I was wrong...

I was wrong to not pack the chocolate-covered pretzels.They’d already saved my life once this weekend. How could I have left them behind this morning?!

Let me back up. 

I’m trying to extend the time between when I wake up and when I chow down in my bid to be an intermittent faster. Ali had a swim meet Saturday, and I knew it would start early and go long. So, I took a tall travel mug of coffee and purposefully didn’t put snacks in my survival bag. Instead, I packed a book, a battery in case it went so long my electronics died, my iPhone, my iPad and my PR newspaper. I love my kid, but there were eight schools and a bunch of races my kid (or kids I know) wasn't in. I can feign interest only so long.

Knowing I could get a touch hangry, I threw an emergency container of chocolate-covered pretzels in the car, thinking more of a starving swimmer than myself. I had stopped eating at 8 p.m. the night before, and I was at the meet around 9 a.m.

Four hours later (that's 17 hours without food for a girl who wakes up hungry) I was starting to hallucinate and plot the murders of other spectators who’d visited the snack bar and had the bad manners to bring back the bounty they found there. Fake-cheese covered chips, popcorn, M&Ms, both plain and peanut. Hot dogs. The smells. The crunching. The smiles that full tummies brings. Oh, the humanity!

By this time, my electronics had powered down and up again. I was distracted from mass murder by my friend, Denise, who had hoped to see Ali swim but came in just after her last race and literally hours before her next. She had to go before Ali got back in the water. Denise and I took a walk, and I continued it after she left.

It was raining, so I couldn't go outside, and the only open area of the school included the snack bar. Someone back there was grilling hamburgers. The smell was aggressive to put it mildly. Despite my best efforts, I floated toward it like a cartoon character, following my  nose.It was past noon, the earliest I could eat under my intermittent plan. I had really wanted to wait until the meet was over. I’d thought I could last. Wrong. 

I impatiently waited for the guy and the toddler ahead of me. The little girl couldn’t decide between Cheetos and plain chips. She danced around chanting some nonsense that I'm sure was adorable on some other plane of existence. “Just pick one!!!!!” I screamed in my head. I know it was only in my head because they scampered away unharmed and carrying their damn Cheetos.

Finally: my turn. I order a burger, slurring my words a little bit around the saliva that had accumulated in my mouth. My taste buds rejoiced in premature jocularity. I could see them, smell them, taste them!!! I started a little happy dance of my own.

“No burgers,” said the oldish man standing right next to the aluminum foil wrapped tray of steaming burgers. 

“Uh, are you serious?” I asked, amazing myself by not jumping over the half door. I was sure I could take the guy, but there’d be witnesses.

Apparently unaware that his very life was in danger, he advised me that the burgers were for the “help.” I swallowed hard and reassessed the witness pool, which was only growing.

“I’ll have a hot dog,” I managed to say.

It might have been the best hot dog ever formed. And the most quickly devoured. I immediately wanted more but slunk upstairs to take my place among the better snacked. Ninety minutes, one medal, and a podium visit or two later, the meet finally ended and my swimmer emerged. We get to the car and I’m already driving before she shuts her door. “Taco Bell or Arby’s?” I ask. 

“I’m not really hungry,”she says.

I almost stalled the car.”Well I’m starving, “ I say. 

She tossed my emergency snack stash at me. I’d forgotten all about them. I stopped the car to open the lid and then apparently made inappropriate noises as I gorged on dark chocolate and peppermint covered pretzels..

"Wow," she said. 

You’d think that with that experience fresh in my head, getting Ali to a birthday party in the wilds of Hendricks County the next day would have reminded me to pack snacks. But my plan was to treat myself to something in the nearby town. I'd have a late breakfast in a small town cafe or something where I could soak up some ambiance and read and relax. 

It was going to be wonderful. I'd indulge myself for the couple hours Ali would be with her friends.and I'd get a little work done or read the paper or something. A solid plan. After, I'd pick up the party girl and hightail it to Jenna’s Christmas concert on the northwest side of Indianapolis. Dining solo made sense for both time and mileage as the party site is about 30 miles northwest of our house.

