The Quilt I Would Have Made for Myself

In my days as a stay-at-home mom, I started quilting. I quilted when I ran for School Board. Cutting fabric and running a sewing machine allowed me to zone out from the hectic and unpredictable campaign.

Since I've started working, I haven't found much time to quilt. In the past few days off of work, I finished a project I had been working on for about a year. I often work on more than one quilting project at a time. The different phases of quilting -- picking fabrics, creating a design, cutting fabric into shapes, assembling the top, quilting and binding-- each have their different appeal and it can be dull to have to do all of those steps them all in the same order every time. Unfortunately, a quilt has to be done in order; therefore, I have more than one project going. Plus, it can be daunting to finish a project without something else to work on.

This week, I finished a quilt. I finished the quilt I would have wanted on my own bed when I was ten. It is full of bright colors and birds and bicycles and flowers and tree houses. It has a green and blue binding. Some people out here might call them Seahawks colors.

Yesterday, I shipped it to my cousin's daughter in Chicago. She is eight. I hope she likes it.

I was sad to ship this quilt off, sadder than when I've shipped off other stuff. I make more stuff than I can use, so I have to get rid of what I make somehow. Claire-Adele didn't want this quilt, and I can't blame her. It is a little too whimsical for someone her age.

The funny thing about quilting is that started the hobby so I could make a quilt from the dresses Claire-Adele wore as a toddler. My mother-in-law lives in Atlanta and would buy Claire-Adele dozens of fancy dresses, so many that I sent her every day to preschool wearing one.

"Please don't worry about the dresses," I said. "Don't let her attire keep her from doing art projects of getting dirty. My mother-in-law buys them and she lives in the south where the clothes are more..."

"Flamboyant?" the teacher replied. I wasn't sure what word I was looking for, but "flamboyant" worked. I gave dozens of Claire-Adele's dresses to friends, family and Goodwill. Some had paint stains, others food. The fabric was too beautiful for me to part with, so I loaded them extra dresses in plastic tubs in the basement so someday they would become a quilt. But I needed to learn to quilt first.

Somewhere in this process, quilting became my hobby and I had almost forgotten about Claire-Adele's dresses in the basement. My goal was to create something for her before she left for college. I fear she won't like what I make, or won't bring it to school. I want to talk to her about patterns, but I fear there will be nothing she likes, and she'll kill the project before it starts. Which begs the question: who am I making this for, me or her?

Perhaps this is the quilt I need to make for myself. And if Claire-Adele wants it someday, I'll let her have it.

Brag and Drag Letter -- Senior in High School Edition

This week was part of ten days off of work. This will be the longest break I’ve had since I started my job last summer. Before the break, I was kind of dreading spending a week with my family.

The weekend before my break was total shit. Claire-Adele was in a rare form of bitchiness, so much so I was counting the months until she is 18 (six months) and leaves  for college (nine months). At one point last week, I was rooting that she’s choose a nearby state school. Now and rooting for her going to school on Mars. The following Monday I was giddy to return to work. The source of this general moodiness (I am guessing) is her applying to college.

Normal Mood of Daughter during Senior Year of High School

Mood of Daughter During College Application Process

I was complaining to my friend Jen about Claire-Adele's noxious behavior.

“Work is easier than home,” she said. How come no one told me that years ago? Why does the world keep this a secret from stay-at-home moms?

I could be simple and say Claire-Adele is horrible and awful all of the time, but no. With this experience comes exceptionable bouts of helpfulness and kindness.

"I'll make the Christmas cards this year," she said.

"I wrote the family Christmas letter," she texted me, including a copy of the note.

"Where is the address list? I'll address the envelopes," she said.

"Oooh, can I make the chicken parmesan for dinner tonight?" she asked. Uh, yeah. No permission needed to make dinner for the family.

I have three days left of vacation, and I've survived so far. Here's hoping I can make it until Tuesday. At the very least, I have my fancy red shoes to welcome me back to work.

Disappointment

Claire-Adele did not get into the school she applied to for Early Decision.

The night before she found out, she did, however, get accepted at the state school she applied to, which softened the blow a little bit. Her letter from Western said she was accepted with distinction and would be considered for merit aid. Which is all good. Now she has to buckle down for the rest of the break and finish her other college applications, which might be harder to do after the sting of rejection.

I had a million feelings after I found the news.

• I feel bad for my daughter for not getting into her favorite school.
• WTF? Her favorite school is one of the most competitive in the country. What kind of Princess cries over losing something that would be an honor and a privilege, not a right?
• Yay! I don't have to shell out an obscene amount of money for her to go to school.
• But I don't get to go to New York a few times year for vacation.
• How would she navigate the big city anyway? She could go to school much closer to home and that would be nice.
• She would learn so much in the big city and it would be fun. I am sorry she might miss that unless she gets into another school in the Big Apple.
• I could buy a new car, a vacation home, Jack could quit his job or retire early, etc., with all of the money we'd save on tuition if she went to a state school instead.

And back and forth and back and forth...

Saturday morning, I woke up and talked to my dad on the phone about Claire-Adele not getting into her top choice college.

I told him I felt like Rachel from Friends when she is finding out of she was pregnant. Phoebe took the test and told Rachel she wasn't pregnant, and Rachel was got weepy when she heard the test was negative. Phoebe lied, and said "No, you are really pregnant, but now you know what you really want."

When I was growing up, my mom thought it was outrageous to spend a ton of money on a private college education for me.

"I don't need the mother of my grandchildren to be that educated," she said. My mom turned the corner a little bit when a friend told her that it is good for women to have the capacity to be financially independent in case they get a divorce. My dad never participated in those discussions. He quietly wrote the tuition check and that was the end of the conversation.

Fast forward to 2017, the Year of the Gropers, Assaulters, and Rapists: Donald Trump, Harvey Weinstein, Matt Lauer, et al. Now more than ever, a woman with a strong education is a woman who has power over her fate and destiny. Now that uneducated women deserved to be harassed or assaulted--hardly. We need more women who can step into leadership roles in all areas -- business, government, entertainment, education.

A good education is a shield, a weapon against the bullshit of sexism. I am not talking here about assault or rape. I am talking about mansplaining or the automatic assumption some men make that women don't know what they are doing. I remember I met a young journalist from Northwestern when I was President of the Seattle Council PTSA. I told him I was an NU alum, too.

"What did you study?" he asked.

"MMSS," I said.

"Oh my god," he said, eyes wide. "You must be smart." As if I wasn't. It was as if I were an airhead until proven otherwise. Does this happen to men? I doubt it.

I had my Rachel pregnancy moment when Claire-Adele didn't get into her to favorite school. I realized how much I wanted it for her when she didn't get in. Sure, I had been saving money for this (and the Boy) since before they could walk or talk. I gave up a fancier house, clothes, and car so some day my kids could have the education they wanted.

But maybe I am wrong. Maybe she'll be fine without a snob school on her resume as my friend Marta calls them. Claire-Adele will likely be fine no matter where she goes. She is smart, creative and independent. Still, I had thought the world was changing--as so many other women did--and now we are in a moment of national reckoning and I am boomeranging back to wanting to protect her, to give her a suit of armor to face the world.

Claire-Adele

The big day is coming up soon.

I am kind of glad she is being so difficult. If she were being sweet and normal, I’d be crying every time I’d hear a Christmas carol.

“Claire-Adele loves Christmas carols and next year she won’t be here to listen to them the day after Thanksgiving,” is what I’d say between sobs. I would think about how after she leaves for college that we might never live in the same city—or coast—again. Ever. I did that to my parents. Oy.

Still, I hope that tomorrow brings happiness for her even if it breaks my heart a little bit. My sadness will take a backseat to her happiness, but it is not as if I’ll rejoice if she doesn’t get in. I'll probably be right there in the pit with her, along with the other 94% of the students who apply and don't get in.

Would I be happier if she stays closer to home next year? Only if she is.

