the kids had made friends already, and I suspect he spent much of the day sitting in the corner, not to mention it was located allllllll the way across town, which took even longer to drive than it takes to read this sentence. This year things are going much better due to some better parental planning on our parts, and a better attitude on Paolo's part.

Speaking of Paolo's flaws (and I can admit he has flaws, even though Sam says I'm so protective of my children that if they killed someone, I'd help them hide the body, which is completely untrue, because they always find the body, so you have to make it look like an accident), he had a rough year with his first-grade teacher, due in part to his lack of focus. The other part of the year's difficulty was due to his teacher being a mean, old hag. What follows is an example of the efforts I made to impress upon Paolo the importance of concentrating:

Paolo, your teacher says you were not paying attention in class today. You didn't get your work done, and you had to make it up at recess.

[Deep sigh] Yeah.

Did you like doing work when all the other kids were playing?

No.

So next time your teacher tells you to do your work or you'll have to miss recess, you'll remember what that felt like, right?

[Pause] Um ... yeah.

Do you have any idea what I just said?

Yes!

....

No! [explodes with laughter] No, Mama, I have no idea what you just said.

Shortly thereafter, I gave up.

Apologies for the egregious run-on sentences today. I don't know what came over me, unless I'm always this way and don't even realize it. Maybe my endless droning is why Paolo has the attention span of a goldfish. Perhaps the poor kid shuts down out of self-preservation, because if he truly listened to every word I said, his frontal lobes would tie themselves into knots.

What happened to Italy?

2010-06-28T11:34:00.005-05:00

I've been hearing this a lot lately, and it's a fair question. Italy entered this World Cup as reigning champions and left it in the first round. So what happened to Italy? There is an army of balding men wearing fat ties and slick glasses in RAI studios right now (over)analyzing this very matter, but I will give you my opinion. Since you asked.

The coach was the wrong choice, and he didn’t select or field the right players. To further devastate matters, our best chances at holding it together in spite of the deficit - Buffon and Pirlo - were injured and unable to play all but a few minutes of the first three matches. On the field Italy were limp, lifeless; they played without organization or heart. Except for the dying minutes of the third game against Slovakia, when Pirlo controlled with his calm, unerring passes, Quagliarella exploded with his bloodlust for goal, and Italy came alive. That was actually the hardest part of the tournament to watch, even compared to the embarrassing tie with New Zealand (who doesn't even have a professional soccer league). I was a ball of emotions: furious that Italy had waited so long to turn it on, overjoyed to see them play with heart and fire, and miserable to know the effort was wasted. The hole they'd dug themselves was too deep to climb out of.

Of course I'm ashamed that my team didn't make it out of group play. It's gutting to fall so far so fast, especially when naysayers use it to gripe that Italy didn't really deserve to win in 2006. Still, I believe the story couldn't have ended any other way. This team was not going to win the World Cup again, and the loss only gets more painful as the team advances. I'm almost glad Italy put it to bed so quickly. As a fan, I prefer to know right from the start that there is no hope.

So now what? Now the fans of mighty Italy lick our wounds and we wait. We change our computer background from the World Cup trophy because it isn't ours anymore, and we watch the reconstruction of the Azzurri. We cheer and we grieve, we praise and we curse, we beg and we boast, we demand and we despair, and we wait for the fratelli d'Italia to rise again.

My Hero

2010-06-03T15:34:00.007-05:00

Picture it: Downtown Fayetteville, a hot Sunday afternoon. The kiddie race is about to start in the street at the annual Joe Martin Stage Race. The parking lot is roped off for vendor tents and the children’s play zone. My boys were not racing, as one is too young and one hates bikes, so they had the inflatable bounce house all to themselves. Paolo and Luca were hurling themselves around for all they were worth, while I watched at the entrance, cheering them on. Suddenly, I heard something odd: not a noise, but a LACK of noise. Before it dawned on me that the air blower hooked up to the four gigantic inflatables had cut out, the back columns of the bounce house collapsed. Paolo and Luca froze and stared at me in horror as the roof caved in on them. GET OUT, I yelled, BOYS, GET OUT, HURRY. Paolo was closer and managed to army-crawl his way to the entrance, but Luca was no match for the heavy canvas. I watched the tarp come down on him, covering his body until just his tiny hand was visible reaching out for rescue. I grabbed Paolo before he slipped out to safety. PAOLO, YOU’VE GOT TO GO BACK FOR YOUR BROTHER! With no hesitation, Paolo dived back in, grabbed Luca’s hand and pulled him free. I helped them both out onto the pavement, and we stood huddled together, staring in wonder at the puddle of canvas at our feet. A race coordinator sprinted over in full panic and asked, “Is there anyone in there?!” Hugging my boys tighter, I replied, “Not anymore.”

The rest of the day, that brush with disaster was top of Paolo’s mind. He didn’t brag about his own escape, but about how he had saved his brother. He was a hero now, actually, a superhero. If it hadn’t been for him, Luca would have been buried forever. "Just think," Paolo went on, "if I had never been born and Luca was your only son, he never would have gotten out." After assuring Paolo that his bravery was truly astonishing, I reminded him gently that I had been standing RIGHT THERE and would have helped Luca out if we’d been alone. And yet, I know how siblings work. Ten years from now, Paolo will probably still be reminding Luca, “You know, if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even be here.”

Six Flags Over Crazy

2010-04-14T22:43:00.010-05:00

As I wrote yesterday, I actually enjoy Texas drivers. Texans drive fast, really fast, no matter how many cars are clogging the roads. When you combine dense traffic, breakneck speed and an out-of-towner driving a less-than-nimble minivan, the very last thing I need to deal with is stupid street names. To get to my hotel, I take Six Flags Drive to Road to Six Flags Street. No, wait. Road to Six Flags then Six Flags, right? Maybe. These roads border the Six Flags over Texas park on two sides, but then one shoots off West and one goes South, so you really don't want to get them mixed up. Thankfully, Six Flags itself is a brilliant landmark.

Another orienting landmark is the International Bowling Museum and Hall of Fame's monumental bowling pin with rotating stripes. If I had not screwed up each and every time I have left the hotel, I would never have known there was such an institution. As luck would have it, I've passed it three times. I confess to feeling a bit like Clark Griswold as I take wrong turn after wrong turn only to be confronted yet again by skyscraping roller coasters. Look kids! Six Flags! International Bowling Museum!

In the same general where-is-the-damn-hotel locale are two enormous stadiums. Perchance there are some important sporting teams in the area? If you are coming in for a game, enjoy guessing whether you want Exit 28B / Ballpark in Arlington or Exit 29 / Ballpark Way. Also, be warned that while Ballpark Way will get you to Rangers Ballpark, Stadium Drive does not actually go to Cowboys Stadium.

Bulletproof

2010-04-13T21:15:00.008-05:00

I'm sitting in a hotel room in Arlington, Texas, by a window overlooking a closed amusement park. It took six hours to drive here today, and at the last minute, I veered from my directions skirting Dallas and instead drove right through its heart. Dallas is notorious for its heavy, mad traffic and jumbled, confusing exchanges, and I wanted to prove I could still handle it. I never used to blink at racing along in fast traffic on major city roads, and I wanted to feel like the person I was before I got so damn old and responsible and soft. Keeping pace with the high speeds, navigating fearlessly, slipping into the groove of the commuter rush: it was euphoric.

That was my life almost ten years ago, tearing down the highways around the Bay Area, free, bold, answering to no one. The person I was then didn't make meal plans and to-do lists. She had all the time in the world, and her choice of how to spend it.

Just as I was reveling in my invincibility, a song came on the radio that made me miss my boys. It wasn't a sweet, childish song, of course; they have their dad to inform their musical taste. It was Bulletproof by La Roux. Paolo knows every word, knows the song well enough to make up alternate goofy lyrics, and Luca belts out the chorus. Bulletproof, hah! At this point in my life, I couldn't be more vulnerable. I no longer exist in exclusivity; my husband and children are part of me. I am saddled with demands, stretched thin, and chained tight, because I am loved. I do not long for the days when no one waited to hear I had arrived safely.

When I'm away from home, sitting in an empty hotel room, she's so close to me, the person I was. Sometimes I like to check in with her, to step back into the stream of a faster, more reckless life, to feel young and unencumbered, but these are moments of nostalgia, not regret. Living without a net or an anchor is no way to spend your whole life, and I knew that ten years ago with the sunroof open, music screaming, going 80 down the highway.

Book Recommendations: Novels of the Romantic Poets and the Bronte Sisters

2010-02-25T13:31:00.009-06:00

The last two books I read were really enjoyable, both historical fiction accounts of famous authors.

I first suspected Jude Morgan's Passion: A Novel of the Romatic Poets would be silly, poorly written or melodramatic - probably all three. The cover does not inspire confidence. I was pleasantly surprised to find such a strong, well researched novel, with vivid characters and amazing storytelling. If you have any interest in Percy Bysshe Shelly, John Keats or Lord Byron, here is a novel about the women who loved them.

Following close on Passion's historical heels is Emily's Ghost: A Novel of the Bronte Sisters, by Denise Giardina. While I had a hard time liking the characters, I appreciated that the author was not trying to make me like them. I also enjoyed the introduction by Giardina of subplots I did not anticipate, such as mill worker rebellion. I can't really say how much of a behind-the-Bronte-novels peek this is. I would have to read biographies of the Brontes in order to know what is real and imagined. I half don't want to know because Emily's love story ends tragically, as it must.

What I found most remarkable about both novels is how they moved me. Knowing beforehand that these creative, poetic lives were snuffed out too soon did not save me from being devastated when it took place in the novels. I could not help wishing it would turn out some other way.

Between these two books, I lost count of the characters who died of consumption. I read most of Emily's Ghost in the middle of the night while sitting up with Luca. His four-week-old cold has moved down to his chest, making him cough and wheeze like a consumptive. It was disconcerting to hear his rattling lungs while reading of Emily's and Ann's deaths from consumption and no surprise I could not find sleep even after finishing the book and turning off the nightlight.

Greater or Less than Hungry Crocodiles

2010-01-25T12:43:00.008-06:00

Sam ran upstairs where I was folding laundry to ask me the trick for remembering the greater-than and less-than arrows. When the arrow looks like an L that means less than, I told him. He only knows the crocodile trick, whatever that is, so he asked me to help Paolo with his homework. I joined Paolo at the table and casually glanced at the directions at the top of the worksheet. They used the crocodile trick, too, so I began my explanation: The crocodile's open mouth always faces the smaller number. It's a great, big, mean crocodile, and he's going to chomp the puny little number. Got it? We worked down half the page before I noticed something was awry. The L-arrows weren't indicating what they should. What the...?

Now, you math geniuses were probably groaning several sentences ago, but I am not one of you. I am of the species Liberalus Articus, and my kind do not understand your strange symbols. My people study dead things and words. So. I re-read the directions and, sure enough, the crocodile chomps the bigger number. Fine, have it your stupid way. Completely mortified, I had to reverse my prior explanation to my trusting child and have him redo the worksheet. Never mind what I just said, I told Paolo, the crocodile isn't mean, really, just hungry, so it's going to chomp the bigger number. If you were really hungry, would you eat two cookies or twelve cookies?

Once homework was done, I lashed out at Sam for putting me in charge of math, when he knew I didn't know the crocodile thing, and he did, and now Paolo is probably totally confused and won't get into college, because these are the types of building blocks an entire education is built on, and I've blown it. He was not surprised at all by my fervor and retaliated by reminding me that he came to get me because he knew his grasp on the subject matter was shaky, and I seemed very sure of myself, and this is what happens to children with two Liberal Arts-educated parents, so we should have known the day was coming when we couldn't help with math and science studies.

Yes, but I didn't expect the day to come while our child is in first grade.

Mad Love

2010-01-12T12:32:00.004-06:00

Love is...

Not being offended when the 2010 World Cup commercial comes on, and I shush you, turn to the TV and raise my arms in victory at the clips of the Italian team celebrating after the 2006 final.

Mad Love is...

Knowing I will have the same reaction every day until June, but never changing the channel or rolling your eyes.

Revenge is a dish best served asleep.

2009-12-29T09:41:00.004-06:00

Creeping around the house in the dark of the early morning, moving silently, until - BANG - catching a doorknob with my hipbone. Let's start over. Limping around the house in the dark of the early morning, cursing softly, trying not to disturb my slumbering family.

I'm so tired. At 4:00 this morning Luca kicked me awake before waking himself, sobbing for his daddy, just like he did when he was falling asleep seven hours ago. I attribute this to a little incident earlier in the evening, wherein Luca grabbed two fistfuls of Sam's beard and yanked. Sam's bloodcurdling howl of pain scared Luca half to death and probably made him think his daddy would never love him again.

Sam took Luca into another room, and I was just settling down to sleep, when Paolo decided to have a serious conversation with me - despite being unconscious. His babbling gave way to snoring just as Luca returned and climbed back into bed. After adjusting once more to the knees, skulls and elbows pressing into me on both sides, sleep was creeping in like fog when my alarm went off.

As I tiptoed around it occurred to me, slowly, like the throbbing in my hip, WHY THE HELL AM I TRYING SO HARD NOT TO WAKE THESE PEOPLE UP?

The Eve of Christmas Eve

2009-12-23T13:08:00.009-06:00

It can be a little lonely spending Christmas without extended family, but we decided to stay home for the holidays this year and do it up right. It has been a month-long celebration of craft projects, holiday music, parades, Christmas lights, and at least a gallon of egg nog. Paolo picked out a beautiful tree, and Luca has left most of the ornaments alone. This is a big improvement over last year, when we just accepted that the bottom three feet of the tree would be bare. There have been a couple of decor casualties, like when Luca was mouthing an ornament and hooked himself like a fish, or when he shattered a glass ball on the tree by riding a car into it.

There have also been some amazing moments of family harmony. Every morning Paolo opens a new door on the Christmas Countdown Calendar to get the small square of chocolate inside, and every morning he breaks it in half and gives a piece to Luca. Paolo also makes sure, when rummaging through the giant container of cookies sent by Grandma, to select cookies with a chocolate kiss in the center for himself and his brother, and a plain cookie for me. If I weren't absolutely swimming in chocolates and cookies (and peppermint bark, and sugar-coated nuts, and coffee cakes) at work, I might feel slighted. There's something deeply warming about seeing two people you love so much love each other.

I don't have to work tomorrow, and my Christmas Eve to-do list makes me giddy: Play with the boys, pick up a freshly baked pannetone, make hot chocolate, wrap presents, and bake cookies for Santa. Mopping and laundry can just damn well wait until the 26th. If the weather reports are correct, we may even wake up to a white Christmas. If that's not enough to put stars in your eyes, I don't know what is.

Happy holidays.

Thursday Overthink: FIFA World Cup 2010

2009-12-03T13:58:00.010-06:00

Friends, the next World Cup is nearly upon us. The games don't start until next summer, but the draw to determine the groups is TOMORROW. In case you were thinking of calling me for a chat Friday night, don't. I have mixed feelings about the tournament: I am excited of course - who doesn't love a good World Cup? - but loathe to lose my crown. I have no expectation of Italy winning again. Does this make me a bad fan? Winning two times in a row is a lot to ask, and I'm not greedy. But does that mean that I will watch without my heart in my mouth? I wonder if an Italian loss could ever hurt less than Tiger Woods coming home to a scorned wife at 2AM.

In World Cup news:

Wal-Mart is going to put special shops promoting the World Cup inside its stores. No details have been provided, unless "unique opportunity for us to leverage our global scale" means anything to you.

FIFA and Sony have signed a deal to broadcast match highlights in 3D, and they are discussing doing the same with live matches.

I don't understand this whole 3D movement in film and now TV. Do people still have to wear those red and blue glasses? If so, those better be stocked at Wal-Mart's World Cup Shop right next to the FIFA branded floor pillows I will need to cushion my head when I faint after watching Cannavaro slide-tackle in 3D.

Don't loose the goose.

2009-11-27T17:55:00.007-06:00

We are in Omaha for Thanksgiving, which means Sam and I are doing some serious shopping. Most girls prefer shopping alone or with girlfriends, but I always make the best purchases with my husband. I don't know how he does it, but Sam can pick out a pair of shoes from 20 yards away that, once I've tried on, I can't live without.

One of our requisite stops in Omaha is Whole Foods, one of many stores that we don't have in Fayetteville. The wine and cheese section was packed with shoppers gleefully downing free samples, and we eagerly joined in. One of the platters held "goose mousse" on a wee cracker. I have never had goose pate, but it has been on my list of things to eat if ever faced with the opportunity. I handed a cracker to to Sam and we popped it in right after the Manchego.

I offer the following taste experience as a public service announcement, in case any of you are thinking about classing up a holiday party with some pureed fowl. Imagine, if you will, a whole, unwashed goose - feathers, poop, and all - put into a blender, chilled, and spread on a triscuit. It was a real effort to get it down, and as I searched desperately for a complimentary swish of Beajoulais, Sam's pained gaze met mine. "What do you think?," he asked. "About the goose?," I replied. "I really wish that hadn't happened."

Fully and Unmistakably Two

2009-10-31T13:41:00.004-05:00

As we pulled into the garage one sunny and warm Fall evening, Luca asked for bubbles. We had been trapped inside for what felt like weeks due to cold, rainy weather, and soon the days would be shorter, leaving no post-work opportunities to play outside. I grabbed the bubbles, Paolo grabbed his new spring-action, light-up, humming genuine Anakin Skywalker light saber, and Luca grabbed an empty bleach bottle from the trash. He casually sauntered out of the garage with his mouth around the open top. I tried to scream, but the tongue I'd just swallowed blocked the sound. I checked his skin for burns and his breath for the smell of bleach, but fortunately, the bottle had been bone dry.

I stowed the bleach bottle in the rafters of the garage and walked back outside to see Luca with a terra cotta pot raised above his head, just before smashing it into another pot. I steered him away from that game, as well, and returned to blowing bubbles for Paolo. Luca then attempted to perforate himself with a steel tomato cage, concuss himself with a heavy shovel, before flipping open the outdoor electrical outlets. Please note that our garage is lined with toys: bikes, balls, buckets, tennis rackets, dump trucks, none of which are even remotely interesting to a two-year-old.