Except that we get to Jamestown only to discover the party is in Greenwood. For you non-Hoosiers, Greenwood is about 50 miles southeast of Jamestown. 

It was almost 1 p.m. when I'd gotten Ali to the right spot and found a restaurant in Greenwood. I was ready to eat my own arm off. 

I run into the restaurant only to be greeted -- eventually -- by the oldest hostess still working a hostess stand in America. She's beyond the need to curry favor from anyone and can't quite reach the silverware she's supposed to give me. Wars have been fought and ended faster than the time it took for her to get me to a table. 

Still, I waited patiently, dreaming of something sumptuous. Pancakes maybe. The breeze coming through the window ruffled the laminated pages of the menu and I contemplated running out to the car for my wrap. Hoping to order fast, I toughed it out and started scanning the menu only to be yelled at by the calorie counts next to the yummy pages. I ended up with a half sandwich and soup, which was the most reasonable of the selections. Even the salads were over the top. Huddled there in the wind tunnel, I contemplated pie. I'd suffered enough, goddammit. (I resisted.)

It wasn't long before I had to get back in the car to get Ali and to head back north. I did snag a York Peppermint Patty for dessert. What kind of restaurant offers candy at the register, by the way? I think I was glad I resisted the pie. How good could it have been if they they have to offer you packaged candy at the register?!

After driving another 40 miles, I wasn't hungry anymore and got through the concert just fine. It was super fun and Jenna was a great entertainer. Now, I'm home and have 90 minutes left in the day to eat. 

Wish me luck tomorrow. If you see me out and you're hungry, I'll have yummy pretzels for you.

Your other right

Alison has never had a strong grasp on directions. North, South, East and West are simply words to her, not indicators. And while she can read and speak Latin, sing songs in various languages and recite every element on the periodic table, she's hard pressed to find her way home on her own.

She had a swim meet in Eastern Hancock County Saturday.

She did well in her first time in competitive water this year, but we arrived at 8:30 a.m. and didn't leave until 2 p.m. I've been trying to do this intermittent fasting thing and had purposefully not brought snacks.

By the time the swimmers left the water, the hallucinations were starting. Not remembering that she needed driving practice, I speed walked to the Subaru and asked her if she was hungry. She wasn't but agreed to plug "Arby's" into Google Maps.

"Not Dairy Queen?" she asked.

"Oooh. Dairy Queen," I said, guessing correctly that if there were an Arby's, there'd also be a DQ. I get a sandwich and then head to dessert. We agree that she'll drive once we get all our dietary needs met.

At DQ, I ask her what she wants. She reminds me that she filled up on the coach's bagels.

"YOU love Dairy Queen," she said. "Oh, but if they have those star things, can we get a box?"

I get her an individual item and we decide we need to listen to Christmas music on the way home. And, I remember that Sambol's Tree Farm is in Hancock County. I got a great wreath there last year and was hoping to get another one but didn't want to make the trek out there.

Thank you, Google, it's just down the road. "Let's go!" I say.

She looks at me as she nibbles on her cherry star. "Uh, I'm driving. I can't eat and drive at the same time."

My little rule follower. We find music, she finishes her treat and we wait for the voice in the phone to tell us where to go. Hancock County abuts Marion. It's not exactly Kansas, but it's not her usual environment.

The tree farm is just down from the interstate ramp, so we had our bearings and didn't need Google to get home. I get my wreath, we get back in the car. I tell her to turn left onto the the state road and then look for Interstate 70 where she'll head west.

She looked at me, uncertain. "Follow the sign to Indianapolis," I say.

She gets us on the interstate and I said, "Just keep west, take the Keystone exit and turn right."

We belt out Christmas tunes. I turned to Candy Crush and email and it wasn't long before I heard her say, "Whoops" and inform me that she'd missed the exit.

I looked up and around as the Shadeland exit grew smaller in the rear view mirror.

"We could have gone home that way," I said. "But let's take Keystone."