On another topic, I opted for the red velvet. They should be delivered in one to two days. I can wear them the dress I wore to Hamilton, forever now to be known as my Hamilton dress.

(Second) Worst. Ski. Day. Ever.

Some people say that any day on the slopes is a good day. Those people probably have never been taken down the hill on the sled by the ski patrol. My worst day skiing was the day I tore my ACL. My second worst day skiing ever was yesterday.

Saturday, I took the Boy and one of his friends to Snoqualmie. It was the first day Central was open. The boys had wanted to go to Alpental, but I wanted to stay on one of the smaller hills. I started my morning on the green run, Holiday, at Central while the boys went on the blues and blacks.  Holiday was one of the steeper green hills I’ve been on since I tore my ACL.

After about fifteen runs, I was bored. I watched several new skiers head over to the steeper terrain and thought I can do that. I've done it before. After lunch, I decided to go down Alpine. Alpine is a blue run that I have done dozens of times before I tore my ACL. I was feeling good on the greens. I figured I was mostly afraid and fear was holding me back. I did fine on the main runs at Crystal two weeks earlier.

I got on Central Express, the chairlift to the top of Alpine. The chairlift was a four-seater, and it flew up the mountain. The lift to the green hills are often fixed grip and they crawl and creep up the hills. I had forgotten how fast these new lifts are. As I was riding up, I thought about the Ski Patrol guy I met on the lift last week at West. He tore his ACL twenty years ago and was now going to skin up the mountain and ride through the back country. Cool, I thought. This guy is my inspiration.

Alpine has four main parts to the run: first, a downhill curve then a second steep part, then a third part which is not that steep and then the flat run-out at the bottom. The first part is a soft gentle curve. I manage this part just fine. It was a little bit harder than I remembered but nothing impossible. The cover on the mountain was thin, so they might not have groomed this run. There were more bumps and unevenness than I would have liked. I almost lost it once, but I recovered before I hit the ground.

The second part nearly killed me. I felt like I was going down to straight vertical drop. The snow was on groomed and it had small moguls in spots. I was terrified. How am I going to get to the bottom of this hill? I thought about taking off my skis and walking down the mountain. I nixed that idea because I'd have to get to the edge of the run and to get to the edge I have to ski there and I didn't want to do that.

Fear was kicking my ass.

Fear = 1

Lauren = 0

I was in the middle of the hill and stuck. I couldn't go back to the top and beg the lift ops guys to let me download. Instead, I turned my skis perpendicular to the fall line and marched down the hill sideways. I flattened out all of the bumps in my path, as if I were a one-woman grooming machine.

When I made it down the second part, I thought I was in luck. I didn't remember the third part being hard at all.

I was wrong.

Fear = 2

Lauren = 0

The snow cover at the edges of the run was thin. Instead of being wide open with flat parts, this was a narrow chute with bushes and ice puddles on the side. I sidestepped down this part, too. Last week, the Boy told me I should ski faster and harder, so when I crash my skis will come flying off and I won't tear my ACL. He thinks I tore my ACL because I was going to slow when I crashed two years ago. This is coming from a fourteen year old who thinks he is indestructible.

As I was slowly sidestepping down the mountain, I watched old pros fly by with grace and ease. I watched elementary school aged children turn and pass me. The only people going slower than me were a dad and his five year old daughter. As I watched people of all ages and abilities ski by, I thought of my physical therapist, Evan. I love Evan. He is a great guy and I would recommend him to anyone. But I never want to see him again. Ever. Falling is part of skiing, but I don't want a fall that will cause me to struggle walking for a year.

The fourth, flat part I managed okay. Because it was flat.

It took me almost an hour from when I left the lodge after lunch to when I skied past the lodge. I was ready to hang up my skis forever after my run on Alpine. Maybe life in the lodge isn't so bad, I thought. No, the other voice in my head fought back. Sitting the lodge sucks. You need to do another run. Go back to Holiday, even if it is dull. So I went to Holiday.

Why couldn't I do the Alpine run? Did I lose that much leg strength over two years since I tore my ACL? Even with all of my physical therapy? I couldn't believe that I had the weakest legs of anyone on the mountain. That couldn't be possible, or could it? Were my legs drained like a battery after my accident, and they have never fully recharged? Will they ever fully recharge?

In the end, the greens were too easy and the blues were too hard. Where was my "just right" run? After skiing greens all day, my thighs didn't burn at all. Usually, after a good day of skiing, my quads are on fire in a good way. If I don't need a salt bath or twenty-minutes in a hot tub after skiing, I really haven't skied. Likewise, I want sore muscles, not torn ligaments or broken bones.

I wish I could design my own ski runs. The Boy has a video game where he creates his own race tracks. My neighbor designs landscapes for gold courses. Unfortunately, ski runs are harder to modify and change, otherwise, I'd make a run that got a little bit harder every time I did it until I was as good as I once was.

Prada and a Fortnight, Part 2

Claire-Adele and I skied today. Rather, we drove in the car to Snoqualmie together and we skied on two different parts of the mountain--me on the greens, she on the most difficult terrain she could find. Only West was open. Everyone there fit into two categories:

1. Beginners
2. People who wished they were at Alpental, buy hey, snow is snow and they'll take what they can get.

When we were driving home, I asked her if I should buy a $400 pair of Prada shoes. In my last post, I wondered what advice I would give her. Now I was curious to hear what advice she would give me. I didn't explain the whole middle-aged, pre-empty-nest and pre-empty bank account syndrome that I am experiencing. Instead, I asked the question straight: Should I buy a $400 pair of Prada shoes?

I partially expected her to freak out, and say you want to spend how much on shoes before I could go to college? That would buy a quarters worth of textbooks! And then she would cry. This morning before we left for skiing, she lost her shit when I suggested taking her out to dinner on Dec. 15 in honor of her getting her first college response--good or bad. We would celebrate her applying to college.

She exploded into tears. "How can you say that? Don't you know how stressful this is for me?"

(Me silently thinking: Yeah. That's why I offered to treat you to dinner...)

"I am going to my room to cry by myself," she said and stormed off.

I was expecting something like that when I asked about the shoes. Instead, I got an in-depth analysis.

"What do they look like?"

"Velvet Mary Janes," she said.

"Nice," she said. Even without a picture, she approved of the style. "What color?"

"They have the style in blue, purple or red."

"Burgundy red or red red?"

"Burgundy."

"Brown burgundy or red burgundy?" she asked. I had to think about it. "More brown, I suppose. They aren't really all that red."

"How high is the heel?" she asked.

"Two and a half inches," I said.

"Mid-height," she said. "That's good. How often would you wear them?" she asked. "If you wear them ten times, that is $40 a time. If you wear them 100 times, that is $4 a time."

"I am planning to wear them at work," I said.

"You would wear Prada to work? Isn't where you work super casual?" she asked.

"I don't care. They can wear what they want. I'll wear what I want."

"Seriously? Don't people where you work wear t-shirts and ripped jeans?" she asked.

[Editor's Note: I am skipping the sidebar conversation on ripped jeans.]

"What would you wear it with?" she asked.

"I don't know. Black skirts, likely," she said.

"You could wear the blue ones with your Jawa dress," she said. "If you wear blue shoes with black, you will need to wear a blue scarf or blouse or something. Blue shoes with black clothes otherwise doesn't go together."

[Editor's Note: I am skipping the item by item of discussion of clothes in my closet that could be worn with different colors.]

"The blue or red are probably the safest bet. I'd skip the purple," she said.

"Should I get a pair, or ___" I asked, waiting to see how she would fill in that blank.

"Christmas is coming up," she said. "You could get yourself the shoes as a Christmas present."

What is my take-away from this conversation? The conversation wasn't

• Philosophical--why should I spend that much on shoes when there are homeless people in Seattle? or,
• An analysis of my budget or whether or not I could afford the shoes, or 
• An analysis of the practicality of buying luxury goods versus spending that money on something other than shoes.