Finally, Luca climbed into my car and began twiddling knobs and flipping light switches. Now the car is generally off-limits, but damn it, he couldn't kill himself in there. So I left well enough alone, and he honked and flashed and steered merrily in what I had decided was the safe, nonthreatening cocoon of my car. Bubble-time ended (it's actually really hard to pop bubbles with a light saber), and Paolo and I headed back into the garage. Luca opened the car door when he saw his brother, and Paolo walked over to help him climb out. As I returned the bubbles to the shelf above the washer, I heard a slam followed by a scream.

I turned in horror to see Paolo's thumb stuck in the car door. By the grace of all that is good in the universe, only the tip of Paolo's thumb was smashed. No broken bones, no blood, just a whole lot of screaming and a black fingernail that is probably not long for this world. In case you're wondering what Luca was doing while I released Paolo's hand and ascertained whether we'd be headed for the ER, he was laughing and ejecting CDs from the car stereo.

That's what I'm dealing with these days. My dad thought I was joking on the phone the other night when I admonished Luca to get out of the microwave. Folks, I have a two-year-old. It's like being at war, with an enemy who doesn't speak your language or respect the rules of combat, who is so irrational, his next move cannot be anticipated but is certain to leave you slackjawed.

There is no such thing as a free lunch.

2009-10-12T11:31:00.004-05:00

My office is an ugly business park, but occasional tenant perks include sample sales and lunch events featuring free food. Last week my co-worker and I headed over to O.P.M. Financial for a cookout. When we saw the sad little tent and two attendees, we should have kept driving, but our hunger and poverty parked the car.

As we sat down to enjoy our charred hot dogs and lukewarm sodas, the host of the gala, Topp Dahler, sat down at our card table to discuss our money management needs. It was an awkward conversation, seeing that I was in zero need of his services. Less than zero. The only way I might hit a windfall (not already earmarked for daycare tuition) was if I had the closest guess to win the cash on the money tree, and, looking around at the empty folding chairs, those odds had to be pretty good. The “money tree” was a small, potted rubber plant with dollar bills paper-clipped to the leaves. To increase the difficulty, you also had to include the spare change sitting in a coffee cup in your total. Yes, I said spare change in a coffee cup, which Topp freely admitted he had cobbled together from various places like his desk drawer, couch, pants pockets, car, etc. Yikes.

Since wealth, as a topic, wasn’t getting us far, we got an uncomfortable glimpse into Topp’s personal life. That Topp’s a good guy, but he should have known that anyone who stopped by to score a free hot dog was not sitting on a pile of money going unmanaged. My co-worker and I ate quickly and grabbed a cookie for the road, agreeing that the free lunch was not worth the painful small talk. Since we had written our money tree guesses on our business cards, I expected to hear from Topp again.

Several days later, O.P.M. Financial popped up on my Caller ID, and I let it go right to voice mail. I was headed out to work off-site, so I gathered up the supplies I’d need and went to tell the department assistant where I would be. I grabbed a handful of gumdrops from her candy dish and popped a couple in my mouth as I headed back to my desk. For kicks, I thought I’d play my voice mail message to see if I’d won the money tree. I tossed a third gumdrop into my mouth as I double-clicked on the log showing the call. “O.P.M. Financial, this is Topp.” My mind began racing:

That’s a strange message…ohhhhhhh nnnnoooooo. When will I get this stupid call tracking software right? I just CALLED him BACK! Well, that’s it, I’m stuck. He has Caller ID, too. He knows it’s me. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I have to talk to him now. Wait, can’t speak, mouth too full of gumdrops. Sticky, gummy, gumdrops. What do I do now? HOW LONG HAS THIS SILENCE GONE ON?

Friends, the best solution I came up with was to slooooowly and silently replace the receiver and then burn with the shame of what I had done: I crank-called a well-meaning wealth advisor, subjected him to the sound of panicked gumdrop mastication for who knows how long, before hanging up on him.

It's About Tradition

2009-08-11T10:27:00.006-05:00

On Saturday we went to Tontitown for the 111th Annual Grape Festival. Tontitown is a little community about 12 miles northwest of Fayetteville that was settled by Italian immigrants in the early 1900s. When I first moved to Fayetteville, everyone I met asked me if I was from Tontitown. I learned quickly that Italian last names are rare here, unless you’re a descendant of a Tontitown settler. Tontitown is very proud of its heritage and strives to keep its traditions alive, through annual events such as the fall Polenta Smear and the summer Grape Festival .

As with all local fairs, the Grape Festival features a midway of sketchy rides, a visual feast of mullets, a section of arts and crafts tents selling Confederate flag bikinis, and a string of overpriced junk food vendors. Paolo nearly broke my heart when he opted for a corn dog instead of the wildly popular spaghetti dinner, but that’s his father in him. Throughout his boyhood, Sam didn’t miss a Missouri state fair, and the smell of carnie sweat and corn dogs (to be eaten on the fourth day of the fair, never earlier, allowing the grease enough time to reach the right level of putrid) always puts a certain twinkle in his eye.

We ate over in the park so the boys could play on the multitude of playground equipment. There are half a dozen different play areas in the park, with lots of old-school gear not found in parks anymore. As we spun on the merry-go-round, I shared my story of how I got my worst scar from a merry-go-round on my elementary school playground. I was pushing it around and didn’t clear the edge when I jumped on, which left me with a two-inch long scar on my left shin. The next play area over, I described how I was nearly crippled as a child when a mean see-saw partner slid off the back of the seat, leaving me to plummet to the ground, crushing my feet under the seat. I can still feel the shock of that pain traveling like lightning from my ankles to my waist. It occurred to me there is a reason those particular playground artifacts are not in use anymore.

After last year’s Grape Festival, I decided to inquire about volunteering at the local museum because I admired the community and really missed having a museum, no matter how small, in my life. I now serve on the Board of Directors and have befriended all those wonderful people whose last names end in vowels. They believe I have a lot to offer their small museum, and I am hopeful that I can prove them right.

As we drove home, faces and fingers sticky with grape ice cream, I reflected upon past Grape Festivals we’ve attended, with Paolo growing from a toddler to a schoolboy, and Gianluca, first just a bump (of freakish proportions, due to arrive a week later), and now nearly ready for the rides. I pictured our family coming back to Tontitown year after year to enjoy their tradition, and to make it our own. I can honestly say that being a small part of this kind and welcoming Italian-American community makes it even easier to embrace a long, long stay in Northwest Arkansas.

My love is like a green, green pickle.

2009-07-24T16:50:00.006-05:00

Today marks the end of the first week at new daycares for both boys. Two weeks ago, their daycare shut down suddenly for financial reasons. This is the third daycare that has closed on us since we started depending on childcare services. I am the daycare widowmaker. To avoid boring you with the suffocating panic I felt the Friday afternoon we got the news, knowing I had no place to take my children the following week, I will simply say, it was not fun. Team Family pulled through, however, and after a week of Daddy Daycare with a few Take-Your-Kids-to-Work days sprinkled in, we found good situations for each of them. I have spent this first week nibbling my fingernails up to my elbows, but as it turns out, Paolo’s best friend from Kindergarten attends his summer camp, and Luca has not eaten anyone.

Sam has been watching the Tour de France for the last thirty-six days. Apparently, during the Tour, five extra hours are added to each day in order to provide twenty-nine solid hours of daily Tour coverage. Phil Liggett and Bob Roll narrate my dreams. Paolo is nearly as rabid as his father. He gets a kick out of the elevation maps and enjoys showing me easy days vs. hard days based on the category and frequency of climbs. I will discuss this further in the divorce paperwork.

Luca has developed his own language, and it is fascinating to me how it differs from Paolo’s verbal development. Paolo was all about animals and animal sounds at this age. Looking back, it wasn’t terribly useful for the purposes of communication, except maybe in a barnyard. Luca knows how to ask for things he wants, specifically, food. Even more specifically, ice and pickles. There is no disappointment, no meltdown, no rage that cannot be cured and calmed by offering Luca ice or pickles.

Linguistic quirks of note:

1. Anything liquid is “juice” (juice in a cup, juice from the garden hose, juice falling from the sky, juice in the toilet bowl).

2. Paolo is Fuh-Fuh. I had been dying to know what Luca would call his brother, just desperate to hear him call for his brother with his sweet baby voice. Paolo called himself Ba-doh before he could pronounce his name, so I figured it would be close to that. Instead, Luca chose Fuh-Fuh. Where did that come from? Is it an approximation of “brother”? I wanted cute, and this is not cute. It’s weird. What the fuh?

Home Sweet GONE

2009-07-02T12:33:00.005-05:00

My new career is really eating into my blogging-at-work time. I'll have to bring that up at the next staff meeting. I have things to say, cute stories to tell, gripes to vent, but I have no time at a computer to bang them out. If there were some sort of technology available that would type up a post AS I WAS THINKING IT, I'd be golden.

So here I am typing furiously when I should be packing up the family to drive to Omaha tonight. In a minute, in a minute! Yesterday, I found out about a house for sale the next street up from us. It was the right size, the right location, and saints be praised, the right price. Yeah, that lasted about 5 minutes before it had three offers and was ultimately sold in a day. We never had a chance. Apparently, a sincere homebuyer should have something called "pre-approval" for a mort-gauge, more-gorge, something like that. We have no such thing or any idea how to get one. Obviously.

We're stubbornly committed to living in this neighborhood, arguably the most desirable area in town. I don't know who would argue about it. I know I wouldn't. At first I was crushed because we've been waiting (and may yet wait) years for an opportunity like this. But to look on the bright side, I learned a lot from the experience, like the need to be prepared to pounce. When a chance like this comes again, I don't want to lose out because I didn't do some groundwork.

There is nothing stopping me except ignorance, so I am trying to remedy that. So far I've figured out that I need this pre-approvity for a home lawn thing. I am told it's important. Next I need a Real-tar. Fake tar is not as good, I'm guessing. I should have this all figured out very quickly.

And that stupid house up the block that sold before I could dial the phone? It is steps away from our local city green space, our lovely green hill where the boys spend untold hours running, playing, hunting Easter eggs, sledding, and flying kites. Not that I care. Who wants to live that close to a park, anyway? The sound of children's laughter is SO annoying.

Graduation Day

2009-06-04T12:44:00.009-05:00

Today is Paolo's last day of Kindergarten. Yeah, on a Thursday. That's not very helpful to working parents. As usual, Sam and I will split Friday hours with me taking the afternoon shift. Since I'll take a half-day off this week, I couldn't take off Tuesday morning to ATTEND PAOLO'S GRADUATION. Minor event, right? Actually, it was a very casual non-cap-and-gown affair, so my heart only splintered into 42,000 pieces.

When I got home Tuesday night, my darling husband plugged our videocamera into the TV to show me the footage he was able to get while sitting in a miniature chair and holding a squirming todder. I watched several short clips of the kids getting their diplomas while the teacher read what each child wants to be when he/she grows up.

Then it was time for the slideshow. My jaw dropped when I saw the video length in the corner of the screen: over 11 minutes. Sam had recorded the entire show. As pictures of the class began cycling, I got all choked up. It wasn't the toothless grins that did me in; it was the understanding that my husband had gone to such trouble to make me feel like I hadn't missed anything. He knew, without any conversation, how much it killed me to miss this milestone and, as usual, he knew how to make it better.

Less than two minutes into the slideshow, Luca picked up the videocamera and deleted the video. Irretrievably. A little piece of Sam's soul died, along with the last vestige of hope I had that Luca will end up anywhere other than jail.

Speaking of life prospects, would you like to know what Paolo wants to be when he grows up? A dad. Barring that, a helicopter driver. I told him I can't vouch for which would be more exciting, but I know which is more important.

Missing them already

2009-05-25T19:57:00.003-05:00

I am leaving tomorrow for a business trip that will take me out of state for the next four days. This will be the first time I have been gone from Luca and only the second time away from Paolo. Sam's parents are traveling here to help out in my absence because they are kind, but also because Sam and I have not told them that their grandsons have turned to the dark side.

Paolo is a good kind of crazy: gymnastic, imaginative, a voracious reader and an unstoppable talker. In all seriousness, if his very life depended on his silence, he would not reach age seven. Much of what he says is funny and interesting, but the boy has no internal filter. Whatever he is thinking comes right out. He wonders aloud about approaching activities, toy acquisitions, or snacks again and again, despite having full information. Still, he is hands-down my favorite son right now.

Luca has the devil in him. He is on the verge of getting kicked out of daycare for biting other children. My son is a biter. I fought the label until I saw the little Damien in action. He has been biting the bejesus out of his own brother. Apart from the biting, he is generally batshit crazy, which is not a good crazy. Like his older brother, he climbs on tables, leaps off couches and tears around the house at blinding speed. But, oh, he can be sweet. When he pats my face wearing an angelic smile, I am convinced he is too cute to be human. Then the wooden toy he is holding in his other hand connects with my skull, and I remember that he is, in fact, not human at all.

And yet, I am already missing my little lunatics. I am also already feeling very, very sorry for their grandparents. I had better put away this sadness and enjoy my time apart because, after four motherless days with Crazy 1 and Crazy 2, I will never be allowed to leave again.

Orientation: Getting to Know Me

2009-05-19T08:52:00.005-05:00

New Co-Worker: I've been married to my wonderful husband for twelve years, and he has given me two terrific kids.

Me: My husband didn't give me my children. I'm pretty sure I earned them.

Thursday OverThink #7, courtesy of Floyd Landis

2009-04-30T16:14:00.010-05:00

The 32nd Joe Martin Stage Race is nearly upon us. For you non-locals, it’s a professional cycling event held right here in Fayetteville; look for it May 7-10. Some cycling enthusiasts are all aflutter over the news that Floyd Landis will be here to participate in the upcoming event.

In this news story, the race director claims that Landis is, next to the vaunted Lance Armstrong, the most well known American cyclist. I argue that distinction should go to George Hincapie. Not only is he an amazing athlete, he is a strangely cool guy. Hincapie married a Podium Girl,* launched his own sportswear line, and lives in South Carolina where he's building a "professional training village" for cyclists. Talk about living the dream. By contrast, Landis has been off the scene for years, what with that whole getting banned from professional cycling for doping thing.

I guess you could say Landis is more memorable. He was a soft-cell feature story: a former Mennonite who bucked family and religion to follow his dream of cycling and won the biggest bike race in the world. Until the routine blood-test results came back. After being found guilty of doping, even after appeal, stripped of his 2006 Tour de France title, fired from his cycling team, divorced, and banned from professional cycling through January 2009, Landis is back. He will be racing in Fayetteville as a member of Team OUCH. How appropriate.

I don’t wonder at his gall in returning to professional cycling. The dude has staggering mortgages and legal fees to pay. Apart from those electric Amish fireplaces, I don’t know what else Mr. Landis is qualified to do. However, I disagree with celebrating a cheater coming to town.

*Podium Girls are the hot chicks who pose with and smooch the race winners post-event and hand out the prizes.

Things that are good this morning

2009-04-30T08:51:00.000-05:00

Freshly sliced mango for breakfast

Brand new windshield wipers in a Spring rain

Just-woken toddler stumbling to me, heavy-lidded, for a hug

Northwest Arkansas Crime Report, April 1, 2009

2009-04-16T13:38:00.002-05:00

The newspaper website has done something screwy with my local Police Calls. I still haven’t figured out where they are now, but I found some real treasures in the Benton County Daily Record, which is the county north of mine. Read on and you’ll agree that these will do in a pinch.

Bella Vista incidents

· At 5:58 a.m. Friday, the Benton County Sheriff's Office requested help finding two donkeys just outside the city limits near the Boys and Girls Club on Arkansas Highway 279.

· At 8:24 p.m. Friday, a woman on Enfield Drive was reported missing, and her name was entered into the National Crime Information Center's missing-persons database. She was found a few hours later in Rogers.

· At 2:50 a.m. Saturday, a woman reported that her brother was causing problems. He had been drinking and smoking pot. He left before the police arrived.

· At 5:15 a.m. Saturday, a suspicious man wearing heavy clothing was reported going in and out of the restroom on Blowing Springs Road.

· At 11:51 a.m. Sunday, a caller on Kingsland and Lambeth Drive said it looked as though two men in a pickup truck were trying to steal a trailer carrying fiber-optic cable. Everything was OK; the men worked there.

· At 12:05 p.m. Sunday, a woman called to report that her sister wouldn't leave the house.

· At 12:34 p.m. Sunday, a woman reported that her husband was at her house and wouldn't leave.

· At 12:01 a.m. Monday, someone at Mercy Medical Center in Rogers called to report giving a patient morphine and telling him not to drive, but the patient left anyway and was heading north on U.S. Highway 71.

· At 1:35 p.m. Monday, a caller reported receiving a note from a stranger who claimed the caller damaged a vehicle in a parking lot at 1801 Forest Hills Blvd.

· At 2:40 p.m. Monday, a caller on Littrell Drive reported finding a syringe and a substance in a used car he had just purchased.

· At 6:57 p.m. Monday, a verbal argument was reported between a man on Evesham Lane and his neighbor. The man said the neighbor's son pulled a BB gun and pointed it at him. An officer reported the son's weapon was a Nerf-type gun.

Farewell, cruel legal world

2009-04-16T13:05:00.000-05:00

It's official. I've accepted a job elsewhere, and it is not a law firm. In fact, it is in the art world. Let me tell you how good it feels to leave the legal world after ten years. It feels hot-chocolate-with-marshmallows, foot-rub-with-lotion, freshly-bathed-baby-neck good.

I took a job as a legal secretary to put myself through my Master's program in California. And then I moved to Arkansas, where the opportunity to use my degree was nonexistent. I fell back on law firms, and it chafed because I knew I was just as educated and intelligent as the people I supported. More often than you want to know if you've ever paid an attorney's fees, I was much smarter and more capable. I believed my time in the South was temporary, but then life happened, kids happened, and this town felt more and more like home. Bad news for the career I wanted, the chance I never had.

Then one day the mountain came to Mohammed. An amazing institution, destined to be world class, is under construction about 30 miles north of here. And I've just been hired to work there. Maybe you enjoy your job; I hope you do. Maybe it fulfills you and makes you proud to contribute to a greater good. I don't know what that's like, but I'm about to find out how it feels to make a living doing work that matters to me.