"OK," she says, explaining, "The sign said Indianapolis."

Just this year, this kid has successfully navigated herself across Eastern Europe and around the state of Tlaxcala, Mexico. But OK. 

I went back to my game. I was on a particularly hard level, and the girl has got to hone her local navigational skills.

My reasoning was that Keystone is clearly marked, and it's a straight shot home. A few miles north, a left, a right and then left onto our own Castle Row.

"You know where you're going, right?" I say when she exits smoothly onto Keystone.

"Yes!" she says indignantly. "I'll be turning right, right?"

I shake my head in the non-affirmative. "Left," I say.

"I'm pretty sure it's right," she said.

I shook my head.
"I know what I'm doing," she said.

"OK," I say, thinking I've got all afternoon, a power source and a heated seat. I leaned back.

She rants at me a little bit more as she makes sure she's driving the speed limit, not a speck more, and checks traffic to change lanes to the right.

I bite my tongue. With more confidence than she deserved to feel, she turns right on 56th and heads east. I maintain my silence. Moving further away from home, but at a steady 40 miles per hour, she happily buzzes along. We come to Allisonville Road. She looks around a bit as we wait on cross traffic.

I'm still minding my own business in the shotgun seat.

"Hey!" she says suddenly. "I'm on the way to Nikki's house."

"Yup," I say.

We crack up as she sighs and turns right and then comes to the next intersection. "I turn right here, don't I?" she asked.

"I don't know, do you?" I ask.

She looks at me. "I think so," she says. "Yeah. I just came from there, so I'm just going to make a big square. I turn right. Right?"

"Right," I say.

We get back to 56th Street and head west toward home.

"You told me to turn right," she said.

"I said left!"

"No, you didn't. You said right!"

"I did not!"

We're shouting, but laughing at the same time.

We get to Keystone. She stops and looks at me, her foot magnetized to the brake.

I'm incredulous at this point. She's lived in this area for all of her 17.5 years on this Earth. Our Ogden friends used to live just up the street from where we are and beyond that is Taco Bell. I know she can get home from Taco Bell. It is not, however, in sight.

"Well, you have some options," I say. "You can just go straight and we can go home down Dominic's hill."

Dominic is a friend from her Christ the King days. If we biked near his house, we had to go up what was to her elementary school-sized legs and little girl bike, an enormous challenge. That incline behind the Chatard baseball field will forever be "Dominic's hill" to us.

She guns it across the intersection and gets us home without another question.

"You said right," she mutters.

Tradition delayed

For at least a dozen years, Ali and I have had a tradition of decorating the Christmas tree together. It's Step 2 of the Reed holiday habit.

Nice spread, aye?

We start things off on the way home from Thanksgiving, which is usually down home, by breaking out Jeff's House of Merle X Marks the Spot Christmas music mix. We sing along for the 90 miles or so it takes us to get home and by the time we get home, we're on the edge of ready.

This year, instead of waking up to hours of pulling out decorations, I got up at 3 to get Ali up and to the airport for a trip to Mexico with her school choir. She was chosen for the 8-day, over the school week, trip to Tlaxcala and has spent the last several days singing her heart out in churches built in the 1500s and traipsing around scenic Mexico.

Mr. Riley is earning his corner of heaven... and snack on Earth.

You can see and listen to her choir here, here, here and here, thanks to great trip chaperones and the magic of Facebook and mu pilfering from a Dad named Mike Berry. His daughter apparently didn't think he was too bossy to go. The least he can do is let me steal from him. 😁

In between multiple singing events, the girls have danced with local villagers, sang with kids, exchanged gifts with schools and host families, scaled ancient ruins, eaten tons of great food and sprang a flash mob in a crowded market. They've had a wonderful time.

As for me? Well, Christmas has still escaped from the bins but the tree is naked of ornaments -- that's Ali's favorite job. One year, we had a tree with little else but stuffed animals. She's gotten over that, though she may not appreciate what I've done with our collection of Island of Misfit Toys collection. She usually insists they sit above the picture window in the front room.