The question before the court of Claire-Adele was "Should I buy a $400 pair of Prada shoes?" Her analysis considered something I had thought about but not as my primary question: Are these the right shoes on which to spend $400? In some bizarre way, I was proud of her. She was not going to be an impulse shopper, letting her emotions take over her decision making. I was impressed.

When we got home, she looked online at the shoes I was considering.

"The blue ones are nice," she said. "And those silver Mary Janes would look great with my Winter Ball dress."

Yes, yes they would. And the real reason to keep Mom actively engaged in a conversation about shoes became apparent.

Prada and a Fortnight

Years ago, before I had kids, Jack and I were shopping at Marshall Field's in Chicago on a Saturday. It was January and we were getting ready for our upcoming to trip to Thailand in March and we both needed new clothes. The previous week, I was feeling a little funny and wondered if I was pregnant. I was too naive or in denial to think it was a real possibility for about a week after I missed my period. In Marshall Field's, I was riding the escalator down, I saw I giant shoe display. Even though I didn't know I was pregnant at the time, I remember thinking, I will never own a $400 pair of shoes.

The deep recesses of my mind knew I was pregnant even if the front end of my brain didn't know what was going on. The backend of my brain knew that if I were pregnant, that every decision in my life thereafter would be different, and spending $400 on a pair of shoes would be an absurd and unnecessary expense with baby clothes, new furniture and saving for college. To this day, I've never owned a $400 pair of shoes. 

In less than two weeks, Claire-Adele will find out if she gets into a college that will have a major financial impact on our lives. Even if she doesn't get in early admission to her dream school, she will have more chances in the winter to apply for more schools that will cause an equal amount of financial wreckage. I've scrapped and saved and invested and got a job to prepare for this. Like childbirth, I can prepare and be ready, but that won't make it any less painful as I open the outflow of money we set aside for saving for college that hasn't been touched since 2001. The thought of taking more money out of savings than I am putting in makes my head spin. 

I know it will be for a good cause and I am willing to spend a boatload on my daughter's education. First, I know she wants it and will work hard. Second--and I don't know if this is reverse sexism or not, but I know from my own experience as a young woman in the workforce I benefited tremendously from having a degree from a top-notch university with a top-notch major. Whenever I got mansplained to or had to speak up in a meeting, knowing I had a great education gave me confidence and credibility I don't know if I otherwise I would have had. Maybe I was like the Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz--I had a brain all along, but Northwestern was my Oz, telling me it was true. I want Claire-Adele to have that advantage because I know it helps, and as such I am willing to pay for it. It isn't just the brand name, either. It was four years of being surrounded by people equally smart and hard-working, who challenged, humbled, and supported me. 

Let's go back to $400 shoes. I was reading the fashion pages in the New York Times this week and I saw this amazing--amazing--pair of red velvet Mary Jane pumps by Prada. I have two weeks before I find out if I am going to have to adopt a major form of financial austerity for the next four plus years, depending on where the Boy decides to attend college, too. Is this now my window of opportunity--the window that closed when I first became pregnant--to buy an outrageously and irresponsibly expensive pair of shoes? In two weeks, that window could slam shut and not open again for eight years during which time I will be shopping at the Rack.

Nordstrom has these shoes (not in red, though) on sale for $389 with free shipping! 

They would even be less than my $400 threshold. Then I start wondering, would these be the perfect shoe? Are these shoes simply awesome, or are they the most awesome? Should I look for a better shoe, like these...

And they too are on sale, even though the sale price is crazy. These silver ones are wild. I have no idea where I would ever wear them, but aren't they fun? 

Fun...fun...fun.

Perhaps that is the theme here. This for the past seventeen years, my life has been primarily about responsibility and taking care of other people, not fun and frivolity. I can't say I mind. I am glad I have two kids and love them deeply even though at times they drive me crazy. I suppose that is the point of parental love. I remember thinking I was ready to have kids when I had more to give than I needed to take. Somehow I took that to mean I didn't need to give anything to myself. Buying these shoes aren't going to deprive my kids of food or shelter, or anything, really. 

Fast forward thirty years when Claire-Adele's daughter is going to college. What would I tell her to do? Buy the shoes or save the money?  

I don't know. I have a fortnight to decide.

The Senior Crying Season and the Wishbone

Claire-Adele applied Early Decision to one college and Early Action to another this fall. Applications were due Nov. 1. She will hear from the Early Decision college on Dec. 15. For those who are unfamiliar with the process, Early Decision applications are binding. If she gets accepted, that is where she will go. She will withdraw all other college applications. This early decision school is her first choice, her dream school. The odds are slightly more in her favor of getting in early decision than in the regular application pool, though the odds of getting into this particular school are very, very low. On the other hand, they have to let someone in. Her odds of getting in would be zero if she didn't apply at all.

We have now entered the Senior Crying Season. The applications are in, and everything is beyond her control. All she can do is wait.

I didn't realize how stressful this waiting time is for Claire-Adele until a few days ago. In the past two weeks, she has thrown two tantrums and had one stressed out crying fit, which is out of character for her. I am not talking about being a usual snitty teenager who makes rude and insensitive comments. I am talking about toddler level meltdowns at a grocery store two hours past nap time and mom said no to buying a box of cookies. That kind of uncontrolled and irrational meltdown.

In addition to the stress of knowing her fate lies in the hands of strangers, she is also having to prepare a second round of applications for regular college application decision in case she doesn't get into her first choice school. She is stressed, and I feel for her. I, too, hope she gets into her favorite school.

I wish she could understand that whether or not these schools pick her, she will still be the same interesting, curious, hard working person she was before. She doesn't beleive me when I tell her that. She is a teenager, and needs validation from someone other than her mom. I get it, but I wish she could get it from someplace else in addition to a college application review board. Today, she went to work and after work she staying downtown to go the YMCA Youth Leadership Program that she was a part of for the past two years. As an alum and camp intern this summer, she is welcome to crash the party. I am glad she is seeking self-care by surrounding herself with people who love her as she is who aren't in her immediate family.

This Thanksgiving, Claire-Adele and I broke the wishbone. She begged to do it. I knew what her wish was without her telling me.

And I wished for the same thing.

Stitch in the Ditch

Note: The internet nearly ruined this perfectly good blog idea. I won't spoil it for you until the end.

Last weekend, I cleaned off the Boy's desk in the dining room that was covered with quadcopters and other flying devices, old homework, and random magazines. It was the place where Claire-Adele dumped the junk mail after clearing it from the dining room table so she could set it for dinner. I bought this desk a few years ago to give the Boy a quiet and clean spot to do his homework. Since this desk had been covered in crap since 2012, he did his homework on the couch or in his bed.

I decided to claim this table for my sewing, which is logical because it is a sewing table that I tried to pass off on the Boy for his own, knowing very well that I wanted this desk, but really couldn't justify buying myself a third desk in addition to the one off the kitchen and the one in the shed. This desk is a really nice piece of furniture--spalted maple with an antique Singer sewing table legs. Before I would sew on the dining room table, which was a huge pain because I had to move everything on and off the table before and after we ate. I don't have a before picture of the desk, but I have an after.

Some of the Boy's flying devices are still under the desk.

This weekend I've bee working on a quilt I started last winter. It is the quilt I would have wanted when I was ten years old. It has bright rainbow-y colors, treehouses and bicycles. It is awesome. I am kind of sad Claire-Adele doesn't want it, but oh well. She is seventeen and has lost her interest in things whimsical.

For the top quilting, I am trying something new: Stitch in the ditch. This is where the lines are sewn inside the seams of the patchwork. 

This is nearly impossible to do right. The truly bizarre thing is that when it is done perfectly, you can't tell that it has been done at all. So why do quilters try to do something so impossible that you can't see? Why? It doesn't make any sense. There is something zen about trying to do the impossible that can't even be seen when done properly. How do you learn how to do this? You start when you are fourteen and by time you are sixty-five you can be mildly competent?