My last day at the firm is tomorrow, and I'm trying to act like I'll miss the place although, in truth, I will not. I hold no illusions that my new job will be anything but another reincarnation of Office Space. However, my new eight bosses will not be lawyers, and that is a significant improvement.

Ictalurus punctatus

2009-04-01T14:56:00.006-05:00

Sam did the grocery shopping on Monday, and I asked him to pick up some pollock at the seafood market so I could make fish sticks for the boys. On the drive home he was suspiciously reticent about his purchase until he finally admitted the store had been out of pollock. "That's okay, so you got haddock?" "Mmm, no." "Cod then?" "Well, no." He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye like he fully expected what he revealed next to have me throwing my wedding ring at his head. "I got catfish." "You. Got. WHAT?" Sam went on to explain the unauthorized substitution, toggling between apologetic and defiant. He knows I won’t eat that nasty, bottom-feeding river dog. I grew up in South Florida, and people who live there DO NOT EAT CATFISH. It’s like offering Spam to Nebraskans. Yes, it’s a regional prejudice, but I have actually tasted catfish, and it tastes like dirt.

I have another reason not to like catfish. After the birth of our first son, with whom I labored eighteen hours, Sam went out to a fantastic Cajun restaurant for a celebratory dinner with his parents and my mother. Me, I was stuck in the hospital, with a tar-pooping newborn, eating cafeteria food. After their two-hour feast, Sam brought me a doggie bag from the restaurant, consisting of cold fries and chicken fingers. After downing a couple of bites of really strange-tasting chicken, Sam confessed it wasn’t chicken at all, it was CATFISH! HA-HA-HA! See how good it is? No, in fact, I did not. Some women get expensive jewelry after giving birth. I got leftover deep-fried catfish in a greasy bag.

And last night, thanks to my husband, I got to touch it and feed it to my children. I actually feel guilty that I fed that swimming sewage to my sons. Proving how much he takes after Sam, Gianluca inhaled his fish sticks without noticing a thing. Paolo, who takes after me, choked down two pieces and asked if he could be done with his fish sticks because, for some reason, they just weren’t very good tonight. My precious boy.

Eat me. Mmmm.

Three is old enough for a butt-whipping.

2009-03-13T15:09:00.003-05:00

Me: Luca had a rough afternoon. His teacher said another kid pushed him down twice on his bad knee, and he won’t walk like he was this morning because his knee hurts.

Paolo: Oh yeah? When that kid gets older, like three, I’m gonna punch him!

Me: Paolo, I am so proud of you for wanting to protect your little brother. I am also happy that you know it would be wrong to rough up a little guy. Even though you’re mad at Luca’s classmate for hurting him, hitting is never the answer. Tripping is so much easier to get away with.

Failing my children in new and exciting ways

2009-03-13T13:59:00.007-05:00

I have not had a particularly strong week as a parent. At the park on Sunday, I sat Luca on my lap to go down a slide, and his foot caught and twisted up behind him. He didn't cry much when it happened, and it wasn't until after his nap and late lunch that I realized he couldn't walk. Sam was on a bike ride, so I left a note saying I'd taken Luca to the Emergency Room because something was wrong with his leg. Due to the brevity of my message, Sam showed up an hour later looking ten years older. In my mind, the note clearly referred to the slide incident, which I had not stopped thinking about since it happened. See, it's actually a common accident in which a kid sitting on his mom's lap gets his foot wedged between her and the slide and breaks a leg. I kept obsessing because I KNOW better, and I HAD made sure that Luca's legs were on top of mine when we started. However, in Sam's mind, Luca had contracted flesh-eating bacteria and was facing amputation.

Luckily, the X-ray showed no fracture, so we were sent home with a diagnosis of sprained knee. Luca adapted pretty well: he reverted to crawling for a couple days and is now walking again with just a little hitch in his giddy-up.

The injury done to Paolo this morning was emotional, but no less painful, according to my hypercritical, I mean helpful, husband. Paolo realized in the car when we'd just about reached school that he was still wearing his pajama bottoms. Instantly I remembered that he'd joined me in the bathroom half-dressed to use the potty, and then we'd brushed teeth together and gone downstairs. He'd never returned to his room to change his bottom half and, hence, still had on Batman pj bottoms. I tried to laugh about with him, but he was really upset. I made a snap decision to get him to school on time and bring his pants later. Even though no one would EVER guess his solid black pants were pajama bottoms, Paolo was mortified, and I had to push him into his classroom, promising to be right back.

When I explained to Sam why I was dashing in and out of the house with a pair of pants, he pinpointed that moment - the moment I heartlessly shoved our son into a mocking classroom - as what was sure to become Paolo's first memory, one of utter humiliation. What I SHOULD have done, according to Paolo's father and Paolo's teacher, was come back home, let Paolo finish dressing, and be late to school.

You know you haven't had your best week when the highlight is that you didn't break your kid's leg.

Breastfeeding Backlash

2009-03-12T14:14:00.003-05:00

My husband set me up with a slew of crap to read and view on my lunch break about all this unreasonable pressure on women to breastfeed their babies, not to mention the guilt they are made to feel for choosing formula over breastmilk. I mean, gah, it’s so unfair!

Shut up. Shut the hell up. Why are doctors and scientists and mothers trying to rationalize breastfeeding? Why does the debate continue to rage? It couldn’t be simpler. You carry a baby for nine months, you give birth to said baby, YOUR RESPONSIBILITY TO THAT BABY DOES NOT END THERE. If it did, your boobs wouldn’t fill up with milk three days later.

We don’t need to understand breastmilk on a molecular level or to conduct long-term studies of breastfed vs. formula-fed children to decide what the best food is for a baby. Common sense tells us that a mother’s body, which has been nurturing and growing a baby during gestation, will produce the perfect food on which her baby will thrive. Her body knows more than a crapshoot of chemicals in a can. True, a formula-exclusive diet will not kill a baby…anymore…unless you live in China…but it’s not the best diet. It says so right on the can of formula.

Of course there are circumstances in which mothers are unable to feed their infants, and they have every right be pissed at getting the stink-eye from strangers for whipping out a bottle of formula. Let me be clear: it is the unwilling, not the unable, who rub me the wrong way. Women who are unwilling to breastfeed argue that breastfeeding is awkward, weird, inconvenient, painful, shape-altering, and difficult to continue while working. Yes, it is all of those things. It is also many wonderful things, but I won’t enumerate them because, apparently, that propaganda keeps getting shoved down our throats.

Breastfeeding isn't a trend; it's the next fundamental step after giving birth. A mother who chooses not to bother for only selfish reasons is shirking her duty. And her complaints of being made to feel guilty for putting formula on her baby shower registry? Well, maybe she should feel guilty. I can’t say this enough: If you are going to have a baby, HAVE a baby. Otherwise, what’s the point? You will have sore nipples, you will be sleep-deprived, you will get peed on. It is all part of having a baby, YOUR baby. You would lay down your life for your baby. You won’t lay down a boob?

Please always be with me.

2009-03-03T16:12:00.003-06:00

I glared at the message light on my office phone Monday morning and rolled my eyes impatiently while the robotic voice announced that my missed call had come Sunday morning at 7:02. Surely a wrong number. Finally, the message played: just some incomprehensible noise, almost as if someone were mouthing the phone, and then “gah-gah-gah” – click. I quickly scrolled down the Caller ID to confirm that the call had come from my house. It was Luca; my baby called me.

I still don’t know how he did it, but it sure made my day, and it made me realize anew how he has made my life. It amazes me that a short eighteen months ago (Happy 1½, kiddo!) I didn’t know this boy at all. And now, how unimaginable my life would be without him. I lose my breath just contemplating it.

Who has made your life, colored it in, given it fire and meaning and joy? It doesn’t have to be a child; it could be a friend or a lover. Who are the people that you didn’t start this life with, but without whom your life would be a shame? Tell them, even if you whisper it while they’re sleeping, even if you just leave them a message.

When did everybody learn how to swim?

2009-02-25T15:24:00.006-06:00

We had kind of a big Saturday. We went to a birthday party for one of Paolo’s classmates in the morning, and then we hit a Mardi Gras parade in the afternoon. The party was held at the Boys & Girls Club by the indoor pool. What a fabulous idea! Paolo can’t swim, but we brought his Spiderman swim ring, and there are a couple shallow spots, so I didn’t foresee a problem. I need to work on my foreseeing. All of the other kids at the party either knew how to swim or were completely comfortable in the water, like hand-stands-underwater comfortable. Paolo still doesn’t care for water droplets grazing his face. It didn’t take long for the other kids to head out into deeper water, leaving Paolo behind. He tried valiantly to follow, but he couldn’t move as quickly and he got nervous. Pretty soon he was sitting alone, dejected, hugging his knees at the entrance to the pool.

One of his good friends kept trying to lure him back into the water, to a spot in the pool only two feet deep, right next to a ladder. She asked the lifeguard for a float and brought it to Paolo, but he just shook his head. Maybe another parent would have been furious, but I recognized that paralysis, and my heart just broke for him. He had lost all self-confidence. He wanted so badly to be a part of the fun, but the feeling of inferiority had crippled him. I have suffered episodes like that my entire life, triggered by who knows what. Suddenly, surrounded by well-meaning people enjoying themselves, I am worthless, a misfit: uglier, stupider, clumsier than everyone else. If I could have picked one behavioral trait of mine that would never pass to my children, this would have been it.

Well, it took some time, but I managed to coax Paolo into the shallow spot. I actually had to lower him in with his arms locked around my neck. Don’t ask me how I managed to do that while hanging on to Gianluca, who was dying to jump in the water, and without falling in myself. I have mad skills. Once Paolo’s feet hit the bottom of the pool (and he realized the water did, in fact, reach only his belly button), his face lit up like Christmas morning. The spell was broken, he believed in himself again, and he had a great time for the rest of the party.

Northwest Arkansas Crime Report, February 2009

2009-02-16T16:37:00.002-06:00

Feb 13, 5:33 p.m. A woman on West Dot Tipton Road reported her child's stepgrandmother screaming at her.
Oh yeah, well my ex-uncle’s second cousin says you started it.

Feb 11, 3:31 p.m. A man at 601 W. Easy St. reported evicted tenants took a wall, cabinets and a window, destroying the apartment.
I’ve heard of unscrewing all the lightbulbs, but the WALL? Won’t your next apartment already have one?

Feb 10, 10:54 a.m. A woman on West Bedford Loop reported finding a crack pipe in a couch and items missing after a friend of her mother's boyfriend stayed over.
You shouldn’t let your mom set you up.

You’re Calling From Where?

Feb 6 3:51 p.m. A caller at Newlywed Foods, 1111 Angel Drive, reported fraud.
Was it Renee Zellweger? Okay, that’s a dated joke. It’s been a slow month.

Feb 9 8:53 a.m. A caller with Hott Wheels Used Autos, 2294 W. Henri De Tonti Blvd., Springdale, reported a pickup stolen.
Now that truck is really hot. Har har har.

Feb. 11 5:13 a.m. A woman at Days Inn and Suites, 3408 Moberly Lane, reported an employee came into her room without permission.
Tomorrow, either hang the Do Not Disturb sign outside your door or learn to say “No gracias, ocupada, or no me gusta clean towels” or something.

12:10 p.m. A caller at Sleepy Hollow Store, 12761 S. Arkansas 59, reported a theft.
Come on, Headless Horseman, stop calling. We will let you know if we find your head.

11:30 p.m. A woman with Everett Maxey Auto, 2517 S.E. Best Lane, reported a man hanging out looking at vehicles.
Darlin’ I know it’s your first day, but that there’s a potential customer.

Feb 13 7:46 p.m. A woman at Great Day Skate Place, 1615 Moberly Lane, reported a man and woman arguing.
Also known as Pretty Good Day Except for That Shouting Couple Skate Place.

Snatching defeat from the jaws of victory

2009-02-13T09:49:00.007-06:00

I ran into Sam at home yesterday when I dropped off my Valentine’s party booty, so we got to eat lunch together. It began pleasantly, just two adults eating and conversing, until Sam finished his pizza and reached for the cookies.

"What are you doing?"

"I want a cookie. You said there are extras, so let me have one."

"No! You can’t open any of them."

"Why not? Give me a cookie."

"I can’t carry in open containers of food to the party. It’ll look like I found these in the parking lot, or worse, like I had an unstoppable case of the munchies from hitting the bong all night. THE SEAL MUST NOT BE BROKEN! You must be crazy, thinking I’m going to walk in there with used food."

"You’re really not going to give me a cookie, are you? Okay, I'm feeling a lot of anger towards you right now."

There the cookies sat, pristinely, all day and evening until dessert, when I had essentially the same conversation with Paolo, with Sam chiming in, “Paolo, she won’t do it, bud. You’re not getting a cookie. Your mama is MEAN.”

Which brings us to this morning, as I triumphantly carried the stack of unopened boxes of cookies into Paolo’s school. It was a delicate balancing act, as I was also carrying Luca, who picked at the stickers sealing the boxes until he had peeled them all off.

Thursday OverThink #6, courtesy of Morrissey

2009-02-12T14:52:00.007-06:00

Morrissey’s new album, Years of Refusal, is coming out February 17. The cover is a picture of Morrissey with a baby under his arm, which is completely disturbing because I can’t think of anyone with greater disdain for humanity. Not even me. Worse, the artwork inside is a picture of Morrissey and his band, naked except for a 7-inch vinyl record affixed to, well, where you’d hope. The musicians are all staring blankly – this is surely just one of many bizarre hoops the great and powerful Moz makes them jump through – and Morrissey is combing his hair. I won’t post the photo here, as this is a family website (except when I drop the occasional f-bomb or call homeroom moms hookers). If you must, you can view the picture here.

I love Morrissey, not nearly as much as my husband does – not that there’s anything wrong with that – and this picture has seriously messed with me. I had a Smiths CD in my car, and I had to stop listening to it because I couldn’t erase the mental picture of naked Morrissey singing to me while running a comb through his silver hair.

Morrissey, you have overthought both album art and your physical appeal.

Please keep your VD to yourselves.

2009-02-12T14:16:00.003-06:00

My dear friend Melissa sent me an email today with “VD” as the subject. I think it illustrates my romantic nature that “VD” instantly expanded to venereal disease in my mind. I thought it was kind of a personal thing to share with someone, even one’s hetero-lifemate. She was referring to Valentine’s Day, of course, and the teeth-grinding lameness of her co-workers receiving flowers two days prior to the ridiculous “holiday.” I do hope her giddy coworkers realize those flowers came early because the senders are cheap. You pay less for flowers if you have them delivered prior to the 14th, especially when it falls on a Saturday. That’s right, suckers, your boyfriend/husband/mom/stalker doesn’t love you enough to pay for weekend delivery.

I know the single girls out there are starting to feel down and hating themselves for it, because they don’t want to care about Forced-Display-of-Affection Day. But they do care, if only a teensy bit, because they’re human, and humans like chocolate. Affection is also nice, especially when it comes in a box with paper-lined compartments. I’m talking about good chocolate, like imported from Europe, made by fairies in a magic glen, with all-natural ingredients, not the corn syrupy turds they make in America.

I’m not in the single-girl camp; I’m in the mother camp, but we also have good reason to despise this trumped-up occasion. I’m lucky this year in that Paolo is old enough to address his own cards, and Luca is too young to exchange them. However, I just blew my lunch break (and $16.00) at the grocery store agonizing over what treats to buy for my sons’ parties at school tomorrow. There were two ten-foot-long tables in the bakery piled high with pink-frosted goodies. I’d volunteered to bring cookies for Paolo’s class of 22, so that narrowed my choices down to seven varieties. All the cookies come 10 in a box, so I had to overbuy by eight because I certainly couldn’t underbuy by two.

I volunteered to bring fruit for Luca’s party because I’d just finished ripping out the soul of his afternoon teacher for feeding him candy and chips. Donating cupcakes seemed like hypocrisy. I decided on grapes, which I’ll just need to wash and cut in half.

And THEN I had to grab something for my book club meeting tomorrow night. It’s couples night, but my Valentine will be home with the boys. Since I was in produce, I grabbed a pound of strawberries. That’s appropriate, no? I’ll just need to wash and slice those, as well. I have my Valentine’s homework cut out for me, and I still have to plan a nice meal and dessert to make for my family.

I give and I give. But what about me? What about my European gourmet chocolate needs?

Look Who's Talking

2009-02-09T14:13:00.005-06:00

Well, guess who decided that words might have some use after all? That's right, Luca! Or Bubbies, I guess I should say. Confession time: Bubbies is a stupid pet name that stuck longer than any of the others, such as Big Love, Tubba-lubba, and Lucabilly. By comparison, maybe Bubbies isn't that bad. Maybe. Anyhow, I'm afraid Luca thinks that's his name, Bubbies I mean. When Paolo started talking, every sentence began with Bado, and it took my insightful mother to point out that Paolo was saying his own name. Now, Luca's gibberish sentences all begin with Bubby. Whoops. I'm trying to erase Bubbies from my vocabulary and call Luca only by his actual name, but I may be worsening an already regrettable situation. Soon I expect him to pick up my constant self-corrections and refer to himself as Bu-luca...which sounds like a whale.

Bubbies and whales aside, Luca started talking yesterday. I think it has a lot to do with his current mimicry phase, but we're thrilled anyway. He says bye-bye, ball, Da-da, go, baby, up, and he's on the cusp of other useful words like down, bite, and drink. Like all babies his age, he's been absorbing language and has just decided it's a game he'd like to play, too. It happens so fast, like a flipped switch. One day it's ba-da-ba-ba-ga-dee, and the next it's "Mama, hey Mama, when it's wake-up time, hey Mama, we need to look on the computer for why Robin turned into Nightwing, okay Mama, hey Mama, is that a good idea?"

Thursday OverThink #5, courtesy of KUAF 91.3 FM

2009-02-05T10:41:00.004-06:00

**UPDATED**
Please read the comment left by KUAF news director explaining the station's absence due to power failure.

When the ice storm hit on January 27, Fayetteville was hungry for news. The local newspapers, the TV stations, the radio stations: all had lost power, like the rest of us. The only thing we knew for days was silence and cracking branches. Then, the whole town started coming back to life, including our news sources, with one notable exception.