I did put the tree up and wrap it in lights -- not her favorite part. She claims she's excited to get home and get to it. We'll see. She comes home tomorrow night. I've cleared the next day for whatever she wants to do. I expect my morning will be available, though...

When turkeys attack

In an hour or so, we'll get in the car and drive to my sister's house. We'll laugh. We'll eat. We'll make fun of each other and talk about old times.

Like when we were all at home and somehow ended up with an attack turkey. It was a huge old Tom. I don't know why he was so mean, where he came from and if we ever ate him, but he was terrifying.

If you've never had a turkey chase you to the outhouse in the dead of the night, you haven't lived. Or had your bladder control tested.

Too much insight into my psyche on a national holiday? Sorry. Not sorry.

Our upbringing was one long lesson in the old adage, "That which doesn't kill you makes you stronger." I was the youngest, so I missed some of the more bucolic of our family times, but I'm sure I'll be reminded today. 

We won't be at my family home. It and the outhouse is gone now. The only turkey at Donna's will be on a platter, but if past gatherings are any indication, we'll serve up memories of that enduring life lesson and how our truly devout dad tended to laugh at things that other parents might find alarming. Like:

• When I'd snatched Nancy's 10-speed and was riding down the country road in front of our house and a snarling dog chased me into an electric fence. He was down at the neighbor's house when it happened. They both watched the scene play out. As the dog ran back home, the neighbor asked my dad if they should go untangle me. My dad shook his head no and probably said something about me needing to build up a little more character.
• When my parents' friends were over and the wife was in bathroom when a water pump sprang into action. It was a normal sound for those of us who lived there. Carmen Boyd, however, came from the city. Pants around her ankles, she jumped from the toilet to the ceiling and called for help thinking a wild animal was in there with her.
• When Donna failed to come to dinner for what seemed like hours, only to drag herself inside, wet and cold. She'd fallen into a well while she was out watering the cows and had to drag herself out of there.
• When Diane was dressed for a date and fell into the muddy pig pen.
• When he caught my brothers with smokeless tobacco and made them eat it. Donnie swallowed it and sat there defiant. David had a harder time and Dad let him mix it in with what was left of the gravy.

Sigh. How those were good times, I can't quite explain. I'll have to gather more proof.

Hope your Thanksgiving is full of laughter and safe travels.

Behold the mighty oak

Without fail, the Captain and I argue over how to deal with the leaves in our yard come this time of year when the magnificent trees in our neighborhood morph into hideous monsters that do nothing all day but drop their refuse onto our yards and streets.

One year, capitulating to his hatred of all things yard work-related, I waited to collect them all once and only once rather than attacking them every week as I normally do. We had leaves up to our knees. Well, I did. They were more ankle height on Jeff.

But they swirled into the house as if seeking shelter. They blew into the cars, into my hair, into my mouth at the slightest breeze. Walking into the house was a crunch fest.

Alison loved diving into the piles. She could have probably jumped from the roof and landed safely the piles were so high. Bagging them all took forEVER and it was so cold. I vowed to never wait so long again.

This year, my strategy is to mulch them at least once a week. It requires a lot of passes with the mower, but it's a great way to rack up steps, and it doesn't result in a sore back. Jeff is gone to a beer event in Chicago, Ali is focused on homework and college applications so there was nothing holding me back from time in the yard.

I was feeling pretty proud of myself and optimistic about the idea of escaping bag duty. But even my additional time with the mower didn't get me to my step goal, so afterward, I took a walk around my neighborhood.

I noted how many of my neighbors' trees had already shed completely and now stretched bare, skeletal arms to the blue sky. I complain about the leaves, but the carpets of color they laid were spectacular.

Most of the yards wore one color, but one sported canary yellow as well as crimson, with a beautiful blur of both where they came together. On the one hand, I was sad that so many had fallen already. On the other, it meant less work for me in the coming weeks.