Here are my good and bad examples. You can see I nail it about 15% of the time. Where did I get it right? You can't see it. Crazy, eh?

As I sat down to write this, I googled "Stitch in the ditch" to make sure I had the term right and I discovered there is a sewing foot especially designed to do the stitch in the ditch that could have made it all easier. 

Take it easy...

Last Friday, Jack and I took the Boy to see the latest Warren Miller advertisement ski documentary at the Seattle Center. We ate dinner at the Center House and walked over to the McCaw Hall where they were going to show the movie. Through the window, the Boy saw the crowd.

"Flannel and beards," he said. "It looks like Alpental. These are my people."

McCaw Hall is where I have season tickets to the Pacific Northwest Ballet. The ballet crowd is decidedly different. I would have let this event be a father-son bonding experience, except Jack was on call and he might have needed to bail; therefore, I needed to be there in order to drive the Boy home in case Jack needed to go into the hospital. I had a long week at work, and needed a break. I wanted to do something more relaxing than watch an adrenaline junkie movie.

I've watched another skiing movie with the Boy, something that takes place in Norway and has English subtitles through half of it, but the plot was really easy to understand.

1. Crazy and talented young men seek adventure.
2. Crazy and talented young men ski down some super steep and dangerous shit.
3. Crazy and talented young men survive.

Earlier in the week, I made plans to take the Boy and a friend skiing on Saturday at Crystal. This was early season snow, and the Boy was ready to hit the pow. This movie only amped him up, while it made me more more terrified to get back on the slopes...until the middle.

A snowboarder who jumps off cliffs recalled a story from his grandfather.

"Take it easy," said the snowboarder, "but always take it." In watching two hours of testosterone fueled insanity, I found a golden nugget.

When I said I was going to drive to Crystal, I had every expectation that I might not ski. The next morning, the Boy packed up my skis along with his. In my bag, I packed my helmet, gloves and a book to read in case I bailed and decided not to ski.

While the boys took off on the blue and black runs, I went on the beginner hill. After ten runs, I thought of the what the snowboarder's grandfather had told him. Take it easy, but take it.

I did a few more runs on the beginner hill, but I was getting more and more afraid of the beginner skiers and snowboarders. One woman fell off the lift after it got four feet off the ground. A father with his kindergarten age son didn't get off this lift and the top and had to jump off as it went around the loop. I rode the lift once with a (water) skier from Australia. This was his third run ever on a snowboard. I feared getting off the lift with this guy.

I'm not going to get any better on the bunny hill, I thought. I could only progress so much on flat terrtain. I decided to get on the real mountain around lunchtime. Most people headed into the lodge so the lines were very short. I got to the top, looked around for the easiest way down, and went. I was terrified and exhilarated at the same time, much like young men and women in the movie from the night before. My threshold for what would be considered terrifying was much less than theirs, but it was still terror nonetheless.

I did a few runs, and went in for lunch. After lunch, I did another run. The snow was soft earier in the day, and now there were bumps from where everyone had skied. My legs were tired, and I went back to the bunny hill. It was time for me to take it easy. I realized I was spending too much energy turning to get down the hill, and in return I'd get tired much faster. Before I tore my ACL, I could ski all day for days in a row. Now I was afraid the burn in my thighs might mean I might get hurt.

As I was taking my last run at 3:55 p.m., minutes before the lifts closed, I got a text from the Boy. We are at the lodge, ready to go. They were tired before me, a first. The problem I had been wrestling with at work seemed to fade into the background as my struggle to ski came to the front. As my friend Christina told me, I was using my body and giving my brain a break. I felt at peace, more than I had felt in a long time. I was happy to have taken it, to have gotten back on the snow.

Steely Eyes

The other night, Jack was working and the kids and I went to dinner. The kids speak more freely when their father isn't there, taking advantage of the "one parent versus two kids" shift in the power dynamic. 

Claire-Adele said she needed a picture of herself for her Facebook profile, and she asked to look at my phone to see if I had any pictures of her that she could use. My new smart phone came with a new operating system that organizes my photos by faces, which is both creepy and useful. The kids then started looking at pictures of me on my phone, most of which are crappy selfies. I don't know how to take a selfie--I always look at the wrong spot or I am squinting, usually both.

"Look at this one," said Claire-Adele handing the phone to her brother. I saw the picture as my phone changed hands.

Tofino, B.C., August 2014

"You have the best steely eyes in this one," said Claire-Adele. Steely eyes? I thought. Here is how the dictionary on my computer defines the word:

steely |ˈstēlē| adjective (steelier, steeliest) 1 resembling steel in color, brightness, or strength: a steely blue.2 coldly determined; hard: there was a steely edge to his questions.
Claire-Adele was refering to the second definition.

"You look like you are not going to take any shit," said the Boy.

"You look like you are female British Minister in wartime," said Claire-Adele. "Like Winston Churchill, but meaner."

Meaner than Winston Churchill? Seriously? And this was meant to be a compliment.

"Dad is smiling and I am in hiding in the background," said the Boy. "While you look like you are going to kick some ass." They both thought this was cool. Or they were making fun of me. Probably both.

How could it be that my kids could see me in such a way that I didn't or don't see myself? When I look at that picture, I think "I was so much skinnier before I tore my ACL" while they are comparing me to military generals. Where did they both get that idea, an idea that they agree on together, when I have such a different view of myself? Or maybe they don't see me much like this, and when they did, they found it remarkable.

This made me wonder if I should take the kids out to dinner alone anymore, especially when they are going to dissect me into bits. Or perhaps this is the reason I should take them out to dinner, to give them a chance to make me--their mother--an open topic for conversation.

The Line and #MeToo

I've been thinking about Harvey Weinstein and all of the men who have recently been declared deviants and creeps at best, and sexual predators, rapists, molesters and criminals at worst. Do these guys think they are bad when they harass women, or are they even thinking at all? Do these guys have a misaligned vision of themselves compared to what the world really thinks of them? I am trying to figure this out. Did Harvey Weinstein in his mind imagine himself to be Romeo, because he's not. Where is the line between nice and disgusting? Here is a graph--

What do the guys in blue have in common that the guys in gray don't, aside from the fact the blue guys are fictional characters, two of which were created by women? I could write about why the cretins are cretins, but instead I'll focus on what makes a nice guy...

• Consent. When Elizabeth Bennett told Darcy to back off, he did. Instead of secretly stalking her, he used his power to help her troubled sister without seeking credit. After he did a bunch of nice stuff, he gently asked her again if she would reconsider and if she said no, he'd never bother her again. There is a reason this guy had been the leading romantic character for the past two hundred years.
• Genuine affection for the other party. Romeo. Brings meaning to the phrase "I'd die for you." Mr. Darcy gets points here, too. He loves Elizabeth for her strength and intelligence. 
• Caring, kindness and respect for fellow humans. Atticus Finch was a widower, but he was also one of the most decent humans ever created in the mind of a novelist, at least in To Kill a Mockingbird. I haven't read Go Set a Watchman.

Sexual harassment and discrimination is everywhere, and it is sometimes so subtle we don't even notice it. I tried to ignore the #MeToo campaign, not because I think a vast majority of women have never been harassed, but because the harassment and discrimination I experienced was so much less than the women victimized by Harvey Weinstein. Those women deserve their moments where the world listens quietly and empathetically without me chiming in. Yet, everyone chiming in gave those women more power. 

So here is my #MeToo story, but it was a potential crisis averted thanks to help from a co-worker.  When I was twenty-six or so, I was scheduled to go to (pre-Katrina) New Orleans on a business trip with a senior manager at the firm where I worked. The senior manager was fifteen to twenty years older than I was at the time.

He smirked and leered and said, "We are going to have a lot of fun on this trip." New Orleans is a great city, but I imagined going to dinner with this guy, him drinking too much and meeting me trying to pry him off of me. 