KUAF 91.3 FM, our local National Public Radio affiliate, remained silent. KUAF is housed on the University of Arkansas campus, which never lost power. Did you catch that? The university campus is one of the precious few areas whose power lines are underground; hence, they never lost power. We could see the lights of campus, mocking us, every night from our cold, dark house. I fail to understand exactly what the hell KUAF was doing when its community needed it most.

KUAF finally came back on the air Monday, three days ago. The first thing I heard when I tuned is was a request for money. Really. Because we rely on them. Really?

I checked the website today for an explanation or an apology...or to learn that the station is back on the air, but running at reduced power.

KUAF, you might want to rethink your tagline: “KUAF is your indispensable connection to the world.”

While on the site, I also found a five-minute piece on Mount Sequoyah recorded the day after the ice storm.

The Winter Ice Storm of 2009
FAYETTEVILLE, AR(2009-01-31) The morning after one of the most devastating weather events in recent memory, we take a walk....
Visit this link for the full story:
http://publicbroadcasting.net/kuaf/news/content/1464162.html

Five Days Without Video Games

2009-02-02T16:33:00.006-06:00

After my last morose post on the ice storm and its aftermath, I wanted to share that it didn’t all suck. Although Paolo is perfectly capable of speaking for himself, he is a terrible typist, so I’m going to speak for him.

Tuesday. I woke up when it was dark because of green flashes in the sky and a loud rrrrrrrrr sound like an evil robot. I tried to wake Mama up to ask her what it was, but she was too grumpy. No school today. It rained all day long. We played hide and seek, but I did not play even one video game because we don’t have any electricity. I have to wear so many clothes because it’s cold in our house. Mama is making me wear even slippers. Daddy made us a campout in Mama’s room when it got dark, and we watched a movie on the DVD player. I have my own flashlight.

Wednesday. Daddy made oatmeal for breakfast, and I ate the sprinkles off the top. Daddy had a saw and he did works outside chopping down big branches that fell down. I was a helper by hitting ice off some branches with a stick and finding long icicles. A couple times, a branch fell really close to me. When Daddy got all the trees off the car we went for an adventure to see what happened to the world and to get Mama a radio. It’s cool because it has a flashing red light and a siren, but it doesn’t play Pink I’m a Rock Star. At darktime, I watched Ice Age 2 in the car with Mama until she said we had to stop because the car was almost out of gas. It looks like Ice Age outside our house.

Thursday. Daddy made pancakes for breakfast. We took Mama to work and then we were in the car a long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long time. Daddy was looking for stuff but all the stores were closed or had too many people. We had Chick-fil-A for lunch and I played on the playground. Luca kept trying to climb up the stairs but I told him he had to be a big boy first so he had to stay in the little kid section on the bottom. We ate at the penguin barbecue restaurant for dinner and went to the grocery store. I only got to watch a little Teen Titans. I was listening for the rrrrrrrr sound because that means our electricity is coming back, but I didn't hear anything.

Friday. Daddy had to go to work, so Mama took me and Luca to see Stellaluna at the arts center. I was supposed to go with my class, but there’s no school today either. Stellaluna was about a girl bat, but the mama bird was the funniest, funnier than the baby birds. It wasn’t very good. Mama said I wasn’t being grateful, so I told her it was a little good. We ate dinner at Daddy’s work, and I got to play computer games. We went to a hotel at nighttime, and I watched a movie. Why does everyone else have electricity except us?

Saturday. I like our hotel pretty good. It has a treadmill in a room, and Mama showed me how to use it. I only fell down once. Luca stuck his hand in it and hurt his fingers so he can’t go back to the room, but I can if Daddy will take me. There is a TV so I can watch cartoons but sometimes Daddy wants to watch basketball. I don’t know why he is so mean.

Sunday. The workers finally fixed our house and we had an Electricity Party. We turned on all the lights and I played Sonic and Lego Batman video games all day until Daddy had to watch football. Luca and I had bathtime and then Daddy said I didn’t get to watch a movie tonight because we have electricity now and I have to go to school tomorrow. The end.

The Thaw

2009-02-02T13:20:00.011-06:00

Photo by Brooke McNeely,
Northwest Arkansas Times
Believe me, I know how fortunate we are. This is just a follow-up report for anyone who wonders "What do people do when the power goes out and it's so cold?" Last week's ice storm was a disaster in this part of the state, and clean-up will take months. There are people in Fayetteville (and half a million people in Kentucky) who are still without power. So, obviously, this is not some sort of suffering contest. It is simply my experience.

To recap, we lost power for good on Tuesday just before lunch. We stayed in the house for three nights despite below-freezing temperatures. The first night was an adventure, the second an ordeal, and the third night did me in. It wore me down spending all day thinking about how we would stay warm, how we would eat, how we would amuse the boys. I’d be up all night tucking little hands back under blankets, pulling hats down over ears, then get up in the morning to a freezing house for another day of the same struggle. We were among tens of thousands without power. The hotels were full; there was nowhere to go.

By mid-morning Thursday, my office was open. I looked and felt like a refugee. I was wearing so many layers of clothing I was stifling, but I kept them all on. I knew I only had so many hours before I’d be cold again. Sam and the boys spent most of the day driving around in search of fuel for the car and camp stove and someplace warm to pass the time. No mall, no Target, no Walmart, but thankfully, Chick-fil-A with an indoor playground.

Friday I worked until 1:00 and then shuttled the boys between the arts center and the library until going home to prep dinner before the sun set. As it got darker and colder, dread overwhelmed me. Just thinking about the night to come made me want to cry. I confessed to Sam that something very like hysteria was creeping up on me, and I was open to suggestions. He told me to start calling hotels again, and I found one nearby with a single room left. For the next two nights I found a hundred reasons to touch the boys just to feel their warm skin.

Thanks to the thousand-plus workers from as far away as Minnesota, and the electrician who drove to Oklahoma and back for a part to re-connect the power line to our building, we had power by Sunday morning. We spent all Sunday cleaning the house top to bottom, systematically and thoroughly, as if exorcising an evil spirit.

Eager to resume our normal routine, we ate dinner, had baths and got the boys to bed on time. I flicked off the light in Paolo’s room to read his bedtime books by flashlight, like we always do. Suddenly, in the dark room, lit only by the weak beam of a flashlight, I panicked. It felt like a flashback. Have I been in a war? I had to tell myself, several times over, that I wasn’t cold and I could turn on that light whenever I wanted to.

Ice Storm

2009-01-29T13:25:00.004-06:00

Here is a local newsclip reporting on my part of town. Apparently, "some are calling it the most devastated area in Fayetteville."

http://www.4029tv.com/video/18596236/index.html

Status report: We've been without power since Tuesday morning and do not expect power to be restored until Saturday. Schools are closed all week, but I'm back at work. We have a working phone and running hot water, so we are sticking it out at home despite having no heat source. We are cooking on a gas grill and managing to stay warm at night. It will be in the twenties tonight, but should begin warming up tomorrow.

Adventures in Single-Parenting

2009-01-23T14:40:00.008-06:00

Day One.
I took the day off work because Tuesday is Sam’s day for being home with Luca and picking Paolo up from school, and I didn’t want to mess with their routine. I got everyone to their designated locations on time, did all the grocery shopping for the week, and was home by noon. I hung out with the sniffly baby, got the house in order, and picked up Paolo at 3:00. We had an early dinner, a mellow evening, and the boys went to bed on time. I took a nice long shower and prepped for tomorrow morning, making lunches and stuffing Paolo’s backpack, my work bag, and Luca’s daycare bag.

Single-parenting, with tight organization, is a piece of cake.

Day Two.
I got everyone dressed, fed, and delivered to school, daycare and work on time. I was feeling unstoppable when the phone rang at noon. It was Luca’s daycare director. Luca’s teacher had been noticing his lips and fingertips looking blue, and the director accurately deduced he was having trouble breathing. I knew I had the medicine he needed at home, but I called the pediatric clinic to see if I could bring Luca in for a breathing treatment right away, since the clinic is across the street and my house is across town. The clinic couldn’t give him an appointment for over two hours. I thought I must have left out the part about the signs of oxygen deprivation, so I explained the situation again. Nope, they absolutely could not see him until 2:30, which really means 3:30 because I would have to spend at least an hour in the waiting room. Even if I had been inclined to take the time slot, I had to be at Paolo’s school at 3:00 sharp to pick him up. I told them no thanks when what I really should have said was fuck off. However, I am a lady. When I picked up Luca, he was not any shade of blue, which was good news for everyone because I had planned to storm the damn pediatric clinic and scream the paint off the walls until they treated him. Instead, we just went home, and I got Luca’s breathing under control in no time.

Once Paolo got home, we started our evening plan of early dinner, baths, and movie night. While I worked on my crowd-pleasing turkey burgers, Luca trapped himself in the bathroom. He shut the door behind him and began opening drawers and pulling out their contents. The drawers are right next to the doorframe, so a pulled-out drawer blocks the door from opening more than a half inch. Only the slimmest of fingers can work the drawer closed through the narrow crack. Can you tell I’ve done this before? But this magical time, Luca had pulled my hair dryer halfway out of the middle drawer and wedged it upright, so the drawer wouldn’t close, and the door couldn’t open. For thirty solid minutes, I tried to move the hair dryer with chopsticks and wire hangers, meanwhile begging Luca with varying degrees of amusement, anger, and fear to pick up the hair dryer. I was deciding between breaking down the door myself or calling the fire department when I hooked the cord with the hanger and lifted the hair dryer out of the drawer. Paolo and I nearly cried with relief when the door opened, and Luca barely looked up from shredding toilet paper.

Single-parenting, the moment a crisis hits, sucks donkey.

Northwest Arkansas Crime Report, January 4 - 12, 2009

2009-01-16T16:16:00.004-06:00

Jan 4 - 8:47 a.m. A woman at 914 S.E. H St. reported she left a loaded gun in the oven accidentally and later noticed the oven had been turned on.
When she says hands off the apple crisp, she means it.

Jan. 5 - 11:46 a.m. A caller at 906 S. Maestri Road, Springdale, reported a man housesitting had a party and when the couple returned they discovered wedding rings and medications missing.
Why weren’t they wearing their wedding rings? Were they on some kind of swinger cruise?

7:09 p.m. A man on West Persimmon Street reported his stolen vehicle was returned and now the suspect was on his way to kill him.
He should have let him keep the car.

Jan 6 - 9:56 a.m. A woman at North Mission Boulevard and East Gunter Street reported a man standing in the middle of the road, staring at a backpack.
Wait, wait, he's going to levitate it with his mind. Yes, the way of the Jedi seems strange to some.

10:33 a.m. A woman at a preschool at 1125 W. Cleveland St. reported a parent called and threatened to burn the eyeballs out of a former teacher.
The high turnover rate of preschool teachers is truly a mystery.

Jan. 7 - 9:20 p.m. A man on Ford Road, Garfield, reported his 13-year-old nephew threatened to kill him and came at him with a knife because he was disciplined for not taking his antibiotics.
Oh, he needs medication a mite stronger than antibiotics.

Jan. 8 - 9:38 a.m. A woman on Southeast L Street reported the vehicle she lives in broken into repeatedly.
You know your life sucks when your home security system is, “Viper armed!”

9:46 a.m. A man at 1601 S.W. Stagecoach Road reported a muffler stolen off a vehicle.
Dude, no one stole your muffler. A coat hanger will hold for just so long.

Jan 10 - 3:09 a.m. A woman at Decision Point, 602 N. Walton Blvd., reported a naked 33-year-old man refused to leave after being discharged.
He was being discharged after successfully completing the "Making Good Decisions" program.

Jan. 12 - 12:47 p.m. A man on North Big Springs Road, Gravette, reported arguing with his wife who put a pitchfork in his face twice and hit him in the face with her fist.
Because the pitchfork wasn’t doing enough damage?

One for the Manor and One for the Church

2009-01-16T15:34:00.004-06:00

Paolo is making great strides with reading. I don’t know who is more excited by his progress, him or me. He brought home his mid-year report card, and I am really pleased with it. The only suggested area of improvement is counting. He counts to 59, but then starts over at 40. Let’s see, he is five, he is in kindergarten, and HE COUNTS TO 59!! That sounds alright to me. He also got to bring home his journal, which provides real insight to the things and events that are important to him. Most of the journal is superheroes and villains, and Paolo jumping on furniture, but there are pages devoted to visiting grandparents and picking up the baby at the hospital. In hindsight, I’m starting to think it was a cop-out not explaining to Paolo that I was carrying the baby. He thinks we hopped in the car and went to get a baby like it was a gallon of milk we needed for breakfast.

Paolo got a new journal at school for the second half of the year, and we like to ask him what he is putting in it. Sometimes we suggest things, like how he’ll probably want to mention that Mama took him to see the Wizard of Oz musical. (What he actually wrote was that he saw his classmate at the theatre. Mama is chopped liver, apparently). Last night during dinner, Sam asked what he had written in his journal that morning, and Paolo said he’d written that he loves his mama. It felt like the world stopped and my heart exploded, but not in a gross way, like an explosion of happy confetti. Does that make any sense? All I know is I want to bottle that memory of my son’s sweet voice saying he loves me and carry it around for the rest of my life.

Luca, on the other hand, still isn't talking. I’m taking it personally. He is not a complete dolt, however. He has mastered the stairs, as well as the slide he got for Christmas. He is still drooling like a Great Dane, and it bugs me because there is no reason for it. He has all of his teeth except for his two-year molars, and none of his peers at daycare soak six bibs a day. I googled excessive drooling and, sure enough, found all sorts of things to worry about, like retropharyngeal abscesses, peritonsillar abscesses, tonsillitis, oral-motor disorder, and autism. But then everything points to autism. These days, everybody’s kid is autistic somewhere on “the spectrum.”

I’m so over autism. Parents worry themselves sick over SIDS, and just when a child outgrows that danger, we have to start worrying about autism. And the beauty of that peach of a disorder is that we still don’t know what causes it; we only know the numbers are skyrocketing. Thanks to the alarming rise in autism, the disorder has become mainstream, with new methods of diagnosis and treatment, and more and better resources for autistic children and their families. I am not comforted by the knowledge that my kid will have lots of company if he’s hit with the dummy stick. I want my kids to be perfect, or at least free of major defects. It takes a special person to care for a special needs child. I am not special. So I really wish my 16-month-old would start talking and quit drooling. I thought the term “drooling” was gross until I ran across “salivary incontinence.” Gack.

Book Review: Ghost by Alan Lightman

2009-01-13T14:39:00.005-06:00

After losing his job at a bank, David Kurzweil takes an unlikely position at a funeral home. One night in a viewing room, for just an instant, he sees something he describes as a vapor hovering near the casket. David cannot reject what he has seen but cannot reconcile it with the physical world. The story of his sighting leaks to the press, and he finds himself in the middle of a controversy between scientists and believers in the supernatural. David struggles to understand his experience amidst those who believe him without question and those who question him without believing.

Ghost is a novel of ideas, and readers expecting a supernatural thriller will be disappointed. The novel begins with David speaking in first-person and suitably shaken. He has seen something that defies reason, and nothing can ever be the same. The first-person narration falls away quickly, and I felt cheated by the switch to third-person. It changed the story from an experience to an observation, distancing the protagonist from the reader.

Lightman has said that character depiction is the toughest part of writing for him, and that weakness is the chief problem with this novel. The quirky accessory characters in Ghost were sketched out with great potential, but Lightman failed to color them in. The members of the Society for the Second World, the three women in David’s life (mother, girlfriend, and ex-wife), the men of David’s rooming house, and the mortuary workers all seem as vaporous as the novel’s eponymous ghost.

Lightman waits until the novel’s near-end to describe what David saw, and even then the description is vague and unsatisfactory. However, it is not the author’s intent to tell a ghost story; thus, the particular manifestation of the supernatural being is irrelevant. What I enjoyed most about Ghost was the idea that a tiny moment can change your entire outlook, can make you find or lose faith. When you experience something that you thought could never happen, it makes you question everything you know. If A is no longer true, what about B? What about C? The point of the novel is not what David saw, but how he, as a contemplative, intelligent man, evaluates the inexplicable.

Thursday OverThink #4, courtesy of the International Consumer Electronics Show

2009-01-08T15:34:00.007-06:00

For today's OverThink, I have chosen two tech-geek products from the International Consumer Electronics Show that opened today in Las Vegas. As you will see, the combination of genius, testosterone, and complete lack of girls and sunlight begets true innovation.

Mind Flex
Mattel Inc. introduced Mind Flex, a toy that comes with a brain-scanning headset. When the dork in the headset concentrates, a fan spins to levitate a ball. Players can waste hours of their lives trying to guide the ball through the hoop obstacle course. A break in concentration will cause the ball to descend. (Be warned: Frequent game play may slow or even halt descent of the player’s balls.) Are you thinking what I’m thinking? Jedi Mind Trick. Boys, boys, boys, it’s just a movie. There is no such thing as The Force. What? Yes, I’ll wait while you go get your $500 replica Sith Lord lightsaber out of its display case. Nice cape.

GeForce 3D Vision
Nvidia Corp. also set nerd hearts aflutter with video game glasses that turn compatible monitors into three-dimensional displays. All the better to play gory killing games with. When future school/mall shooters dismember demon werewolves, they want organs flying out of the screen at them. Hey, man, I’m not making fun, so you can keep me off your People to Kill list. Those glasses look awesome with your trenchcoat. I would like to ask Nvidia one question that is surely on the mind of every avid gamer: Can you wear these over your existing glasses?

Mattel MindFlex - $80.00
Nvidia GeForce 3D Vision - $200.00
Overthinking guaranteed celibacy - Priceless

Greatest Hits of 2008

2009-01-06T09:16:00.005-06:00

One of the great things about writing a blog is that you can check the archive to figure out what you’ve done with the past year. From my greatest hits list below, it looks like I spent the bulk of my time attending youth sports, sitting in doctors’ offices, and embarrassing myself in the workplace. Thank god the ball has dropped.* Welcome 2009!

January - The brothers that wheeze together
Currently, smallpox is in apartment 2B, scarlet fever is in 7D, and consumption is about to get evicted for playing its music too loud.

February - I get the feeling we’ve been here before.
Keeping Paolo from the grave during his first winter yielded a considerable store of experience, which appears to be paying off.

March - Six-month checkup
AND THEN, just to lay down the buttercream frosting on the Screw-Your-Parental-Confidence Cake, the doctor pointed out that Gianluca's teeth are coming in wrong.