I got back to my house and was greeted by a mostly green yard with spots of leaves that I didn't dig out of the flower beds. I figuratively patted myself on the back for being so smart to use technology to fight my seasonal battle.

But then, I looked up. I'm pretty sure the squirrels in my oak tree -- and maybe the tree itself -- were laughing at me. Yeah, the shorter, lesser tress might have let go. This baby is hanging on.

Let's Keep This Week Going

In the past seven days, TeamReed has seen:

• The BoSox win the World Series the day before Jeff's birthday,
• Both Jeff and my fantasy football teams won their matches,
• Jeff did a stellar job arguing before the Indiana Supreme Court, and 
• Alison had some awesome moments on the sports, academic and social scenes. 

Then, this morning, on a walk after breakfast, Jeff and I saw a line of people filling the sidewalk in front of a strip mall that includes a Planet Fitness and a discount department store. At the far end of that strip was a polling site. The line started at the polling site, crossed the full length of the strip mall, and looped around so it looked like the returns counter on December 25th. And people were still strolling up to vote early.

It's too early to tell, of course, whether these awesome Americans are voting on my side of the ballot. But just the idea that they were out to vote -- and that voting is at an all-time high here in Indiana -- was enough to increase the bounce in my step.

But let's pause for a moment to officially laud the Captain, who hit a career high with his appearance before the Indiana Supreme Court.



You can watch it here, or you can trust me that he did a terrific job articulating why the court should agree with his side of Case No.18S-EX-0047593A02-1711-EX-02735, NIPSCO Industrial Group v. Northern Indiana Public Service Company, Office of the Utility Consumer Counselor which concerns Cause No. 44733-TDSIC-2 before the Indiana Utility Regulatory Commission.

If the title of the case isn't enough to dissuade you from watching it, you can fast forward 19 minutes to see him argue. It's been 20+ years since I was in a hearing room where he was working, but I was glad I went. Thanks to Andy Siewert for making time to sit in and others who watched it in live stream. Jeff had prepared really well, but the good vibes probably helped, too.

We had another record year of raising money for the local Ronald McDonald House at the annual Taste gala. Thanks to Peter Dunn for emceeing and support from IndyNewYears.com, Borshoff, Neal Brown Hospitality, Jack and Karen Shell and everyone who helped out. I just realized I didn't take any pictures there. It was a fun night and such a wonderful cause. If you ever find yourself with too much cash on hand, feel free to give to the House. It's an amazing place.

In other fun news, our friends Nick Wangler and Anna Zumbrun had a moment in the sun from WISH-TV, which highlighted their use of the beautiful and historic Union Station for a New Year's Eve party that's going to be THE place to be to ring out 2018. Get your tickets here. 

It's not just a good party, they're raising money for Dream Alive, there's an arts component via a partnership with the Harrison Center for the Arts and even more entertainment options. Check out the Indy Masquerade via Brenna Donnelly's Facebook live hit, where you get to know Nick and Anna, too.

Or, in case you missed WISH live, check out some more here.  If you're thinking you can't ballroom dance so you can't take advantage of all the things at Masquerade, folks from Indianapolis Ballet will be there to help you bust the right move.

For you Indianapolis folks, keep your eye out for art from Abi Ogle, which will signal a surprise, pop-up "Masquerade Moment" from now until the end of the year. 

The most important thing you can do this week, though, is vote. If you want advice on who to support, I'm full of ideas. But you're smart. You care about other people. You want America to be the place anyone can find a fair opportunity. Keep those things in mind when go stand to cast your ballot and you can't go wrong.

Then, ask yourself, "What are you doing New Year's, New Year's Eve....

 

Sometimes my stories may seem like a bit of a stretch

But not these...

Alison buried in goats courtesy M. Burlingame

With this being Alison's senior year of high school, I've taken to thinking of it as my last year with her. Sure, we'll still be related, and I suspect she'll come around every so often after she heads off to college and then her real life. But it's difficult for me not to see this year as the true beginning of the end of my "real" time with her.