I left this D---'s office and walked into Mike's office and shut the door. Mike was another one of my managers. (In this firm, I worked for several managers, partners and senior managers.) "I don't feel comfortable going to New Orleans with D---," I said. One sentence. That was it. I didn't need to explain or cry or wring my hands.

He looked at me and said, "I have a giant project I need you to work on so you need to cancel your trip."

"Thanks," I said and I left his office. And that was it. I told D--- I had other work to do and canceled my plane ticket. 

I wasn't smarter or braver than other women, but I was luckier--lucky to have had a colleague I could talk to and who had my back.

The World Traveler and The Water Bottle

Claire-Adele is quite the traveler. At the age of seventeen, she has been to every continent except South America and Antarctica. Image our surprise when we were at SeaTac last Thursday morning at 4:00 a.m. for our 5:50 flight to New York and she got tagged in security with a not empty water bottle.

"It had less than three ounces of water," she said. "You are allowed three ounces."

Not in a liter sized bottle.

"They let me bring water on a plane in Dubai," she said.

The airport in Dubai isn't run by TSA.

This was Claire-Adele's special water bottle. I had found it on the sidelines of one of the Boy's soccer games when I was the team mom in charge of picking up their lost and leftover crap. No one claimed the blue Nalgene bottle so it sat in our cabinet next to the rest of our tall, skinny, bicycle water bottles, lonely and unloved until one Claire-Adele adopted it.

"Where did you get this bottle?" she asked. "I love it. Everyone at camp has a Nalgene."

Shortly thereafter, this bottle was covered in camp stickers and she carried it with her everywhere. It had traveled with her to New York for Spring Break, and to camp for a month this summer where she was a summer intern.

Her backpack had made it through the x-ray, but it was stopped because they thought one of her books was a laptop. When the twenty-something (maybe even nineteen-something) TSA guy, fresh on the four a.m. shift, saw the backpack, he pulled Claire-Adele in her lululemon tights and jacket over to the side to dig through her bag. The book was fine. The water bottle was not.

Jack, the Boy and I didn't hear the conversation between Claire-Adele and the TSA guy, but we saw him grab her bottle. Ugh, I thought as he walked away with her bottle. She loved that bottle. Oh well. I thought of the many water bottle graveyards I had seen at entry ways to x-ray scanners at airports. Large plastic tubs, filled with dead water bottles. I remember seeing families chug water or gatorade in line, just to keep their bottles. We did once at an airport, passed the bottle around until it was empty so it wouldn't float away in the TSA liquid-filled water bottle garbage pile.

The three of us waited for Claire-Adele to move it along, but she stayed at the TSA table with her backpack open.

"Let's go," Jack said.

"I am waiting for my water bottle," she said.

What? No, no, no. Honey, he is going to dump it in the trash.

"No, he is going to empty my water and bring me my bottle back," she said.

What?! The three of us stared at her in disbelief. She didn't cry or nash her teeth or anything at this guy. She acted it like it was perfectly normal for a TSA agent to take her bottle back to the front of the line, dump the water, send it back through the x-ray machine and bring it back to her.

Is life unfair? Yes it is, but sometimes it is unfair in our favor. It pays to be young and hot.

Wait for it, wait for it. I'm willing to wait for it..

The wait ended Friday night.

We finally got to see Hamilton. Yay! I think to myself as I read the Seattle Times article about how some fans were not able to get tickets to see it here. I could have waited until it came to Seattle, but then I might not have been able to get tickets.

The day of the show, I was jittery. We went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art and I got to see one of my favorite paintings, Van Gogh's Wheat Field with Cypresses. On a normal trip, that might have been the highlight. It is much more impressive in real life because the colors are so vibrant. I understood the nature of art when I saw this picture sixteen years ago when it came to St. Louis. The artist picks a topic. For a writer, words and sentences are colors and brush strokes.

We took the subway back to the hotel from the museum because Jack was running the marathon the next day and didn't want to tire his legs out after the three mile walk. I would have been happy to walk. As we got on the train around 4:00, I had a small panic. What if the train gets stuck in the tunnel and we are stuck here for five hours and I miss the show? What will happen to my mental health if I miss the show after waiting for a year? All through the week, I kept the tickets buried in a pocket in my backpack. Every time I got back to the hotel, I made sure they were there. I made Jack bring a second copy of the tickets to New York in case my copy got lost.

Those tickets were a symbol of so many things. Sometimes there are problems in life that can't be fixed, or not without struggle or tremendous effort. Our family was facing about three or four of those things last November. Hamilton was our balm. The tickets said I'm sorry, I love you and We have your back, kiddo, when words were alone were not sufficient or believed. Hamilton tickets were the grand gesture that said things that couldn't be said.

Why do I love to travel? I love to be transported to a new place to experience new foods, new sites, new sounds. Some people travel with their families and use the time to bond. Others travel alone and meet new people. We travel to be transformed, to be in inspired. The reason people love to read and see movies and plays is to be transported to a different time or place, inside of someone else's mind and story.

So it goes with Hamilton, and why not just me but thousands of others are willing to pay more for a ticket to see a show than the cost of the airfare to get to New York to see it. To be transported is why we bought the tickets almost a year ago and were willing to wait.

We went to dinner before the show, with plenty of time to spare. Restaurants in New York are pleasantly efficient without rushing. We stopped at the Hamilton gift shop before the show, but I didn't buy anything because I was in a hurry to get in line. Jack and the Boy jaywalked across the street to get to the Richard Rodgers theater. I feared getting arrested for jaywalking and missing the show. I didn't want to be like the little girl living on Venus in Ray Bradbury's short story "All Summer in a Day" who got locked in a closet during the only hour the sun shone on Venus in seven years. Would I have flipped? Yes. Yes, I would have.

We got to the line around 7:20. I asked the woman in line ahead of me if she had tickets to the show or if she was waiting in line for something else.

"I hope we have tickets," she said as her teenage daughters took selfies. "My husband has them. We better have tickets."

"I have the tickets," he said pulling them out and showing her.

"Why don't you make sure we are in the right place?" she asked her husband. This woman was more neurotic than I was.

He did as he was told. He came back moments later and said, "The doors open at 7:30." Everyone was happy to be there early. I was the most laid back and intense crowd I have ever been in. This family had come from Dallas to seem Hamilton. In the theater, we ran into other friends from Seattle.

The show started. The first few lines of music are jarring, and the words would be considered by most people in polite society to be offensive: "How does a bastard, orphan, son of a whore and a Scotsman..." The crowd cheered and cheered and cheered.

The only thing the crowd didn't do was cry at the right spots, myself included. One person behind me was sobbing, and thought to myself Newbie... There are at least four songs that had a devastating emotional impact on me the first time I heard the entire soundtrack in one sitting. I was sobbing during "Dear Theodosia," "Burn," "It's Quiet Uptown," and the finale.

When I got to the show, I had heard these songs dozens of times, so much so that I had nearly memorized all of the lyrics. I was slightly jealous of the newbie, hearing it fresh on Broadway, able to feel those emotions live and fresh while the actors were on stage. I wondered about the first performances for the original cast who likely had to listen to an entire audience crying their eyes out night after night.

And I wondered as I sat in the room where it happened. Isn't that what so much of us want, too, to be in the room where it happens?

Halloween and College

Instead of trick-or-treating or going to a Halloween party Tuesday night, Claire-Adele submitted online applications to two colleges while the Boy was at a movie with a bunch of friends. I am glad he wasn't home. The applications were due November 1, but she decided to submit the applications a day early just to get it over with. The websites were having problems on Monday, and there was major freak out in our home. There is enough drama with the applications that I didn't need to add a failing website to the pile and angst and anguish. She is freaked out enough by the whole competitiveness of the process, that I didn't need a late application due to technical errors contribute to her already insanely high level of stress.