April - T-Ball or Die
One vice president would be inadequate to administer the complexities of five-year-old T-ball. Case in point, poor Paolo who was on two teams and is now on none. We need PEOPLE on this, for crying out loud.

May - Five’s been a little bit hard on me.
Paolo lectured me slowly, enunciating each word of the bungled lyrics like he was explaining 'sit' to a mildly retarded puppy.

June - Nobody told me there’d be a trophy.
At first I thought he was having a heart attack, but it turned out he was weeping…from the emotion…of T-ball.

July - The longest three minutes of my life
It’s incredibly rude to stare at someone, ESPECIALLY if you’re trying to sort out whether they have a prosthetic body part, but damn it, YOU try to look away from a glass eye. It can’t be done.

August - House of louse
Still, it was an uncomfortable paradox to declare that my boys are too good for the place while removing them before they gave other kids bugs.

September - I also jumped up and motioned for a handball foul. There are no referees.
In what world do the Mexican kid and the semi-Italian kid suck the most at soccer? It’s my own personal hell.

October - The longest three minutes of her life
I do have some people skills, and I can work a room without seeing glass eyes in every new face.

November - Rejoicing from a red state
All my life I have argued, out of hope rather than certitude, that racism in America was shrinking steadily, and that soon it would be powerless to squash the dreams or halt the achievements of great Americans of every color.

December - Post postscript
I’m the parent that walks him all the way to the classroom. You just drop him off at the front door like a stray dog.

*Am I the only person who had nightmares after seeing the Crypt Keeper, I mean Dick Clark, rockin’ in the new year? Clearly, the man died in 1998, and watching his corpse twitch every December 31 since is not my idea of celebration.

Naughty List

2008-12-23T11:41:00.004-06:00

1. Home room mom who checked up on me the day of the class holiday party. It’s not that I mind her making sure I remembered to pick up the cookies. I mind her asking what kind of cookies I got, and then bringing two bags of cookies in case my cookies sucked. Also dressing as a hooker to attend the party. Really? Really with the fake tan, tight jeans, cleavage and big hair at the kindergarten party? MILF it out, girlfriend.

2. People who give cash to children rather than a present. I have no problem slipping a twenty to those hard-to-buy-for teenagers, but neither the one-year-old nor the five-year-old have a firm grasp on currency just yet.

3. Banana Republic Credit. I paid these a-holes in October, and they have yet to apply the payment to the credit card account. They took the money, mind you, it left my bank. They “can’t find the payment,” and thus keep adding late fees, finance charges, de-activating the card, and robo-calling us daily.

4. Me. I complained for months about a co-worker of mine for being an annoying hypochondriac until she found out all the pain she’d been suffering from was due to cancer. That’s right, cancer.

Northwest Arkansas Crime Report, December 3, 2008

2008-12-05T11:16:00.002-06:00

9: 53 a.m. A caller at George’s Guard Shack, 1300 Kansas St., reported a theft.

Note to self: do not call George’s for security needs.

10:41 a.m. A caller with Urban Bleu Salon, 113 W. Elm St., reported graffiti.

Oh, the person that crossed out eu and wrote ue? That was me. I was correcting your pretentiousness.

11:55 a.m. A woman at Springdale Animal Services, 321 E. Randall Wobbe Lane reported a man stealing a dog pushed an employee to get out of the building.

I went to their website to find out why someone would steal a free dog. There’s actually a $40 adoption fee, so question answered. However, I find it curious that the pictures of the animals seeking adoption are all taken from outside their cages. I don’t care how cute the little furball is; it looks like it’s behind bars. Three weeks old and already doing time; that’s a badass kitten.

1:01 p.m. A man at 4181 N. Valley Lake Drive reported a screen torn off and plants disturbed.

Officer, arrest that wind.

3:51 p.m. A man at 809 S.E. G St. reported a man attempting to break into the house claimed to be part of an organization that took over the house.

This is what happens when you ignore those foreclosure notices.

8:05 p.m. A woman at 906 N.W. Princeton Square reported a woman entered her house and said she was at the wrong house.

It’s a hazard of living in a cookie-cutter housing development. The only difference in houses is the paint color, and Whisper of Buttermilk and Crème Fantasia look the same in the dark.

Post Postscript

2008-12-04T08:59:00.003-06:00

Me: How did Paolo’s drop-off go today? Did you look for the missing library book?

Sam: I didn’t get a chance to talk to his teacher about the book because she had something to say to me. Apparently, yesterday at lunch Paolo would not sit down and stop shouting until they threatened to call his dad.

Me: Really? Our Paolo?

Sam: Yeah. So after I gave Paolo a talking-to while the teacher watched, I didn’t feel like bringing up the library book.

Me: Wow. I wonder why they threatened to call you. Why wouldn’t they say they were going to call me?

Sam: Because I’m the parent that walks him all the way to the classroom. You just drop him off at the front door like a stray dog.

Thursday OverThink #3, courtesy of SoftSoap

2008-12-04T08:00:00.001-06:00

As of Monday, there is a new hand soap in the bathroom at work: Softsoap Black Raspberry and Vanilla. Hardly. It smells like cheap perfume on a decaying corpse. It wouldn’t be that big of a deal except the smell does not wash off. Damn you, Softsoap, clean my hands, do not scent them for hours and hours, especially with the fragrance of rot. Every time I brush back my hair or scratch my nose, I am accosted with perfumed death.

Also, it makes my hands cold as ice, numb to the wrist. What is it, mentholated? It is twenty-nine degrees outside and I’m washing my hands in liquid nitrogen. Christ Jesus, I can smell my frozen hands from the keyboard as I type. Kudos to the development team who came up with a product that turns my hands into a morgue. Next trip to the bathroom, I’m considering just rinsing my hands really well. Better yet, I will not drink anything all day long.

Softsoap, you have overthought hand washing.

Postscript

2008-12-03T12:47:00.006-06:00

Sam: I read your post this morning. That’s some heavy stuff.

Me: Yeah, it really came out of left field. Do you think I did the right thing?

Sam: No, of course not. The boy is five years old. You can’t just drop him off at the front door. Jesus, he’s in Kindergarten, not junior high.

Me: Oh, hell. I was trying not to hover. It’s not like I abandoned him in the parking lot; he only had to walk down the hallway.

Sam: Yeah, well, he left his take-home folder in his backpack instead of returning it to his teacher and his library book is missing. Just because he asks for something doesn’t mean he’s ready for it.

Me: Well, when you put it that way…

Sam: No more of this front door business.

Me: Alrighty then. So much for my moment.

I guess a hug is out of the question.

2008-12-02T10:07:00.006-06:00

This morning in the car, Paolo asked to walk to school by himself. He explained that he had seen other kids walking by themselves and wanted to do it himself, too. After all, he is in Kindergarten. But those are bigger kids walking without their parents, I protested. Not true, he replied. He has seen his good friend Lily on her own, and she’s in his class. I took a few deep breaths while his request for independence shaved little pieces off my heart. “How about I walk you to the front door, and you walk all the way to your classroom by yourself?” He agreed we had a deal.

As I escorted him to the building, I reminded him to hang up his coat and backpack and stow his lunchbox once he got to his room. He silently let me ramble on, for once not snapping that he KNOWS. It’s not that I thought for a moment he might get lost or forget any step of the routine he’s been performing since August. It’s just that I wanted to do it with him, no, FOR him. I like to see him seated, settled, safe before I walk away from him. Then I realized, those small gestures of mine, I’ve been making them for me. But letting go, this is what I’m doing for him.

Thursday OverThink #2, courtesy of The City of Fayetteville

2008-11-27T08:00:00.001-06:00

Each year about this time, Fayetteville's downtown square is festooned with lights: white lights, colored lights, winding up tree trunks, blanketing bushes, blinking, glowing, pretty, pretty lights. The energy-wasting display is completely over the top, and every year the City Council threatens to discontinue the popular Lights of the Ozarks. And every year, Fayetteville citizens scream, "Oh no you don't!"

How else would we know that Christmas is coming if we didn't attend the parade with our children and sigh in awe when the switch is flipped and all 450,000 lights turn on? What would replace the smells of hot cocoa, kettle corn and cotton candy that fortunately mask the smells of the pony and camel rides? Despite frigid temperatures, almost every night there are bands and choirs providing live holiday music. There is a dedicated lane for horse-drawn carriages, and I've heard that this year there will be reindeer. I totally just got goosebumps.

City workers spent over 2,000 hours stringing up the lights that will be lit every night through December 31. The theme of this year’s parade is “Rocking in a Green Wonderland.” Ah, the irony. City of Fayetteville, you have overthought municipal holiday decor. And I love you for it.

Thank heaven for little boys.

2008-11-25T11:41:00.007-06:00

Thanksgiving is nigh, and I am thankful that I don’t have to go anywhere. Don’t get me wrong, we had a fabulous time in Florida last week. So fabulous in fact that Paolo is still pissed off to be back home where he asks on a near-daily basis for the location of the nearest Arkansas beach. He is not impressed that we have mountains instead. I almost won him over with snow, but he pointed out that his snow angels suck and got depressed again.

The era of toilet humor is upon us. Want to know what’s funnier than calling for your mom and, when she looks, bending over and pointing your butt at her? Nothing. And it doesn’t lose comedic value with repetition either. Last night Paolo was perched on the potty working out a dinner that had disagreed with him, when he yelled out, “Help! My butt is throwing up.” I’m not sure if that’s funny or gross. It makes me gag and laugh at the same time.

Luca has begun talking, pointing, and generally getting a whole lot better at communicating. The brain-melting scream is still around, but it is used much less often. It’s unsettling in that we have no experience with a happy child. We’re used to Paolo, who is thrown into a funk by the sun rising, so we’re a little unsure what to do with Luca and find ourselves shaking our heads gravely a good deal. Do you remember the part in Addams Family Values when the mini-Gomez baby woke up with bright yellow curly hair and rosy cheeks, and the parents were deeply confused? That’s us. He laughs for no reason at all. He beckons us to chase him and play telephone with a smile so bright it doesn’t seem human. His favorite activity, hands down, is sitting in things. In short, Luca is delightful. I’m starting to think he’s adopted.

Thursday OverThink #1, courtesy of Paolo's Elementary School

2008-11-13T15:16:00.015-06:00

The perpetrator of the very first Thursday OverThink is not me, which is odd because I felt like I was in the running. We’re flying down to Florida next week to visit my family, which means Paolo will miss four days of school. I mentioned his impending absence to his teacher, who told me it wasn’t a big deal because he’s doing really well, but I would need to send a note to the office. Remember those notes your mom scribbled on the back of an envelope for you to take to school on the day AFTER your absence? This is how I roll:

To Whom It May Concern:
Please excuse Paolo’s absence from school Monday, November 17 through Thursday, November 21. We are traveling to Florida to visit family. I have already spoken with Ms. C. about take-home assignments and lessons to review with Paolo during his absence. Please contact me should you have any questions or concerns.
Best regards,
Paolo’s Excruciatingly Proper Mother

Imagine my surprise when I was informed that, because the absence was greater than three days, I had to fill out a special form for the principal to review. The form is printed on legal-size paper, stating the regulations governing excused vs. unexcused absences from school, and requiring inordinate amounts of information from me. For example, if the absence is for a family trip, state with detail the educational opportunities that will be afforded to your child. Attach additional pages if necessary. I kid you not.

I considered picking one of the established excused absence reasons, and just lying, but I’m too honest and too scared of getting caught. So now I wait to see if the principal decides to excuse the absence. I’m not confident of my chances, considering the form was supposed to have been submitted two weeks ago. Why is it is such a big deal to have the four days excused? Because a child who has four unexcused absences in a semester will not receive credit for the semester.

Along with the stress of getting the family packed up and flying halfway across the country with two children, I am now sweating whether my son will flunk out of kindergarten. Elementary School, lighten up. You have overthought your attendance policy.

Rejoicing from a Red State

2008-11-06T08:50:00.020-06:00

Sometimes I forget that I live in Arkansas, but election years always remind me. I wish I could say, like the proud voters in Florida and Ohio, that my state flipped for Obama, that my red state turned blue. It's especially hard on me having moved here from California, where I could always count on my neighbors to do the right thing (well, almost always).

The voters of the state of Arkansas overwhelmingly voted McCain. They also voted to ban unmarried couples from being foster or adoptive parents, a thinly veiled assault on gay couples that ultimately hurts only children in need. Nice one, Arkansas.

I am elated at the election of Barack Obama for so many reasons, a big one being that we all wondered if our country was still, let's face it, too racist to elect a black president. I believe that people who voted for Obama did so because of what was inside the man, not the color of the skin that encased it. I also believe there were people who voted against Obama solely for the reverse, but finally and definitively, those people were drowned out by the wave of goodwill and hope inspired by our president-elect.

I was deeply moved by the emotion of The View's Sherri Shepherd as she related telling her son that he now had "no limitations" on what he could do or who he could become. All my life I have argued, out of hope rather than certitude, that racism in America was shrinking steadily, and that soon it would be powerless to squash the dreams or halt the achievements of great Americans of every color. Seeing the proof of it standing at the podium in Grant Park on Tuesday night was soul-satisfying.

It has been a very long time since I have felt proud of this country, but that changed Tuesday night when we as a nation told our African-American children to dream as big as they want. But, please, let us remember that the fight for equality is not over, not until we can give that happy pronouncement to our daughters.

Northwest Arkansas Crime Report, October 30 - November 2, 2008

2008-11-04T14:10:00.008-06:00

Nov. 1, 7:57 a.m. A woman on West Van Gogh Place reported a fight.
It’s all fun and games until someone loses an ear.

Nov. 2, 12:11 a.m. A man on White Street, West Fork, reported his ex-wife broke into his home and tried to beat up his mother.
The divorce is becoming acrimonious when your spouse hates you so much she attacks the person responsible for giving you life.

Shocking Examples of Pumpkin Crime

Oct. 31, 6:36 a.m. A woman at 1306 Rebecca Lane reported someone threw a pumpkin through the back windshield of a car.
Nov. 1, 7:44 a.m. A man at 1736 W. Osage Bend reported someone knocked over his mailbox with a pumpkin.
Nov. 1, 7:56 a.m. A man at 60 S. 20th St. reported someone “molested his mailbox with a pumpkin.”

Refusing All Personal Responsibility

Oct. 30, 6:34 a.m. A woman at 3103 Levi Lane reported someone broke into her residence and ate candy while she was sleeping.
She might want to reconsider the prescription sleeping pills and whiskey chaser.

Oct. 31, 8: 39 a.m. A caller on South Razorback Road reported a car damaged a tree.
I bet if I asked the driver, he would say it was the other way around.

Nov. 1, 12: 45 p.m. A man at 1306 S.E. C St. reported money in an online gaming account stolen.
Just say no to online poker.

Election Day

2008-11-04T11:20:00.003-06:00

What follows is an actual conversation I had with Paolo this morning walking to school, as closely as I can remember it. I thought it would be hard to explain a presidential election and my choice of candidate in a way that a kindergartner could understand. Turns out it was really easy.

Paolo, remember how yesterday you got to vote at school? Today, Daddy and I get to vote, and we’re really excited.

Mama, are you going to vote Farack Obama? You have to vote for him because he has a cool name.

Yes, we are going to vote for Barack Obama, but we like him the best because he’s really nice and he has better ideas than McCain.

Is McCain a bad guy?

No, he’s a good guy, too, but he only wants to help his friends, and Obama wants to help everybody.

Is McCain mean?

Not really, but he told people that Obama was a scary guy and said things about him that aren’t true.

So McCain thinks Obama is a bad guy?

Actually, no, he knows Obama is a good guy. He just wants to be president so bad, he forgot his manners.

Okay, well don’t forget to vote Farack Obama so he can help everyone. And tell Daddy.

We won’t forget.

The kitchen can be a dirty place.

2008-10-30T09:11:00.015-05:00

I was listening to a bit with Nigella Lawson on NPR's Morning Edition. Nigella talked through several Fall recipes that, apparently, make her feel like a kitten has curled up in her stomach for a nap or some such nonsense. I admit, I’m not a fan. Has anyone else noticed that it is impossible to replicate her dishes because she provides no concrete instruction? For instance, "Chop the chocolate with a mezzaluna...until you have rubbly shards." Also, her recipes are guaranteed to include ingredients that do not exist in this country. Once you have your rubbly shards, pile on 2 meringue nests from a packet and sweetened chestnut puree or spread, such as Clement Faugier. Right. I'll just pop down the corner shop and get some from the guv'nor.

NPR's Steve Inskeep ended the feature by saying that every man in the studio had been listening intently to Nigella throughout the piece. You could hear in Steve's husky voice that Nigella's closing remark about a creamy dessert - "And then, as my brother would say, I apply it to my face" - in her trademark sultry English accent, had achieved its desired effect. The female co-host, Renee Montagne, jumped in immediately to say that all the women in the studio had been listening intently, too, because women appreciate Nigella just as much as men. That's sweet, Renee, but completely inaccurate.

Nigella is supposed to seduce men with her little sex-kitten act. All of the women on Food Network are groomed to make kitchen porn. First, the uniform of a bright V-neck top and dark-colored pants to emphasize the cleavage and de-emphasize the posterior. If you can ever tear your eyes off of Nigella’s mouth, baby got back. Staying tuned throughout the flirtatious cooking sequence is rewarded by the most overtly sexual moment of every female-hosted cooking show: the money shot, when the host takes a huge bite of her delicious creation and her eyes roll back in her head. "Ohhhhhhh, it’s good, mmm, so rich and creamy. Ahhh, I can't get enough. OOOOh, it tastes even better right off my fingers. Oh, yes, Yes, YES, mmmm. Okay, I’ll see you next time on Licking Lucy’s Bowl!"

Have you ever seen a male host perform a money shot? I think not. If they taste the food at all, and usually they hand it to someone else to eat, it’s a quick, small bite and a terse, “That’s good.” And I’m not complaining, no sir. If I ever see Emeril or Mario Batali moaning in pleasure, smacking their buttery lips, I may have to gouge out my eyes.

My stunning intellect is too powerful for his little mind.