So I'm actively looking for ways to insinuate myself in between her study/watch YouTube time, her swim time, her friends time, school and other non-Mom activities. Saturday was our day of yoga.

I didn't mean for us to have yoga sessions in both the morning and evening. I had already purchased tickets for yoga in the Indianapolis "Catacombs" before my friend (and Alison's "Aunt Margaret") asked me if we'd like to join her for Goat Yoga. They just happened to be on the same day.

Ali was attracted to the Catacombs option because she'd really enjoyed our trip through the Paris Catacombs -- a collection of millions of bones of people buried beneath the city. I'd warned her that the local version was bone-free and really an enormous root cellar that serves as a support structure for a community building that's long been replaced by the City Market.

The goat idea earned me a bit of a side-eye that was echoed by my friend Peggy Boehm's remark: "I get the goats. Where's the yoga?"

Let's start with the morning session at the Happy Goat Lucky Yoga session in Noblesville, just north of Indianapolis. On the drive up, Alison quizzed me about what we were in for.

"So, there are goats?" she said around her breakfast taco. "Won't they, like, pee and poop on us?"

"No!" I exclaimed. "Of course not. Well, probably not. Of course, because of the weather, we'll be inside, so maybe. But I'm sure they're prepared for stuff like that. It'll be fine."

(We cut here to me -- even before we'd gotten started -- discovering a pile of poop by my ankle and remarkably millimeters away from getting on me. Alison's "I told you, so" look was classic. She laughed so hard even the goats couldn't hear her.)

"So why are there goats?" she asked.

"Because they're cute," I said. "They're little goats. It'll be fun."

She had questions about biting and jumping and I assured her it would be nothing but fun.

(We cut here to Alison -- laying supine as instructed when one of the five little goats walked up on her torso. It was joined by another and she was giggling and trying to lay still as they came closer to her face. Then, "Ooof!" she exclaimed as third hopped up to see what all the fuss was about. She later informed us that the third goat had landed two of its little hooves on her vagina, which apparently brought her up off the mat and led to the goats' hasty dispersal.)

To get us started, we were given handfuls of goat treats. It's hard to know if the goats appreciate the yoga or the initial pampering and cooing they receive upon introduction. They do, however, fully appreciate the treats.

Having already had a deposit at my feet, I silently questioned the wisdom of stuffing the goats with goat treats before we all laid down on the floor while the animals remained free. Math isn't my strong suit, but I was pretty sure that the time we'd be down there and the time their little bodies would need to metabolize their snackage  was roughly equivalent. So I kept my eyes peeled for poopage.

Already assaulted, Alison,was, perhaps, even more vigilant. She identified -- but did not share her knowledge with the two of us -- which of the five goats was the prime pooper.

"When it came near me," she said later, "I would pray, 'Not that one. Not that one.'"

Her silent pressure apparently worked for all of us. Afterward, though, a group of women assumed the "Table Top" position and another woman positioned four of the goats on top of them for photos. The goats seemed willing, but apparently the ladies took too long to get the perfect shot. One of the goats peed on one of the ladies and the tables quickly collapsed.

It was fun. For us. I can't speak for the goats.

We went to lunch where we learned in full detail about how Alison had suffered hoof prints on her hoo-hah. Ali's stories tend to increase in volume as the drama builds, so I'm afraid all of Courtney's Kitchen learned of the incident, as well.

We came home, rested up, set out candy for the neighborhood Halloween fest before going downtown for our next yoga experience. We were encouraged to dress up, which Ali took to heart and wore a yellow racing catsuit. I borrowed her devil-horn headband and slapped some lipstick on.

We met Julie Miller and Alisha Valentine there -- both much more experienced in yoga than Ali and me -- and about a 100 other people. No joke. So many people signed up for this spooky class that they had to add a later class. Which was great because the class was a fundraiser for the YMCA.

So our descent to the bowels of Indianapolis was good for the community as well as good for us. And it was taught by a yogi in full "Day of the Dead" makeup from a previous gig at the Eiteljorg. We were surrounded by a bunch of people some there in costume and some there just for the yoga.