Tuesday after dinner and homework, Claire-Adele hunkered down with her laptop at my desk. I cleared out so she could command the space. Jack sat next to her and read the final draft of her answers to the questions. This was the first time either of us saw her application aside from the part we had to fill out with all of our information.

"Maybe we should break out the champagne!" I said. The night before, Jack and Claire-Adele were screaming at each other. I thought I might need to be totally tanked to get through the night.

"I am not having any alcohol until after the marathon," said Jack.

Party pooper, I thought. I looked at Claire-Adele and raised my eyebrows. "Do you want some champagne?" I said. She smiled, "Are you serious?" Yes, I thought. Maybe a half a glass will cut the edge off.

"No," said Jack.

Ugh. I thought. I am not a big drinker but man I didn't want to go through this sober.

I needed a distraction, so I put on my wireless headphones and cranked up Macklemore's "And We Danced."

And we danced
And we cried
And we laughed and had a really really really good time.
Take my hand
Let's have a blast 
A remember this moment for the rest of our lives...

The night before, Claire-Adele was complaining how unfair the college admissions process is, and Jack was arguing against her.

"Some kids needs a leg up," he said. "They don't have as many opportunities as you have." Yes, that it true, but not what a stressed out seventeen year old needs to hear two days before her college applications are due.

"Why do these schools need so many athletes?" she said. "They have such an advantage just getting in." She is right, too, but again, this was not the time to debate the finer points of the college admissions process.

Just as my Macklemore song finished, Jack called me over to read one of Claire-Adele's answers. She wrote that she was inspired to studied politics because of my run for School Board two years ago.

"It's is different than watching an election on television," she wrote. "I remember the mail-biting drama of election night..."

I started to get a little teary. "Maybe you want to save that to a Word file," I said.

Two minutes later, there was hyperventilating from my office.

"The answer is gone," she said. "I meant to do a control-c and I did a control-v and now my perfect answer is gone!"

Jack came to her computer, hit a few "undo's" and the answer was back. Crisis averted. At the point, I decided to walk the dog. When I got back, I volunteered to pick up the Boy from a friend's house. I let Jack hold the bag here.

When I got back, Claire-Adele hit the send button. We were done for now.

The next morning, the New York Times had an article with a subtitle: Yes, college admissions are unfair. If I recall correctly, one-third of students at Harvard are legacies. Colleges consider the wealth of parents to determines who gets in. And colleges still need "an oboe and a goalie."

Which makes me thinks about the Boy. He plays bassoon and he is reasonably athletic. Jack and I went to a fancy college, so the Boy could possibly get legacy status there. Heck, he could phone in the rest of high school and still get in. I am joking, but not by much. On the other hand, why should all of these kids across the country have to kill themselves with stress and effort to get into what is perceived to be a "good" school?

A lottery might be a better choice to determine who gets into college. Kids would still have to apply, but they could get a notice that said "Congrats! You made the lottery. You have a better chance if you are a goalie or play an obscure musical instrument, but you are worthy! And if your parents have money, all the better!" It might not be more fair, but at least it would be transparent.

CSS or the FCS-- The Financial Cavity Search

Claire-Adele is a senior and is applying to college for next year. We were at a picnic last week and every single adult she spoke to asked her about her plans for next year. What is often considered polite conversation starter: "Where are you applying?" is considered by Claire-Adele to be a crazily invasive question. Afterward, she said she wanted to wear a sign that reads "Please don't ask me about college."

I can appreciate her stress. She is applying to some serious reach schools where it comes down to luck as to whether or not she'll get in.

In support of Claire-Adele chasing her dream schools, Jack and I (mostly I) worked on the FAFSA and the CSS forms this weekend. FAFSA is the Free Application for Federal Student Aid. That form asks for some basic tax info from the previous year and how much money you have in cash and investments. They don't care about retirement or the value of your home. It didn't take that long to fill nor was it complicated as long as you have a copy of your previous year's tax return in hand. Enter your AGI, the amount of taxes paid, the balance in your bank accounts and your kid's accounts, and you are basically done.

Jack and I know the kids aren't going to be eligible for much (or any) financial aid until the Boy starts school, and even then it might be dicey, especially now that I have a job. We filled out the form anyway as a baseline in case something happens to our cashflow and we can no longer afford tuition. Jack could lose his job or become disabled. Both of us could encounter elder care expenses for our parents. Seattle could get hit by an earthquake or Jack could run off with another doctor at the hospital and we could end up divorced. None of these are likely to happen in the near future, but the probability isn't zero, so I buckled down and filled out the forms.

Fine.

The FAFSA was one thing, then there is the CSS, sponsored by the College Board, the same organization that charges $60 (or whatever) for every high school student to take the SAT and $100 (or whatever) to take an AP exam. The CSS is the College Scholarship Service, but it should be called the FCS, the Financial Cavity Search. Most private colleges want both the FAFSA and the FCS. Here is a summary of the FCS:

• How much money did you earn last year and this year? How much do you expect to earn next year? 
• When did you buy your home? How much did you pay for it? How much you owe on your mortgage? What is your monthly payment and how much is your home worth now? (Damn you, Zillow!!!)
• How much money did you put in retirement funds last year? 
• How much did you spend on healthcare?
• Are you being supported by other people? 
• Are you supporting other people?
• Do you own a vacation home? Family business? Farm?
• How much money did your kid make last summer? Next summer? 
• Do you have a trust fund?
• Life insurance?
• How many cars do you own? What are the makes, models, year and how much did they cost?
• How much money are you hiding in your mattress? 
• Have you looked in the cushions of your couch? 
• How much money is in your coin bucket?
• What is your non-taxable income? (This one is for the likes of the Corleone and Gambino families. Michael Corleone went to Dartmouth, after all, but I doubt he applied for financial aid.)
• Are your parents rich?
• Are your parents old and decrepit and you need to take care of them? How much are you paying for that nursing home?
• Do you have a rich, childless sibling who is going to pay for your kid to go to college?
• Is there any money anywhere else that you are not telling about, because if there is and you are not telling us, you are in big, big trouble, Mister!

Oh. My. God. It was awful. I only made up three of those questions on that list. The rest of them are true, and I left some of the other ones out because I blocked them out from the pain of answering them. The only question they didn't ask was how much jewelry I owned and how much was it worth. I bet next year it gets added to the list, or else they know not to get between a woman and her bling. They also didn't ask about the cash back program for my credit cards. Oh shit--would that be non-taxable income? Too bad. They didn't list it as on option on the form.

Yesterday was a beautiful, sunny day, one of the last before the hellish Seattle rainy winter brings nine months of gray and gloom, and I spent it exposing every financial detail about my life to the internet. People aren't supposed to talk about money but here I am having to financially strip down and be evaluated by complete strangers.

I would have said FTS to the FCS and not filled it out. I might have gone rogue and said "Ha! I am not playing your games and and and...wait, how much does this dream school of my daughter's cost? Really?" and then I buckled. They might decide to give us some money some day, I thought. We should fill it out on the off chance something bad happens.

I entered the list of all of the colleges she is going to apply to that require the FCS and hit submit, when I got a delightful* surprise: It was going to cost $110 to send all of my private financial information to all of these schools. It is bad enough my daughter wants to leave me and move to the East Coast. And now I have to pay for the privilege of having my family's financial situation scrutinized?

Kill me now, I thought. Kill me now.

* By delightful, I mean hellish.

Cramming and Fasting for Hamilton

In less than two weeks, I will be in the room where it happens. Jack is running the NY Marathon and the family will tag along. Part of Jack's bribe to bring us along were tickets to Hamilton.

Squee!

I am so excited I can't stand it. The Boy brought home the music home in seventh grade, and he and I became hooked. "You'll be Back" was the first song I heard. The first time I listened to the entire soundtrack in one stretch, I cried so hard I had snot bubbles coming out of my nose. I would listen to the soundtrack as did my physical therapy for my knee.