2008-10-28T09:18:00.005-05:00

Me: Remember what twelve looks like?
Paolo: One two. Hey, Mama, what is one two three?
Me: One hundred twenty-three
Paolo: Whoa! What about one two three four?
Me: One thousand two hundred and thirty-four.
Paolo: What about one two three four five six seven eight nine ten?
Me: Oh. Uh, hang on. This is hard to do in my head…placing the commas…okay. One billion, two hundred thirty-four million…no, wait. Twelve billion, three hundred forty-five million, six hundred seventy-eight thousand, nine hundred and ten.
Paolo: No, it’s not.
Me: Really? Let me think. Yes, it is.
Paolo: No, it's not.
Me: Then what is it?
Paolo: It's not what you said. What you said is crazy.

Filling the tank for $30.00 never felt so bad.

2008-10-14T09:53:00.002-05:00

Me: Did you see that gas dropped below $3.00 just in time for me to fill up? Pretty sweet.

Sam: I wish it would go up to $5.00 a gallon. Gas needs to be as expensive as it is in Europe so people will stop driving huge gas-guzzling cars.

Me: Well, yeah. I just meant…

Sam: And so cities will invest in pedestrian- and bicycle-friendly infrastructure and mass transit.

Me: Of course. It’s just a little Woo Hoooo, not even that big, more of a w’hoo.

Sam: Less urban sprawl! More infill!

Me: A wuh, at most.

Sam: Developing alternative energy sources has got to be a top priority, and it never will be as long as gas is considered affordable.

Me: Yes. All of that. I just thought for me, only me, it was kind of nice to pay a little less today. I drive a small car, you’re a bicycle commuter. We’re good people. Only now I feel like an asshole.

I must be green behind the ears, too.

2008-10-09T12:11:00.009-05:00

I wasn't going to write any more about politics, but I’m just so disappointed and frustrated. Like Senator Obama, there are some things I just don’t understand. I don’t understand why we need character assassination to pick a president. Why can’t Americans just disagree on ideas, plans and policies? If you want to vote Republican, that’s fine with me, but have a valid reason. I won’t hate you for it. You may have different interests than mine. Vote Republican because you have a lot of money and don’t want to pay taxes on it. Vote Republican because you believe in small government and deregulation. Vote Republican because you don’t want your tax dollars to fund social programs.

Do not vote for McCain because he and his bulldog are telling you Obama is a Muslim and a terrorist. He is neither of those things, and you are a gullible fool if you don’t understand that. If you vote out of fear, if you vote out of hate, you are wasting your vote. In a democracy, your vote is your voice. What do you want to say?

The longest three minutes of her life

2008-10-02T16:32:00.008-05:00

Someone I met at one of Paolo’s soccer games invited me to attend a meeting of an organization she’s involved with. Actually, it was the coach’s wife, who I had previously written off due to the alarming rise of her pants. Until she had the parents stand in two lines and form a tunnel for the kids to run through after the game, and they screamed with delight. What a fabulous idea! It was then I deduced that cinching ones pants high and tight forces more blood to the brain. So I accepted her invitation and went to the meeting. The next day I wrote to my friend, my FRIEND, Melissa, and mentioned the meeting, and this was her response:

So, what was it like? Did you think of glass eye balls all night while speaking in fragments because you're staring at the glass eye and you can't get out a coherent thought? You didn't do the JD Mind Wander, didn't you? No really, I am very proud of you. Look at you, all grown up and talking to strangers.

I am not a complete fool every time I step out in public, you know. I do have some people skills, and I can work a room without seeing glass eyes in every new face. Although, there was a woman in a dark blue suit with a flesh-colored camisole under the jacket. So flesh-colored, in fact, it was hard to tell where the scoop-necked shirt ended and her skin began. It was sort of mesmerizing, and as she talked on and on about stocks or traffic or something, my eyes kept drifting back down to her chest as if to solve the mystery.

WERDZ R HRD

2008-10-02T15:09:00.007-05:00

This week’s theme on the home front is Communication. We have one child who has decided never to talk ever. Why use words when you can SCREAM? Luca is exhibiting either early genius or mild retardation; it could go either way. On one hand, he has bypassed the superfluity of language for a more direct cause-effect paradigm. One awful sound will get him anything he wants: attention, a drink, some food, a toy to play with, a door opened. On the other hand, maybe his skull is full of mud, and that sharp, piercing squeal is the best he can do. It really is the worst sound in the world. In all seriousness, it makes your blood run backwards. The way he chuckles post-scream while we peel ourselves off the ceiling makes me lean toward the “he’s doing this on purpose” explanation. Babies: they’re so hard to get a read on.

On the other end of the communication spectrum is our articulate Paolo, who talks so much he could do pull-ups with his tongue. Paolo is exploring written language, which is thrilling because it shuts him up occasionally. For several weeks now, Paolo has been writing and illustrating books. So far he has authored novellas featuring Sinbad, Superman, Transformers, and various other heroes and villains, and the theme is always the struggle between good and evil. He can’t actually read and write, but he thinks he can. He sounds out words and spells them the way they sound to him, usually without vowels. Hence, “bad guys are making evil plans” could become BAD GI R MK EVL PLS. Once he completes around 5-6 pages, he staples them together. If you think it’s hard to keep up with your kid’s artwork, imagine having to curate a library. It’s hard enough eliminating some finger-paintings. How do you throw out your kid’s books? That he MADE? Well, as the stacks on the table and the nightstand and the dresser prove, you can’t.

This is how we impress clients in the South.

2008-09-23T15:02:00.007-05:00

An executive at my office urgently rushed over to his secretary's desk and told her to purchase two Arkansas Razorback hog heads by tomorrow.

In case you are ignorant of this appalling redneck headgear, behold:
The exec stormed back to his office, instructing over his shoulder, "Charge it to client development." I suppose this isn't any worse than the bright orange hunting vests and mesh-back ballcaps (with our coporate logo) and boxes of ammunition (sadly, without logo) that are distributed at the annual "client development" hunt.

Still, it is moments like these that make me want to leave the state of Arkansas and never look back.

An Amendment Concerning Voting

2008-09-22T17:00:00.006-05:00

On November 4, in addition to casting inexplicable ballots for McCain, qualified residents in the great state of Arkansas will vote on the following consitutional amendment:

PROPOSED CONSTITUTIONAL AMENDMENT NO. 1
(REFERRED TO THE PEOPLE BY THE GENERAL ASSEMBLY)
(Popular Name)
AN AMENDMENT CONCERNING VOTING, QUALIFICATIONS OF VOTERS AND ELECTION OFFICERS, AND THE TIME OF HOLDING GENERAL ELECTIONS
(Ballot Title)
AMENDING VARIOUS PROVISIONS OF THE ARKANSAS CONSTITUTION CONCERNING VOTING AND ELECTIONS; PROVIDING THAT ALL PERSONS MAY VOTE WHO ARE CITIZENS OF THE UNITED STATES, RESIDENTS OF THE STATE OF ARKANSAS, AT LEAST EIGHTEEN (18) YEARS OF AGE, AND LAWFULLY REGISTERED TO VOTE; TO REPEAL THE REQUIREMENT THAT THE RIGHT TO VOTE SHALL NOT BE MADE TO DEPEND ON ANY PREVIOUS REGISTRATION OF AN ELECTOR'S NAME; REPEALING ARTICLE 3, SECTION 5 OF THE ARKANSAS CONSTITUTION PROVIDING THAT NO IDIOT OR INSANE PERSON SHALL BE ENTITLED TO THE PRIVILEGES OF AN ELECTOR; AND PERMITTING THE GENERAL ASSEMBLY TO ESTABLISH THE DATE AND TIME OF ELECTIONS AND THE QUALIFICATIONS OF ELECTION OFFICERS.

Am I reading this correctly, Arkansas General Assembly? You want to ALLOW idiots and insane people to be able to vote? I don’t know if you’ve noticed who is in the White House, but it appears to me they already can.

Northwest Arkansas Crime Report, September 2008

2008-09-18T14:56:00.020-05:00

Sept. 14, 1:32 p.m. A man at 13501 Arrow Lane, Garfield, reported his grandchildren stole his vehicle.

Can you blame them? Wheeeeee!

Sept. 10, 8:28 a.m. A woman on Southwest Calm Ridge Road reported her husband trying to force her into a vehicle and take her to Tulsa and he wouldn’t say why.

Maybe he’s taking you to see the Center of the Universe or the Golden Driller. Get in the car!

8:10 p.m. A man on Kings Drive, Bethel Heights, reported his ex-wife called and told him to call the police because she was fighting with her boyfriend.

This is exactly why they got divorced. She can’t do anything her damn self.

Sept. 9, 10:11 a.m. A woman at Gotcha Repossessions, 1401 Ingram St., reported items stolen from the lot.

Gotcha back.

12:15 p.m. A woman on South Willow Avenue reported her ex-boyfriend pushed her out of a vehicle, pulling her fingernail off, and put her 2-year-old son down in the middle of the street.

Yeah, yeah, he planted a toddler in the road, but let’s focus on what’s important here. Lee Press-On nails don’t just grow on trees.

For more Southern hijinks, check out Melissa's crime reports here and here.

I also jumped up and motioned for a hand-ball foul. There are no referees.

2008-09-11T10:34:00.014-05:00

Paolo is playing in the Fall soccer league this year, and it is both super-fun and excruciating. Paolo’s coach showed up to the first practice wearing sandals, his exposed feet as white as the ball. I lost count of the times Sam muttered, “I should have signed up to coach” when it got past four hundred. It turns out Coach Teva hadn’t signed up either; he got a call from the league because our team didn’t have a coach. Further validating his commitment, Coach Teva announced he would miss the first three games because his family was going out of town for a wedding. (For two weeks?)

Coach Teva appointed another father to be interim coach. Coach Sparky is a happy-go-lucky church dad who doesn’t know the first thing about soccer. A dear little man, enthusiasm for miles, with his pressed polo shirt tucked into pleated khaki shorts. I could gobble him up! He means well, but his advice to his players is along the lines of let’s kick the ball occasionally in the general direction of that net over there. Remember, this is the under-6 age group, fielding three players a side (no goalies) and switching them out every four minutes, and Coach Sparky is completely flabbergasted by what few rules there are: throw-ins, goal kicks and corner kicks. He can remind the players which goal to head toward, but once the ball rolls over a line, any line, he is lost. He once called the field a court.

Sam has been helping Sparky out with the kids at the games, and at the last game I got to assist with the substitutions. Normally a team has six players, so there’s no need to keep track. Whoever is on the field comes off, and whoever is not on the field comes on. It’s not complicated. However, we were a man down with the coach’s son gone, so someone had to make sure everyone got equal playing time. This was our second game, so I’d already sorted out our players. We’ve got the Bobbsey Twins, the blond-haired, blue-eyed Hitler Youth boys who carry the distinction of giving at least a tiny shit about the location and direction of the ball. Then we have the Bad News Bears, the three shorter boys who poke at the ball every now and then but are far more interested in galloping alongside their opponents and hanging from the crossbar of the goal as they get scored on. One of the Bears is Paolo, and one of the Bears is Emilio, and they are the worst two players on the team. How did that happen? In what world do the Mexican kid and the semi-Italian kid suck the most at soccer? It’s my own personal hell.

One of the Bobbseys pushing forward, while Emilio trails behind and Paolo skips.

Every four minutes throughout the game, I had to tell the coach who to send off. I’m not even going to lie: I was making strategic substitutions. I tried to keep a Bobbsey in the game at all times, except when the superstar player on the other team was on. Then I’d field the Bears because the kid was unstoppable; no point wasting a focused player. I kept my finger on the pulse of the game, taking note of which player’s energy was flagging and whose attention span was shot. Not that it mattered. If the score were kept (and it’s not; see how sick I am?) it would have been in the neighborhood of 39–1. I should be ashamed of my mania, and I am a little, but I’m too busy working out my strategy for the next game.

Is walking backwards a milestone or a disorder?

2008-09-09T16:51:00.007-05:00

One way to evaluate Gianluca at one year is to count up all the things he’s not doing yet: not talking meaningfully, not pointing, not waving bye-bye, not walking independently. You could look at my son that way--and pediatricians have to--but you would be missing everything. You wouldn’t see him speed-crawl to and up the stairs whenever the gate comes down. You wouldn’t see him wrestle with his brother until their belly laughs bring tears to my eyes. You’d miss out on Danger Baby, who can home in on the most dangerous item or activity available to him and bee-line for it. How would you know that he can find a missing pacifier his parents have torn the house apart looking for? But baby doctors don’t ask those questions. They want to know if he is walking backwards and how many wet diapers he has a day. They don’t care that he is ticklish in the small of his back or that he is so proud when he takes half a dozen steps while I am watching. Instead, his pediatrician labeled him “cautious” because he didn’t pounce on a proffered toy.

This is neither my first rodeo nor my first pony, so the list of things he isn’t doing doesn’t worry me. Gianluca is not behind, delayed, or stupid, and a stack of arbitrary questions cannot qualify his intelligence. There is no measure for the spark in his eyes or the joy in his smile. If there were, pediatricians wouldn’t have to ask any questions at all. They would just look at him, just be in his company for five minutes, and congratulate me on having such an amazing boy.

"We believed in a dream and made it come true."

2008-09-05T08:57:00.003-05:00

Did you know that any team who wins the World Cup four times gets to keep the trophy? I had forgotten until now. Brazil was awarded the first trophy, which was stolen and is still missing. The second belongs to Italy, forever. Amen. The picture at left is captioned, "Fabio Cannavaro receives the Cup from Joseph Blatter." Excerpts from the article on Gazzetta dello Sport below:

FLORENCE, 2 September 2008 - For the first time, a national side displays on their shirts a logo reflecting one of their achievements: for Lippi's lads, it will be a special memory. It's a logo that will identify the reigning world champions: the world cup on a white background, with the words FIFA World Champions 2006. "It has never happened before and this shows how much FIFA cares about Italy," said Abete, president of FIGC.

(In case anyone was wondering what I want for my birthday, a-hem.)

Here is Joseph Blatter, FIFA's number one: "The champions deserve special recognition. The Italian side are the first ones to have it; the logo will be on their blue shirts at least until 2010. The players who have that logo on their shirts will have extra motivation." Then came a round of applause, requested by Blatter, who complimented Italy.

The squad and the coaching staff were also present in the ceremony. The captain Cannavaro found some time to talk about a rematch: "The experience in Germany changed all our lives. We believed in a dream and made it come true. We have won a magical cup. However, we have another chance at it now; the chance to silence everyone. This is why I invite president Blatter to hand over the cup to me. He can do that now." After which, FIFA President (who left his place in Berlin to Johansson), stood up and handed the World Cup (that was behind both of them) over to the Italian captain: "It's never too late to do well," smiled Blatter.

Dear Bulldog Hockey Mom,

2008-09-04T16:57:00.005-05:00

Dear Bulldog Hockey Mom,

Your inclusion on the McCain ticket is supposed to appeal to my kind. Like you, I am a woman, I have a career, and I have a family that means the world to me. However, you do not speak to or for me. You do not speak for any woman with a brain and a conscience. Your views are harmful and hypocritical and delivered in a tone both vicious and demeaning. I watched your speech at the Republican National Convention last night. It was a roof-raiser: the snarkier your remarks, the louder the applause. Noticeably absent, however, were your ultra-conservative right-wing views on social reform.

Among many ridiculous things, you support abstinence-only education, banning access to and information concerning contraception in schools. That trite ideal of yours is awfully hard to defend while you parade your big-bellied teenage daughter on national television. Like a true Republican, in the face of overwhelming contrary evidence, you refuse to admit a mistake or change your opinion. Since you want to impose your lunatic ideals on my family, I feel at liberty to point out how they failed you. How proud you must be of withholding information from your own daughter that could have changed her life, let’s be honest, for the better. Teen pregnancy is a life setback that can indeed be overcome, but it is nothing to aspire to, don’t you think, Grandma?

Second, you want to outlaw abortion, even in cases of rape or incest. You believe that a woman who did not even consent to sex should not have the right to terminate any resulting pregnancy. That’s mighty compassionate of you. But you’re being marketed as the soul of compassion for choosing to have a baby that you knew beforehand had Down’s Syndrome. That is not your badge of honor; it was your decision, and it does not make you more pious than a woman who would choose differently. I disagree with the choice to carry a baby with known genetic defects to term. However, I would never in a million years make that decision for any uterus but my own. I wish you and the rich, old, white men of your party would adopt the same attitude.

Speaking of your precious fifth child, is it in his best interest that you become vice president of this country? I do not disagree that a father can care for an infant just as capably as its mother, but in the first couple of years, a baby bonds with its mother more. Come on, you’ve had four previous kids, you KNOW that. You also know this baby will need you more than your others did. In addition, you have pledged your full support to your teenage daughter, who is due to give birth in four months. Lady, where will you find the time?

You are not more of a woman for seeking such a lofty position of power at this time in your life; you are less of one.

Sincerely,
Quattro Stelle

My Donkey Kicked the Lipstick off Your Bulldog.

I’m going to shrink him down and put him in my pocket.

2008-08-27T11:37:00.002-05:00

Paolo has been a worry lately. He underwent surgery to remove his adenoids the week before last; a relatively simple procedure with a short recovery time. Only he didn’t recover. He felt worse each passing day, and I called his surgeon on day five (his first day of school). The doctor had us bring Paolo in immediately and then sent him for an X-ray to look for spinal cord inflammation, a rare but serious complication from the surgery. After a tense day and a half, it turned out Paolo’s spinal cord was not infected, and he does NOT in fact have the one-in-ten-thousand syndrome we thought he might have, which can lead to paralysis or death. "Tense" isn't really the right word. Is there a word for when your brain starts to process that your child might truly be in trouble and you feel like you're at the bottom of a dark, heavy ocean breathing through a straw? It felt like that. Paolo finished his 10-day regimen of mega-dose antibiotics, and he feels great. Sam and I are still surfacing. It takes a while for the stain of such strong panic to wash off completely.

The first week of kindergarten was overshadowed by the specter of Paolo’s illness, so this second week feels more like a celebration. Tuesday I dropped him off, which was a big disappointment to him because he wants to ride bikes to school with his daddy every day. I’m losing ground to supercool dad, but the baby still likes me more. Sam went to pick Paolo up at 3:00, but Paolo never came to the designated pick-up spot. Sam watched other kids meet their waiting parents until he was the only one left. He went down to Paolo’s classroom, but it was empty. He started checking other rooms until a teacher, whose room he poked his head in, asked to help. She suggested Paolo might be with the kids at the car pick-up, so Sam headed outside. Paolo wasn’t there, and he wasn’t on the playground.