This was a more seriously focused yoga experience. So much more than our morning session that at one part, Ali and I looked over at each other in alarm/pain. Proofing our genetic and non-yoga-expert connection, we said to each other :"I miss the goats."

Later into the hour-long session, our instructor was telling us to move in a rotation of movements that included "downward dog" "three-legged dog" "cobra" and the "chaturanga" process. At one point, she said people could do what they wanted, work harder or rest. I've been trying to get back to doing "planks" at they gym, so I was working fairly hard.

To my right, Alison had taken the instructor to heart. "I looked over at you and saw you working and though, "Yeah, you go, girl," she said later, confession that she'd taken a long break.

It was, Alisha told us later, a milder form of class than that particular instructor usually offers. I was grateful for the leniency. I'd also always wanted to see the Indy Catacombs, so all in all, it was a great experience. The venue isn't one for a daily work out. The floor is packed dirt, and there are drips from above, some more steady than others. It's chilly, too, and spooky enough that you're glad to have the lights on.

Many of my friends love yoga. I wouldn't say I'm there yet, but the stretching alone is good for my aging body. I don't know if I'll ever be able to breathe from my belly button or roll down vertebrate by vertebrate. Also, after two sessions of yogo and going to and from, in addition to an evening out with the Shells and their friends (super fun but a story for another day) I recorded only 5,846 steps on my FitBit.

Until I can get step credit, I don't know how I can devote an hour a day to yoga.

Unless Alison wants to do it with me, of course.

Voting and Remembering My Dad

I never feel more American - or closer to my father - than when I vote.

Since I turned 18, I've voted every Election Day, usually in the morning before work or other obligations. I voted early for the first time today because I'm going to work the election and don't yet know where I'll be assigned.

Most of you are tired of my stories about Election Day in my childhood home where we turned the living room into a polling place and folks from our rural area came by to chat and vote. My dad was a precinct committeeman and my mom spent her morning and afternoon feeding the poll workers. We'd all watch the election returns in the dining room where the living room furniture still crowded all the nooks and crannies.

We were Democrats, of course, so I remember the shock of realizing we lived in a Republican state. I remember my dad chuckling when I turned to him to question why Indiana had been colored in red while the other states were still showing white on the TV screen map of the USA. It was probably 6:01 p.m.

My dad in his Army days. Apparently winning.

Jimmy Carter would win that year, but not with Hoosier help. Doc Bowen was our governor, but not up in 1976. Dick Lugar won his first U.S. Senate spot. He'd become the unusual Republican office holder my Blue Dog Democrat father would support.

This is an interesting year with Alison still a year away from being able to vote but vocal about her views on the political world. She was making fun of some ads the other day -- we're drowning in Donnelly v. Braun messaging -- picking apart elements that she thought were ridiculous.

"I mean, I like him because you told me I should," she said. "But really, he's splitting wood!"

I laughed at the idea that she was following my advice but hugged it tight just the same. It's anyone's guess who she'll be listening to this time next election.

Anyway, it was nice to think about you Dad. Pretty sure you'd be happy with my picks.

Mustang conversations

Ali and I have had some of our best conversations in the car. She's also puked all over herself in the back while I was driving her to school, but she wasn't yet walking so I don't hold that against her.

It was super gross, though, and I sometimes wonder if the passengers of whoever bought that Honda sedan ever gets a whiff of the worst mark she put on its cloth upholstery.

Flash-forward to her current passenger status. She's not a puker, but her language can get a bit salty depending on her mood. She's also quite the backseat driver when she's not behind the wheel. I haven't taught her how to drive my Mustang, so she's a perpetual co-pilot. The other day, I was driving her to meet a friend and trying to get my FitBit off my shoe. (We'd ridden bikes to the library before our car trip downtown and she was still bitter as her ears thawed.)

I was approaching a red light and had shifted to neutral while I reached down to unlatch the FitBit closure, which was proving trickier than I'd anticipated.

"I don't think this car has ever gone this slow," she remarked as we drifted toward the light.