I have told very few people that we are going because I don't want anything to jinx it. We bought the tickets almost a year ago, and I am afraid to mention that we are going in case something terrible happens and we miss it. I am hoping there won't be a hurricane, flooding, windstorm, nuclear war, or other epic disaster that prevent us from getting to NYC.

While the Boy and I have almost memorized all of the music, I have one more thing to finish before I see the show: Ron Chernow's biography of Hamiton. As I friend of mine once said describing my reading of Les Miserables, I have a long-term relationship with Alexander Hamilton. I started reading it more than a year ago, but put it down to read other stuff. I am on page 266 out of 818. Thankfully, the last ~100 pages are footnotes.

I picked up where I left off, in the middle of a discussion about the Federalist papers. John Jay wrote five, James Madison wrote twenty-nine, and Hamilton wrote...the other fifty-one. In one of my next posts, I will quote all of Hamilton's brilliant ideas about executive power and how if he met President Trump he would verbally eviscerate the man. But not now.

In contrast to trying to read as much of the book before I see the show, I am trying to avoid listening to the soundtrack. I want it to be as fresh as possible when I see it in less than two weeks, so I am "fasting" from the music. I slipped today and listened to "Wait for It" and "Best of Wives and Best of Women" at work on my headphones. The Boy and I have talked that the hardest part of watching the show will be trying not to sing along. Awhile ago, there was a meme about "Mirandize" where it means not being able to think about anything other than the lyrics to Hamilton. Been there. I had the lyrics of the second song running through my mind this morning when I woke up: "Well I'm going back to sleep."

Hot Seat

Monday night while Jack was at a dinner for work, I took the kids out for dinner.

"I thought we were having fajitas for dinner," said Claire-Adele as I loaded her and her brother into the car.

"I thought your dad was going to be home," I said. My greatest weakness is going out to eat when I don't want to cook. I didn't feel like making an overly involved meal by myself while the kids lounged on the couch.

We went to Santorini, a mom and pop Italian restaurant across the street from the Boy's former middle school. The food is good and everyone in my family will eat there. The waitstaff are the owner's* kids and are there every time we are there.

At dinner, I was tired, so I sat and listened to the kids, not saying much. The kids were talking about their social lives, and I am happy to be a fly on the wall for the conversation. Before the salads came, Claire-Adele turned to me and asked about my high school boyfriend. "When did you break up with Sean? Before or after you left for college?"

The Boy was quiet, waiting for my answer. "We broke up at the end of my senior year, but he wanted to get back together at the beginning of my freshman year. I was already on and off dating another guy who was a senior..."

Claire-Adele paused. "You were dating a senior when you were a freshman?" The Boy looked equally curious. "How did that happen? Were you hot?" she asked rather incredulously, as if she never could have imagined that possibility.

As much as Claire-Adele was surprised that I landed a senior, I was surprised at the question. I had never really thought about if I was hot or not before. I always had a boyfriend, and that was good enough. Since I always had a boyfriend, I didn't need to be hot. Or so went my logic when I was in high school and college.

With their father not around, both kids peppered me with questions about my college and high school dating life, and for the first time in a really long time, if ever, they were genuinely interested in me. I was in the hot seat, and didn't mind. They asked clarifying questions, and I answered them as truthfully as was reasonable.

When Jack got home from his dinner, I told him about my dinner with the kids. He thought it was hiliarious and "Were you hot?" became the catch-phrase of the day.


* Funny story. The owner is a woman about my dad's age. When my dad came to town, the Boy and I  went to Santorini for dinner with him. The owner came out to our table and started chatting with us, asking about our day, the food, whatever. She never comes to our table for small talk when it is just Jack, the kids and I. Just sayin'...

$5

I was on the sidelines of the Boy's soccer game today talking to moms. The boys won 5-1 in case you are curious, especially compared to last week's cluster which was the first topic of conversation on the sidelines. Two moms weren't there and the witnesses relayed the horror. When the boys are winning, the moms chat. I missed the Boy score and then his "textbook corner kick" which got the team a goal. Oh well. I would say I'm a bad mom, but it is rude to cheer for your kid's team when they are dominating the game.

One of the moms talked about "Mom's Eyes" where she can find things in the fridge and around the house that her children can't see even if it is under their nose. 

"You mean this?" she said as she pretended to grab a mayonnaise jar out of the fridge. 

"When my family tells me they can't find something, I tell them 'If I find it, you owe me five dollars.' They immediate start looking much harder than they did before, hurrying in case I find it first. It is perfect!" I said.

After the game, I dropped the Boy at home and picked up Claire-Adele from her volunteer activity. On the way home, we stopped at the grocery store. Unlike shopping with a toddler, teenagers can run around the store and pick up red peppers and avocados. A half-gallon of blueberry cheese cake ice cream made it to the cart, but I figured that was a small price to have her help. 

We were in the aisle with the canned tomatoes. The shelves were nearly empty. I wondered if there was a blockage on I-5 and tomato trucks didn't make it to town this week.

"Where are the fire roasted tomatoes?" I said.

Claire-Adele picked up a can off a barren shelf and said, "You owe me five dollars."

Apocalypse Planning

I am a firm believer in planning. My family is mixed on my love for planning. The Boy hates it when I ask him what his plan is for the day, yet Claire-Adele is happy that I've saved enough money for her to go to college. I want to have enough money in the bank or retirement accounts so I could live to be 112 without being supported by my future grandchildren or living in a tent under the highway. (Or more likely, Ravenna Park, which would be nicer.)

But now I am worried that I might need to take cover. Our President told the media while standing with a group of military families that this is "the calm before the storm." How does one plan for that?

While I would argue that our President is an evil idiot instead of an evil genius (see: Hitler, Pol Pot, any other leader who has orchestrated genocide), Trump still has tremendous power to cause widespread destruction without having to think. All he has to do is press a red button and he can wipe out millions of people by releasing nuclear weapons. The act of pushing a red button needs no special skills or brain power, just the will to say yes.

My new copy of The Atlantic came in the mail yesterday with an article on Google's Moonshot program where "regular investigation into the absurd is not just permitted, but encouraged." I propose a question for the group:

What should we do to prepare for the a nuclear holocaust? 

First, we need to ask:

Would we die or survive? 

If we plan as if we are going to die in a thermonuclear blast, then preparation would be different than living in a nuclear winter. Let's call death Scenario 1 and survival Scenario 2.

Scenario 1: My preparation would be "Screw everything. I am going to die anyway. Might as well have good time." This would be something just shy of hedonism. I often wonder if I were to be diagnosed with terminal cancer if I would get chemo or take a world cruise. I think I'd take a world cruise. Maybe. I don't know. I have enough money saved that I could live to be 112, but what would be the point if I didn't see the world because I died at 48?

Preparing for Scenario 1 would be fun, but highly problematic if a nuclear holocaust did not occur.  I'd look ridiculous having oysters and Veuve Clicquot for breakfast when everyone else is having coffee and a bagel. "Why is she drunk at 8:30 in the morning?" people might say. I might lose my job and if the nuclear holocaust didn't happen, I'd be unemployed and hard pressed to explain why. HR people would write "Unstable" across the top of my file. (I would say type or enter that comment into a database instead of write, but there would need to be a field for that comment.)

Most importantly, I don't want to be one of those people who then hopes to die in a nuclear war because I've spent all of my money, have a nasty hangover and don't want to face the rest of my life.

Scenario 2 is far less inspiring.

• What will run out sooner if there were nuclear destruction: electricity or gasoline? If I bet gasoline will run out, then I should buy a Tesla. 
• What would be the risks of drinking contaminated water versus dying of thirst? There is no food left because trucks that deliver food to the Pacific Northwest can't drive here because of lack of fuel. Should I eat my dog? 
• I have enough money. Should I buy a gun and bully my way on to a plane to another state that hasn't been obliterated? Should I pack up my panniers and try to bike to Idaho where the air and water isn't as polluted? 
• Would I leave my kids behind and fend for myself? More likely, would they leave me behind?
• Would people in Idaho or Ohio have a ban on nuclear holocaust refugees? 
• Would I have to live my last days, weeks, months, or years in a fallout zone, surrounded by death and decay? What if I were one of a dozen people left in Seattle, ala Station Eleven? What would I do then?