Just then, the helpful teacher caught up with Sam to tell him Paolo had been transferred to another school. Mystery solved! She explained that Paolo was one of the students who got bussed across town due to the overcrowding in the kindergarten classes. At this point, Sam had had enough. With dwindling calm, he assured this woman that Paolo attends THIS school. He was dropped off HERE this morning. He is NOT a transfer, and she was WRONG. She continued to argue with him and called over a male teacher for backup, because the intimidating father with a baby on his hip wouldn’t leave without his son. Finally, someone found Paolo’s teacher, who had mistakenly sent him to after-school care. Paolo was in the gym about to have a snack with the other kids, having no idea that he’d been lost for half an hour.

Paolo recently got his own library card, and he couldn’t be prouder. He carried it around for hours until he decided to store it in his Transformers wallet. As I watched him slip the bright yellow card snugly inside the pocket, I wished I could do that with him: fold him up and keep him close to me, away from harm. We gave him to a doctor, and he ended up with a scary infection. We gave him to a teacher, and she misplaced him. I want him to grow, I want him to experience life unencumbered by apron strings, but sometimes I want him back.

Elementary school is the bee's knees.

2008-08-19T11:39:00.006-05:00

Let me get this straight: after five years of crippling daycare registration, tuition, and supply fees, I can leave my son here with you for free. I owe you zero dollars, yes? And he’ll be supervised by people with education degrees, his teachers won’t change every other week, and the school will not pack up and move to another town. Sounds marvelous. Here, have my kid. Nope, I don’t need a moment to collect myself.

Paolo, welcome to Kindergarten. Be good, hang loose, see you at 3:00.

Holding it Together, but Barely

2008-08-11T11:40:00.004-05:00

Great changes are afoot, and many things are conspiring to keep me on my toes. I do not like to be on my toes. I like my feet to be planted solidly, nay, bolted down with metal rivets to giant steel girders of non-change.

I finally registered Gianluca at a new daycare after weeks of deliberation. I had it narrowed down to two, and the last tour I went on clinched it. The director actually thought she could intimidate me. She began by telling me what would get me and my child kicked out of the school; she danced around my question about staff turnover by admitting her reputation for being insanely strict; and closed by saying her program was too good for the state of Arkansas, so she had no intention of meeting state guidelines to be labeled a quality-approved school. Check this, Frau Crazystein, if I’m giving you my kid, I’M the one telling YOU how things are going to be. YOU will fear ME, and you will jump to meet MY standards. That’s how this works. The daycare I chose is moving to a newly constructed building, which is good because their current building needs to be razed. They’re hoping to move at the end of this week, but aren’t sure. So I don’t know where Gianluca’s first day will be yet.

As for Paolo, his pedo-partial broke again, so he’s missing his front teeth until a week after he starts school. (I’ll skip over the dentist visit where they took an impression of his teeth while he gagged and screamed and I cried, and then they had to do it again.) Poor Paolo is also scheduled for surgery this Wednesday to remove his adenoids and put in another set of ear tubes. So it’s really helpful that his school moved its Kindergarten popsicle party to Wednesday evening, because I’m sure he’ll be in the mood to socialize. Maybe he could get a Vicodin pop, and share with his mama. I also just found out he is starting school next Monday, not next Wednesday as we were told at registration. I had to call the school to find this out. I guess this is not information that merits distribution.

Paolo is over-the-moon excited about starting Kindergarten and soccer next week. He’s got his school supplies, a new backpack and lunchbox, and the cutest pair of soccer cleats in existence. He’s also fortunate to have a dad who remains unstressed by all this upheaval and kindly uncurls his mama’s fingers every night.

House of Louse

2008-08-04T15:19:00.002-05:00

I got the dreaded phone call last week: come get your kid; he’s got lice. No, not the five-year-old, the BABY. Clearly, I thought, he’s been hanging with the dirty kid in the baby room. Except he was the only kid who had it, so he IS the dirty kid in the baby room. Damn. I can’t even blame it on Forrest Gump, who is now on my shit list for biting Gianluca twice. Lucky for Forrest, it’s beneath even me to exact retribution on a baby with leg braces.

The lice situation definitely stole my thunder as I handed the director my one-week’s notice. In the letter, I complained that the daycare center had moved to a crime-infested barrio, and I would not have child molesters yards away from my babies. Still, it was an uncomfortable paradox to declare that my boys are too good for the place while removing them before they gave other kids bugs.

Once home I washed sheets, pillows, blankets, carseat and highchair covers, and vacuumed anything too big to fit in the washer. That night we resembled a monkey house at the zoo, taking turns checking each other’s scalp for intruders. Three days, fifty gallons of scalding water, and seven hours of nit-combing later, the lice count is one bug (removed at daycare) and two eggs that I combed off the baby. Are we done? Is a lice episode of this minortude even possible? Maybe they’re regrouping for an infestation of epic proportions. Does my nape itch?

Northwest Arkansas Crime Report, July 22-24, 2008

2008-07-28T16:42:00.015-05:00

July 22, 9:12 a.m. A woman at 10910 S.E. Campbell Road, Fayetteville, reported a male acquaintance keeps calling, telling her how high he is and that he won’t give her father’s chain saw back.
Could this be why?:

7: 31 p.m. A woman at Ultimate Tan, 1810 W. Sunset Ave., reported a man exposed himself to her.

That was a misunderstanding. He just really, really hates tan lines.

July 23, 7:26 a.m. A woman at 16185 Osborn Road, Winslow, reported a man took a bus from her mother’s yard that was full of her mother’s belongings and it’s sitting in front of the TNT Diner.
5: 23 p.m. A caller at 11122 Cannon Road, Lincoln, reported parts stolen off of several vehicles parked on their property.

You think the people whose houses resemble ships floating on a sea of crap don’t know what’s in their yards and might even be pleased if some of it should disappear. You are incorrect. Also, TNT Diner is the best greasy spoon name ever, edging out Terry’s House of Heartburn. It’s always nice when a dining establishment lets you know what will happen to your insides should you eat there.

July 24, 9:11 p.m. A woman on Southeast A Street reported her ex-boyfriend broke into her residence, ate her food and had been in her bed.
10:01 p.m. A man at 2552 E. Neely Road reported he left his door unlocked and someone trashed the residence and ate his food.

Their porridge was juuuuust right.

A battle of wills in which no one wins

2008-07-25T08:44:00.004-05:00

At daycare this morning, we were in the baby room dropping off Gianluca. Paolo was playing chase with a kid in there who has Forrest-Gump-style leg braces. The kid is a ball of sunshine and damn quick for having to lug those things around. As I was finishing up getting Luca settled, I told Paolo he had to let the baby catch him once before we left the room.

No.

Yes.

No.

Yes. That is how you be nice to babies, and you will be nice to this baby. Now.

No.

By this time, since Paolo was standing still, the baby wasn’t chasing him anymore. I told Paolo to say goodbye to the baby so we could go to Paolo’s classroom.

No.

Say. Goodbye. To. The. Baby.

No.

I had no idea this was a hill Paolo was prepared to die on. I threatened the first thing that came to mind: I told him I’d take his swim clothes with me so he couldn’t participate in Water Day with his classmates. He made a tragic face but wouldn’t budge. I scolded, cajoled, counted to three, and then gave up and pushed him out of the baby room. I don’t even want to know what the two teachers in there thought of our ridiculous exchange. There we were fighting to the death over social niceties between a five-year-old and a baby with the attention span of a goldfish. I knew how little it mattered, but once it started, I couldn’t back down. “Consistency in Parenting” and all that.

In Paolo’s classroom, I explained that I wouldn’t take his swim gear with me, but I WOULD take his “ticket.” He’d found a dollar bill on the sidewalk yesterday and was eagerly waiting for the weekend to buy a toy with it. Well, that started the tears. I hated doing this. I HATED it. I hated myself, I hated parenting, I hated this stupid situation. So I did something I’m pretty sure a better parent wouldn’t have. I asked Paolo, if he had one more chance, would he do things differently, would he say goodbye to that baby? I was prepared to take him back into the baby room, let him grunt at little Forrest, and all would be forgiven. But what was Paolo’s response, through his lost-ticket tears? No.

The longest three minutes of my life

2008-07-03T09:45:00.007-05:00

I had just finished my afternoon pumping session and walked out of my designated room to return to my desk. A wonderful, engaged co-worker of mine was standing a couple feet away with her fiancée, who was in town so they could get their marriage license. I had never met him, but I am very fond of my co-worker, and from what she has shared, he sounds like a great guy. I politely shook his hand and introduced myself. He smiled, introduced himself and began to small-talk. His eyes gleamed. Wait, was one eye gleaming more than the other? Why is that one eye so shiny? Maybe he’s allergic, or emotional. Shit, is that a glass eye? Whoa! Glass Eye! No, surely it’s not, or is it? He kept turning his face away while he was talking and I couldn’t get a good enough look at it. It’s incredibly rude to stare at someone, ESPECIALLY if you’re trying to sort out whether they have a prosthetic body part, but damn it, YOU try to look away from a glass eye. It can’t be done.

The whole time I’m arguing with myself about whether or not this delightful man that my co-worker is in love with has a fancy marble in his eye socket (not that there’s anything wrong with that), this delightful man has been talking to me. And I have not heard a word. I tuned back in just in time to hear, “So where are you headed?” I assumed he had confused me with another co-worker who is moving, so I explained that I was the one staying behind. Both he and his fiancée stared at me like I’d lost my mind. I got the feeling that tidbit had been mentioned while I was zoned out. My co-worker said helpfully, “No, I think he’s talking about the bag you’re carrying. It looks like you’re heading out.” Oh, right, my bag, my pump bag, my “discreet,” enormous, ugly, black bag containing my electric breast pump and newly expressed breast milk. Oh, that. My brain got sucked into a black hole of embarrassment, and I couldn’t speak. My helpful co-worker jumped in again and stumbled her way through an explanation while I stood there like an idiot, nodding and mouth-breathing.

Then, unsurprisingly, it was time for the happy couple to go. Ever the gentleman, the fiancée said it had been great to meet me (and my breast milk). Oh, it was implied in the awkward way he could no longer meet my eyes and didn't reach to shake my hand, presumably covered in breast milk gore. "Yes," I agreed, "it was nice to meet you, too" (and your glass eye).

How to scare the peas and carrots out of an overprotective mother

2008-06-26T11:50:00.002-05:00

“A cute thing happened when I was at the grocery store with the boys. An old man started talking to Paolo and told him he’d been waiting all day to give a little boy a cookie. So Paolo went with him over to the bakery, and the guy let him pick out any cookie he wanted.”

“Um, Sam. Are you saying that you let Paolo go off with some random old guy who promised him sweets? Because that’s like Lesson One of Stranger Danger.”

“Oh, right, no, NO. The guy works there, and I told Paolo it was okay. He never left my sight! It was totally harmless. I guess I left out some parts of the story, huh?

“Yuh-huh.”

They don't call it rocket for nothing

2008-06-26T08:45:00.003-05:00

Sam made a new dish a few nights ago, involving grilled portabella mushrooms, sliced tomatoes, and arugula stacked on ciabatta bread. The recipe called for the arugula to be dressed with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Sam presented the bowl of arugula to me and asked me to check it for salt/pepper deficiencies. I popped a leaf in my mouth and told him not to add a thing to the mixture. Arugula is a BYOB green: it brings its own bam. Sam looked at me doubtfully, so I told him to partake. He chewed thoughtfully for a few seconds, and then his eyes popped out of his head. "Aaaaaagh! This is like eating poison ivy," he exclaimed while sucking air. "Don't be silly. You're just getting that peppery finish," I said. "No, dude. I'm here trying to have a nice meal, and someone came along and sprayed mace in the back of my throat."

Tell me he couldn't have his own cooking show.

But what about the children?

2008-06-20T09:32:00.010-05:00

We have the same child, at two different ages. I thought Luca might be a different sort of kid, but then his hair turned blonde, and I knew. Luca has joined his brother in the 25th weight percentile, having decided that eating is overrated. At mealtimes, Luca's high chair sits next to Paolo's chair. I suspect this is a mistake. Do I really want Luca to model his table manners after Paolo, licking ketchup off his plate, agonizing over every tiny bite, begging to be finished, fake-gagging on his mashed potatoes? This is the same boy who has to be told repeatedly to stop taking the baby's food off the high chair tray. They both do that: they'll eat anything that isn't theirs. You know what else they do simultaneously? The dinnertime bowel movement. I'll be right in the middle of yelling at them to eat when one hotfoots it to the bathroom and the other one bears down.

Luca learned to crawl about three weeks ago. Not to be outdone, Paolo learned to crawl down the stairs headfirst. It's very Spiderman. To be honest, I'm a little disappointed at the baby's crawling. I had an all-too-brief spell of freedom between the sitting up and the crawling. I could plant the baby in the living room with bright, fun toys in arms' reach, and he was cool. Now, I sit the baby down, and he crawls after me. This is cute for about five minutes. When he does not crawl after me, he crawls over to pull the fan down on himself or choke on his brother's Legos.

Sam and I have lost the ability to baby-proof. When Paolo was a baby, we owned a chair, a TV, maybe a lamp. All the toys were Paolo's and, thus, baby-friendly. Now we have furniture, electronics with tasty, chewable cords, sharp Power Ranger spinners, microscopic Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle daggers. When I look around at all the things in our house endangering a curious baby, I am ashamed and overwhelmed. We're not completely irresponsible, however. We've got Paolo acting as our baby-getting-into-trouble alert system. Is that wrong? He's really good at letting me know when Luca has pulled the vent cover out of the floor, and he is especially indignant when Luca has a superhero in his mouth. They are brothers, after all.

Nobody told me there'd be a trophy

2008-06-11T17:00:00.003-05:00

T-ball season is behind us, and we kicked it out the door with a party at Steak n Shake Monday night. Hooray for our awesome team sponsor! (Give me a free chocolate shake, and I’ll cheer for you, too.) It was a really nice gesture by some really nice people, so I had no business being there. However, I have children now, and I keep the snark to myself even if I have to choke on it. The game face stays on, people, the face that says I put in real effort to get the grass/clay stains out of T-ball pants and I love to watch Oprah, too, yes I do.

I had the good fortune to sit across from a lady who made her two boys pray over their meal before digging in. Oh Lord, bless these thy chicken fingers, which we are about to baptize in ranch sauce in thy holy name. Amen. Further chatting revealed she home-schools them both, which would explain the bizarre quizzing of the older boy about the origin of the hamburger. I’m not sure what would explain her younger son’s name, Gunner. We had the inevitable conversation about my boys’ names and mispronunciation, wherein she complained that she has trouble with people not getting Gunner’s name right. Even her relatives want to call him Hunter, and she doesn’t understand why. That is really odd, I agreed. Maybe it’s because his name is Gunner, and “Gunner” belongs in the Future Felons of America, along with Shooter Wayne, Cash, Wesson, and Remington.* I did not say that but, oh boy, I thought it.

I cleared the Jesus-freak-home-schooler hurdle intact and turned my attention to the coaches for the trophy presentation. The assistant coach began his speech, but then sort of hunched over and covered his face. At first I thought he was having a heart attack, but it turned out he was weeping…from the emotion…of T-ball. To fill the uncomfortable silence while he composed himself, his wife whispered, “He’s very emotional. He really wears his heart on his sleeve.” That’s fine, I can handle a man who cries, but did YOUR team just suffer a historic loss in the European championship today? Did YOUR team go from World Champions to laughingstocks in the space of 90 minutes? No. Get a grip on yourself, man. If I can hold back the tears, SO CAN YOU.

On to the important part – Paolo got a trophy! With his name on it! And I can burn the white T-ball pants that tortured me so and marked Paolo as having a mom who doesn’t love him. We’ll also be hanging up the T-ball hat, since, as my father-in-law pointed out, anyone named VeryGermanLastName shouldn’t be walking around in a hat emblazoned with SS. That man cracks me up. We have the same sense of humor, and I never have to pretend with him. Although I guarantee he would have gotten those damn pants clean. Probably a closet Oprah watcher.

*I searched a couple baby name websites before it occurred to me to check my own hometown newspaper for birth announcements. In a single issue I found the above, along with some candidates for Future Pole-Dancers of America: Jazmyn, Jorja, Au’Bri, Swiston Shea, and Brooklyn Rain.

Storing some junk in the trunk

2008-06-04T10:27:00.003-05:00

"This is what I tell the younger guys at the bike shop: women are like elephants."

"Go on."

"They forgive, but they never forget. So, watch what you say."

"Like maybe don't call them elephants?"

What I'm Reading: Haven Kimmel

2008-06-04T10:10:00.005-05:00

If you don't know Haven Kimmel, you should meet her. Start at the beginning with her first work, A Girl Name Zippy: Growing up Small in Mooreland, Indiana. In these autobiographical snapshots, Kimmel manages something every writer struggles with: to write honestly about her family without hurting them or making them hate you. The stories are hilarious, touching, and identifiable. You know these people; you remember these childhood feelings of joy, embarrassment, frustration, and silliness. The Kimmels' story continues in She Got up Off the Couch: and Other Heroic Acts from Mooreland, Indiana. These bittersweet tales focus mainly on Kimmel's mother, a woman who put her life on hold for her family and then takes it back. Know anyone like that? Thought so.

The great thing about Haven Kimmel is that her fiction is amazing, too. The Solace of Leaving Early is stunning. Kimmel attended seminary, and faith and religion are major themes in this novel. Kimmel's contemplations are intellectual and inconclusive, which I appreciate because you cannot get to the bottom of religion, any religion. Reason will take you only so far, and then you have to take a leap of faith...or not, because you have better ways to spend your time. As little as I care for spirituality, I enjoyed these meditations immensely. The Used World, her latest, is another exercise in awesome and features the reappearance of several of her Solace characters. To round out her list of works is Something Rising (Light and Swift), which I'm reading now.

Italy lose captain Cannavaro

2008-06-04T10:10:00.004-05:00

Oh, no.