Perhaps it is time to invoke Occam's Razor: the simplest solution is often the best. Instead me and possibly the Google X people trying to figure out how to plan and prepare for a nuclear holocaust, perhaps we shouldn't give the power of negotiating world peace to an unhinged bully.

Mondays, or the Car Ride Home

After this weekend, I was happy to go to work. Most of the weekend wasn't too bad. Friday night Jack and I went to the UW Meany Center and saw the modern dance troupe Bandaloo after the Boy's Cross Country Chili Feed Fundraiser. (Note to self: If the Boy stays gung-ho about XC, someday I might have to host this event. Good thing I know how to make chili.)

Saturday I cleaned the house, read the newspaper, and then became depressed. Sunday morning, I went to my writing group which was fun.

Sunday afternoon, I drove to two hours to Aberdeen for the Boy to play soccer. Ugh.

Thankfully, it was a sunny and warm afternoon. That was the best part of this trip--the weather. Last year, the Boy's team crushed the Aberdeen team 8-0 back when they were in the Bronze league. This year, they are in the Silver league and the team they played was much better. I would say they were heads above, but they weren't. Half of the boys on this team weren't even five feet tall. But they were awesome. My guess is that this was the top team in Aberdeen, and the really good players played up.

"We are getting our asses kicked by a bunch of toddlers," said one of the Boy's teammates during half time. Dan, the player with the highest record of fouls and Co-Captain with the Boy, ranted at the team.

The Boy continued: "($#(&! and @#*?."

"How cute!" said Annika, Dan's mom. "The Boy is swearing at his teammates!" Annika is the only person who could have said this to me and it wasn't offensive. Neither of our boys are chill. About anything. She was welcoming me to the "Your Teenage Son is a Douchebag" Club. Oy.

"I have better things to do today," said the Boy as he packed up his bag at halftime. The very last things I wanted to do was hop in the car and drive for two hours with him in a snit. I'd rather be in the car for two hours with a raccoon.

The coach took the Boy aside after his mini-tantrum at his teammates and talked him off the ledge. I want to know whatever the coach said to the Boy so I can use it when trying to get the Boy to school, off his phone, do his homework, etc. After the talk with the coach, the Boy put on his shin guards, and went back on the field, this time as a left wing, not his usual center-defensive position.

The game continued to be brutal. The score was 5 to 2, and the boys were losing with about ten minutes left in the game when Jordan got a goal and then a red card and was pulled from the game. After Jordan's goal, the goalie took a swing at him. Jordan--who is a foot taller than the goalie--walked back to the goalie in a menacing way when the red card came out. Rightfully so, goalies are well protected by the foul rules. The ref didn't see the goalie's swing, but he did see Jordan march back to the net.

The Boy's team was now down a player with ten minutes left and they were down by two goals.

It's over, I thought. I was really, really, beginning to dread the car ride home. Two weeks ago at a home game, the Boy's team won and the Boy was in a snit because it wasn't a shut out. That ride was intolerable, and it was only five minutes long. Still, we had to stop on the way home and ply the Boy with a cheeseburger, onion rings and a milk shake to turn his mood around.

I turned to Annika. "I'll take Dan home in my car and you can take the Boy," I said. She laughed.

"Or, Jack and I might leave," I said. "And you can give him a ride."

Annika laughed again. "I'll tell him 'Something came up,' and you had to leave," she said.

Then the Boy's team went Braveheart. Dan, the Foul King, was benched. He paced the sidelines, coaching his teammates. They turned into a tsunami of brute force and scored two goals in the last two minutes. The last goal was kicked in by a defender from thirty yards away. It hit the back of the net three feet off the ground.

The parents in the stands relaxed. The car ride home would now only suck because it was two hours long, not because we'd have surly teenage boys in the car. To paraphrase Hamilton, which we listened to on the way to Aberdeen, they snatched a stalemate from the jaws of defeat.

"On that last goal, that ball must have been going sixty miles an hour," the Boy said on the car ride home.

I told my manager the story.

"So that's why moms cheer on the sidelines," he said. "You care more about the car ride home than winning."

Yep.

Working Mom Dating Profile

Today is the weekend, a day most working people dedicate to family and/or hobbies. I looked at what I did and I am glad I am not single, because I thought of what my hobby list would look like on an internet dating profile.

Middle-aged Woman in Search of...I don't know. Impress me.

Hobbies:

• Vacuuming
• Folding and sorting laundry
• Balancing the checkbook*
• Applying for Financial Aid
• Loading/unloading the dishwasher
• Walking my dog because he won't poop within 1/4 of a mile of my house
• Driving people places
• Calendaring
• Gardening*
• Going out to dinner because after all of that I am too tired to cook or go grocery shopping

The worst part about this is that I wouldn't want to date anyone who would be remotely attracted to any of the things on the list.

* I like these for real.

Mo Dowd's Sheet-Caking

Unless you have been living under a rock--which is starting to sound appealing, you know this was a super shitty week in America with a hurricane ripping through Puerto Rico and a massacre in Las Vegas. I was eating lunch with people at work and the conversation turned to events of the week.

"Did you read the article in the New York Times about 'bump stocks' used by the shooter Vegas?" my manager asked.

Ah, no. Since living under a rock isn't viable, I've been skipping the first section and reading the second, third and fourth sections of the New York Times. I should be reading the front page, but I don't. I can find out what is happening from people at work, my dad, my kids and my friends Facebook. Even the business section is nauseating these days with constant reports of sexual discrimination in Silicon Valley. Yesterday, Harvey Weinstein was on the front page for harassing women half his age. Bleck.

What did I read the other day? A piece by Maureen Dowd on the actor Idris Elba. If the Boy had been a girl, her name would have been Maureen. The most beautiful girl in my high school was named Maureen, and Maureen Dowd is one of my favorite newspaper columnists, second to Mike Royko. Mike would have been a funny name for a girl, and even though the Boy was a boy, there are too many Michaels in my family to add another.

I digress. This must Mo Dowd's version of Tina Fey's sheet-caking. After years of writing hard-hitting pieces about what now seem to be reasonable and rational politicians, it seems like she has given up.

I imagine what she thought: I could write a piece about the evil, idiot President, or I could interview a hot actor. 

After about three seconds, she chose the hot actor.

As much as I love Maureen Dowd, I had to wonder: Does this piece count as journalism? It seems like she is mostly interested in getting laid here, and she is not too transparent about it. Or, maybe I am reading too much into the piece. Maybe she is nothing more than an adoring fan. Here is some evidence. The article reads like a booty call to me, but you can judge yourself...

"In a world where most movies disappoint and true stars are rare, Mr. Elba is magnetic. He is tall and muscular...His father once advised him to look people in the eyes. In our A.D.D. planet, it works. Mr. Elba does not look away at his phone, at the waitress when he asks for a knife, at his publicists trying to hustle him along or at his steak salad and steak and eggs. His expressive brown eyes are always on you... His vibe is cool but his career is frenetic.

So at long last, we need to know: Does he like martinis? Offering his most suave look, Mr. Elba murmurs: “I like them stirred. Not shaken. Jesus Christ, did I just say that out loud?”"

What did I do? Did I say, "This is a ridiculous piece of fluff," put it down and read about hurricane victims with no power? Did I write the New York Times and say "Mo Dowd has the hots for this guy. You call this journalism?" and read instead about the cancer epidemic in Africa? Did it matter that for six lines out of a few hundred Dowd asked about racism and Trump, and the rest were dedicated to whether or not Elba would be the next James Bond?

Nope. I read every word of what Maureen Dowd wrote.

Twice.