Hounded by the Paparazzi

2008-05-30T15:34:00.006-05:00

This is us on Memorial Day at the park. We were in the paper! I didn't see the copy, but it probably said something about how we're the cutest family in Northwest Arkansas.

http://www.printroom.com/ViewGallery.asp?userid=nwa0nl1n3&gallery_id=1098570

"When you make it to Google Earth, you've arrived."

2008-05-30T11:11:00.016-05:00

I added the pictures, but the story is pure, unadulterated Arkansas.

SPRINGDALE : Rooftop plane makes last flight off McDonald’s
BY ROBERT J. SMITH
Posted on Friday, May 30, 2008

SPRINGDALE — An engineless airplane on the roof of a Mc-Donald’s propelled its last customers through the restaurant’s front door on Thursday.

Owners Bill Mathews and Walter Mathews are removing the Piper Seneca that’s rested on metal posts above the roof since the store opened in 1994.

Two factors led to the decision: The fast-food chain encouraged the brothers to remodel their local restaurants, and liability became a concern after a rudder snapped off in high wind three months ago.

“The restaurant is going to be a ‘Forever Young’ design,” said Bill Mathews, referring to the chain’s current branding campaign. “That plane was showing its wear.”

Customers and store employees were disappointed to see the plane with Ronald Mc-Donald riding proudly on the fuselage lifted by a crane and put down on the parking lot. The restaurant was closed temporarily while the crane moved the plane.

“When they do something like this, people ought to have a right to vote on it,” said Audrey Harris, a Springdale resident who eats breakfast at the McDonald’s every Thursday. “That’s how we tell people where to turn to get to our house. It’s a landmark. Now, what am I supposed to do?”

Indeed, the restaurant most commonly referred to as the “airplane McDonald’s” just down the road from the Springdale Municipal Airport has served as a regional compass for years, guiding people to the used car lots, pizza restaurants and other businesses on Robinson Avenue east of Arkansas 265.

The brothers knew their store, with its unique decoration, had become a landmark for locals and businesses.

“It’s served its purpose,” Walter Mathews said. “It’s like one of your kids growing up and going off to college.”

Still, Bertha Murillo fretted about getting customers to her job at a neighboring used car lot.

“We’re going to have a harder time giving directions to people who call,” said Murillo, who works at the Pine Meadow Auto Plex. “We don’t even have to say we’re on East Robinson Avenue because everyone knows where that McDonald’s is.”

A giant chicken and turkey just up the street in front of Four State Poultry Supply Inc. might be just the ticket for those seeking a different compass. Each standing 14 feet tall, the fiberglass birds are nearly a mile west of the airplane McDonald’s and have been in place for 30 years.

“If you go to Google Earth on the Internet, it’s a big chicken and big turkey that’s on there in Springdale,” said Ron Day, one of the supply company’s owners. “It doesn’t say ‘airplane.’ When you make it to Google Earth, you’ve arrived.”

Popeye, a statue near the Allen Canning Co. plant on Thompson Avenue, declined comment.

The McDonald’s corporate honchos knew of the rooftop airplane. A vice president from Dallas often commented about it, telling Bill Mathews “you Mathews boys are nuts” when the topic came up.

Walter Mathews, a former aircraft mechanic, pieced the halfton plane together from parts found at a salvage yard near Kansas City, Mo., with the propellers purchased in Clinton.

Five's been a little bit hard on me

2008-05-28T13:29:00.010-05:00

"Transformers! No one meets the skies," Paolo's voice piped through the house. I joined in, singing the actual lyrics from the cartoon's theme song. Silly me, I'd forgotten that nothing pisses off a five-year-old like being corrected. In a rude, condescending voice, my know-it-all son told me how very, very wrong I was about the whole thing. Robots in disguise? Hah! The song says no such thing. Paolo lectured me slowly, enunciating each word of the bungled lyrics like he was explaining 'sit' to a mildly retarded puppy. A nerve in my left eyeball started to twitch. "Listen, Paolo, I'm pretty smart...," I began. Paolo interruped, "I'm pretty smart, too. I know how to spell play. P-L-A-Y. I know things!"

It was late, and I was waltzing the baby to sleep in Paolo's room because he can't fall asleep alone. (Yes, I wrote waltzing, not walking. Gianluca has been having a lot of trouble falling asleep lately, with screaming and bucking. For whatever reason, my hurky-jerky attempt at ballroom dancing does the trick. Call me Twinkletoes.) So. Between the fussy, floppy, tired baby and the willful five-year-old noise machine, I was on edge. I barked at Paolo, who was lying on his bed sideways with his legs up the wall, to LAY DOWN. He told me no. I walked out of his room and closed the door behind me. He immediately got out of bed and ran to open the door. I was waiting on the other side, furious-faced, and demanded, "Do you say no to me?" Paolo started to answer, but couldn't because I had asked him an impossible question. He had such a perfect oh-shit expression on his face, I couldn't help but erupt with laughter.

I like Five, I do, but it wears me out. Five is literal, scatter-brained, clever, infuriating and hilarious. Five can make me so mad my skin vibrates. But just when Five is making me re-evaluate my stance on corporal punishment, Five says or does something that makes me smile, totally undermining the impression I'm trying to make of how much trouble he's in. I'm figuring out that I don't need to fight the urge to enjoy a moment of levity with my kid. I need to relish those moments.

Azzurri squad announced for Euro 2008

2008-05-21T11:11:00.003-05:00

Goalkeepers: Buffon, Amelia, De Sanctis
Defenders: Barzagli, Cannavaro, Chiellini, Grosso, Materazzi, Panucci, Zambrotta
Midfielders: Ambrosini, Gattuso, Aquilani, Camoranesi, De Rossi, Perrotta, Montolivo and Pirlo
Forwards: Toni, Borriello, Del Piero, Di Natale, Quagliarella, Cassano

There are three, THREE Fabios in the lineup. Have I mentioned already...? Yeah, I have.

All in all, I'm pleased with the lineup. I'm disappointed with the exclusion of Pippo Inzaghi in favor of Antonio Cassano. Cassano's a big baby, and Pippo's a pro. Pippo is a cherrypicker and has never scored a pretty goal in his career, but you know what? They all count, even the ugly ones he scores with his knee cap or his ear.

There are two words that explain why I'm not too stressed about our forwards: Luca and Toni. Toni, who broke my heart by moving to Bayern Munich last season, helped his club win the Bundesliga title and finished as the league's top scorer with 24 goals in 31 appearances. Perhaps the national side lost God but found Jesus.

Two years ago when Italy brought home the World Cup, I said I didn't care if they ever won anything else. I almost meant that.

Stimulate this!

2008-05-16T16:26:00.015-05:00

We finally got a Wii, which we've been trying to find since December. We don't have any games except the sports pack it comes with because Wii games are freaking expensive! Luckily, all GameCube games work on Wii, so Paolo and I are still plugging away at Paper Mario and revisiting Lego Star Wars (the greatest game ever made). The sports games are fun, but Paolo won't play boxing anymore since he got knocked out. He takes things like that very personally. Speaking of Lego video games, there's a Lego Indiana Jones AND a Lego Batman coming out soon. I'm totally hyperventilating just contemplating that. At some point, we also need to replace our GameCube Lego Star Wars with the Wii version because you use your remotes AS THE LIGHT SABERS.

Dear IRS, could you mail our stimulus payment soon?

Actually, that payment is going to stimulate some medical bills, stimulate me a new windshield, and anything left over is going to stimulate our savings account. In short, I will do the opposite of what the government wants me to do with this money. I will use it to pay off our recent emergencies and sock the rest of it away for the next time the cosmos takes a dump on us. As much as I'd like to pay $50.00 for a brand new video game, I'll wait to find it used. The sagging economy is just going to have to suck it.

No time for love, Dr. Jones.

The Alchemist

2008-05-09T11:18:00.009-05:00

I'm about three months behind initiating a discussion for my book club on The Alchemist, by Paulo Coelho. I considered getting up the gumption today since it's pretty slow at work, but instead I'll combine a post and a discussion point because I'M A MULTI-TASKER. I've been hung up on a line from the book, "And, when you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it." (Now, isn't that sweet? The whole book is like that: fulfilling your personal destiny, not abandoning your dreams, and trusting that all of the natural and spiritual world has your back.) This poetically worded concept is actually quite common. Most people call an unlikely event "happy coincidence" when it's favorable and "Murphy's Law" when it's not.

What the book does not address is the worth of the "something" being sought. Santiago, the shepherd boy in The Alchemist, is seeking treasure. Is that a worthy quest or merely avarice? What about people with truly laudable quests, like curing cancer, who don't seem to be getting anywhere? Conversely, people throughout history with rotten dreams, like genocide, can be quite successful. Are they getting help from the universe? Should they be? Chew on that, book club, and email me your thoughts.

And now I segue into what's going on in my life and what I have been wanting: sleep. For such a harmless goal, you'd think the universe could help me out. Indeed, it is working against me. There are many things that disturb a baby's sleep. Currently, my baby is experiencing three of them: teething pain, illness, developmental milestones. Over the past several weeks, Gianluca cut three new teeth. Babies are SUPPOSED to get two teeth at a time every two months, starting at 5-6 months old. I have an eight-month-old with seven teeth. And since teeth come in pairs, there's another on the way.

On top of that, he contracted a mean cold that went straight to his lungs. It sucks holding a baby down to force his asthma meds. It sucks sitting in a steamy bathroom at 3:00 A.M. It sucks even more watching your baby struggle to breathe, his body jerking as he sleeps. He's getting better though. A few more days ought to do it.

The third sleep-destroyer is actually awesome. Luca is learning to pull himself to a standing position, as well as learning to crawl. Right now, it's more of a backwards scoot, but he'll get there. Who can sleep when there's potential for pitching over the side of the crib? [Note to self: lower crib mattress.] So I'm still not sold on Personal Legends, but I think my baby is dabbling in alchemy. He has managed to turn sleep deprivation into gold.

Northwest Arkansas Crime Report April 24-26, 2008

2008-04-28T16:38:00.007-05:00

April 24 6:08 p.m. A caller at Cracker Barrel, 1022 S. 48th St., reported a couple being intimate in a vehicle behind the business.
Who knew country-fried steak and meatloaf were aphrodisiacs? They got a double helping of love gravy.

April 25 9:44 a.m. A caller at Applebee’s Neighborhood Grill, 528 N. 47th St., reported identity theft.
Impersonation of local eatery wherein cooks prepare freshly purchased food items on a stove.

2:25 p.m. A man on Southwest A Street reported a woman causing a scene.
Heaven help us, baby’s got her blue jeans on.

3:57 p.m. A woman at Bible Believers Book Store, 130 Spring St., reported a theft.
Too easy.

April 26 6:40 p.m. A woman at 1801 Anthony Drive reported someone draining Freon from her air-conditioning system.
She went on to report her suspicion of someone stealing gas out of her car. Every time she gets in her car, the fuel gauge is a little lower than before. And also, a person in a safari hat driving a small white truck keeps opening her mailbox.

A Whole Hand

2008-04-21T13:34:00.012-05:00

My eldest turned five years old or, as he put it with fingers outspread, he made it to a whole hand. To celebrate, we threw him a party. I chose his favorite park as the locale and reserved the gazebo in case of rain. It didn't rain, as it happens, because the clouds were too cold to cry. There was a cold snap on the day of the party that drove the temperature down to a balmy 41 degrees. What could I do? I dressed Paolo in three layers of clothing and away we went. I'm not sure what was more disheartening: noticing tiny snow flurries as we got out of the car or trying to prepare Paolo for the likelihood that none of his friends were going to show up.

So we laid the table with cake and cookies, hung the piñata, and lined up the thermoses of hot chocolate. And then a miracle happened. People started showing up. I greeted each new arrival with, "Thank you so much for coming. Are you crazy? It's freezing out here!" I decided that was preferable to what I really felt like doing each time I saw a little person toting a present down the hill from the parking lot - grabbing the parent in a bear hug, burying my head in his/her neck and whispering, "thank you for making my little boy happy." That might have been weird, no?

As kids get older, parents can do less and less to protect them from disappointment. I'm learning that I have to rely on the kindness of others sometimes. Whether it's a patient T-ball coach, an inspiring teacher, or a parent who brings her child to the park on a freezing day in April, we all have a hand in producing happy childhoods. I know I'll think twice now before I throw away another of Paolo's classmate's birthday party invitations. It's a pretty big deal when your kid makes it to a whole hand, and he should get to walk away from it with good memories. And speaking of Paolo's whole hand, it's marvelous how comfortably my whole heart fits in its palm.

T-ball or die

2008-04-11T11:23:00.000-05:00

Paolo is playing T-ball this year in a non-competitive, everyone's-just-here-to-have-fun league. That being said, these people are morbidly serious about their T-ball. I had an inkling they meant business when they demanded a copy of Paolo's birth certificate at registration. I can understand needing proof of age to weed out the "ten-year-olds" with mustaches, but who is lying about their five-year-old?

Of course there was a snafu with registration because we mailed in his birth certificate separately, and he was put on the roster of two teams. Our fault, naturally, for giving him such a common name. After communicating with both coaches, my matter was referred to the Vice President of Five-Year-Olds. How cute: T-ball bureacracy! I explained to Mister T-ball which team I preferred for scheduling reasons. He agreed that Paolo should be placed on my preferred team, but before he could approve the roster, he would have to contact the OTHER Vice President of Five-Year-Olds. There is more than one holder of this esteemed office. After all, one vice president would be inadequate to administer the complexities of five-year-old T-ball. Case in point, poor Paolo who was on two teams and is now on none. We need PEOPLE on this, for crying out loud.

Several unnecessary communications later, Paolo got approval to stay on his team, and I took him to his second practice. The coach emailed Sam the following day asking why Paolo had been at his practice, seeing as how he isn't on that team. I know! I laughed, too, right before I beat my head against my desk.

It's all sorted out now, and Paolo's first game is tomorrow afternoon. Sam took him outside last night to practice catching. They were back about five minutes later with blood gushing from Paolo's nose due to a flubbed catch. I heart T-ball.

All this Bliss

2008-04-11T10:50:00.005-05:00

"There's a barstool out there somewhere with my name on it, but that's another Sam in a different life."

"Well, that Sam is sad and lonely."

"I'm better at that."

"Is all this bliss cramping your style?"

"It is. It's beating me down."

Sky Rockets in Flight

2008-03-28T16:39:00.005-05:00

Me: Great, I have Puff the Magic Dragon stuck in my head.

Melissa: You know that song is actually about getting high.

Me: No, it's not! It's a movie, with a cartoon dragon and a boy named Jackie Paper.

Melissa: The song came before the movie. It's one of those songs that sound all innocent, but are really about something...else, like Afternoon Delight.

Me: *gagging* God, that song fills my head with visions of dirty hippies getting busy.

Melissa: Smelling like patchouli...

Me: Yeah, dirty hippies knocking patchoulis.

Brotherhood

2008-03-28T12:12:00.003-05:00

The boys and I were outside enjoying one of the year’s first warm days. Paolo had the awesome idea of chalking targets on the driveway to bomb with water balloons. We were sketching bad guys from Paper Mario, naturally, when Paolo’s chalk jumped out of his hand mid-stroke and started rolling away. He swiveled on his knee to grab for it, which was a bad idea considering he was wearing shorts. He began to cry and carry on about his scraped knee and the tiny drops of BLOOD, dear Jesus, the BLOOD. Suddenly Gianluca, who had been perfectly content in my arms, started to cry. “Paolo, you have to stop crying. You’re making your baby brother cry,” I told him. In an instant, Paolo stopped crying, and a moment later, the baby stopped.

The two brothers stared at each other with identical solemn expressions.

“See? Gianluca was crying because he knew you were sad. He already loves you.” As ridiculous as that should have sounded to a four-year-old, Paolo nodded in wonder, never taking his eyes off his brother. The strangest feeling washed over me, part excitement and part foreboding. I saw my children’s hearts open up to one another; but with love comes vulnerability. When you love someone else, his or her happiness becomes necessary in part for your own happiness. Sam, Paolo, Gianluca, and me: we are all linked to each other now. Whatever happens to one of us happens to us all. It’s scary and beautiful, this family business.

Six-Month Checkup

2008-03-19T14:23:00.007-05:00

Last Friday Gianluca had his six-month checkup. I didn't have any concerns to discuss with the doctor, so Sam took him to the appointment, while I planned to stay home with him in the afternoon. Our baby is happy, relatively healthy, chubby, vocal, energetic: everything a six-month-old baby should be...or is he? When Sam pulled up at my office after the appointment, he looked like he'd been hit by a truck driven by his dead grandmother.

APPARENTLY, Gianluca's ears are infected, and the infection is so bad, his right eardrum ruptured. The doctor scooped out an ungodly amount of wax and crud from the ear canal while Sam watched in horror, and then prescribed an elephant-powerful antibiotic to kill the infection. During the excavation, the doctor was incredulous that we had not noticed the amount of pain our baby has been in.
ALSO, Luca fell off his growth curve, way off. He has gained only one pound in the last three months. That's a problem. Sam explained that we'd been trying to start Luca on solids, but he acts like he's not ready. He cries when he sees the spoon coming and spits out the food. "Keep trying," was the doctor's advice. We'll be mixing his organic rice cereal with lard from now on.
AND THEN, just to lay down the buttercream frosting on the Screw-Your-Parental-Confidence Cake, the doctor pointed out that Gianluca's teeth are coming in wrong. He's supposed to have two up-two down, but he has four on the bottom. Thanks, doc, that was necessary.

In conclusion, our seemingly sweet and content baby is actually suffering from a bubbling cesspool inside his head, starving to death, and possibly a mutant. Good to know.

This is not a love song.

2008-03-13T13:40:00.007-05:00

I’m at the end of my music collection now, so I’m spinning the Various Artists and compilation discs. On my way back from lunch I was listening to a CD that I got with an issue of CMJ (College Music Journal) back in 1996. It took me a minute to figure out why I was rocking out, yet felt like I’d swallowed a bowling ball. Those familiar songs, like they always do, took me back to where I was when the music was new. I could see myself so clearly, stereo at top volume, letting the angry, yearning songs speak for me. I wish I could go back in time and tell that girl not to hurt so bad. Because that boy who is breaking her heart is going to marry her someday and give her two magnificent sons and will love her just as much as she wanted him to.

What would you tell your twenty-year-old self?