I snagged the FitBit and shot her a look as I strapped it to my wrist. "I don't always speed," I said.

She arched her brow and silently judged me.

"I don't!" I said, braking as we came to the light. She just kept looking at me.

As a student driver, Alison is hyper aware of speed limits no matter where we go. It's maddening.

On that same trip, we encountered a Mercedes vehicle that looked like a cross between a Land Rover and a vintage Bronco. It was hideous and I made mention of it.

"It looks like an old fashioned ambulance," I said. "But ugly."

"Or one of those cars when the ambulance doesn't work out," Ali mused, agreeing but stumbling for the appropriate word.

"Do you mean a hearse?" I asked, starting to laugh.

"Yeah," she said. "That's it."

Here's hoping your ambulance always works out...

On zippers and fasting and fast friends

I don't know why I thought I could slip easily into the dress I was married in 21 years ago, but I did.

It's a cool dress. It was ivory, velvet and not really wedding dress-y. It was actually a bridesmaid dress I found out wedding dress shopping. It had an asymmetrical top part and was kind of snug as it went to the floor. It seemed perfect for a photoshoot that will be used to promote a super fun party you should go to this New Year's Eve at Union Station in Indianapolis.

I was optimistic because after a year or three away from my strict WW diet, I've got a little more junk in my trunk than needs to be there. As I learned when the dress started slithering down my torso and stopped at said trunk.

It reminded me of the time I was a bridesmaid for my sister Nancy. Her BFF from high school, the twig-like Tracy Price, and I were standing up for her. We had bubble-gum pink satin dresses that I think my sister Donna made. Mine was double-digit sized. Tracy's was probably sub-zero. I was home for a fitting.

It was a bright, sunny day and I was standing in the kitchen/dining room area of the house I'd shared with Nancy before moving to Evansville. I stripped down to my underwear and slipped my dress over my head. It got a little lower than the wedding dress this week, but that wasn't good news because it got stuck. I was standing there with my arms sticking out over my head trapped in pink satin. No amount of tugging or swearing or jumping about did anything but jiggle the fat sticking out the other end.

I wailed. I cried. I was unhappy with the original size, had been dieting and now it was worse than the first fitting when we had to go up a size. Nancy tried to help me out of it, but as I recall was laughing too hard to be of much assistance.

Turns out, I was trapped in Tracy's dress. I don't know how I got out of it but I know Donna had repairs to make to more than a few seams. We're lucky we didn't have to call the fire department. I still hate pink satin.

Anyway, I didn't have to destroy my way out of the ivory velvet, and I have a new goal for the next few months: I'm wearing that damn dress to NYE. Just you wait.

What that means is no more trips to Chicago with my Bunco squad. I could tell you about the excesses that happened there but Chicago is my new Las Vegas. But I have to share a pic of the birthday boy when he was at least fully clothed...

Below is from last night's photoshoot where I did not wear the dress I'd planned. It's going to be an awesome night. Especially if I lose 100 pounds or so. Kelsey Taylor, who you see below, is more than ready right now. You know, even if I don't get back into that dress, I'm in excellent shape friends-wise. Maybe I should start measuring that way...

Every Second

In lieu of a standard morning greeting, I overheard this exchange between the Captain and our daughter who was studiously working through the college application process:

"Alison, did you really eat an entire package of pita bread?"


"In my defense, there were only four of them, and they were small."

"Did you have any fruit or anything healthy with it?"

She mumbled something about orange peppers but happily accepted a package of raspberries.

"Cool!"

Jeff harrumphed his way to the porch where we had settled to read the paper. I kept my eyes glued to the magazine insert. The Captain is having a hard time realizing this is really the beginning of the end of us being routinely included in the majority of the formerly little redhead's waking hours.

"Our daughter is applying to colleges," he informed me on a walk the other day.

"She's going to be leaving soon," he'd said earlier in the week.

"This is really happening," he'd intoned after she'd asked each of us to give her comments on her common essay.

I've refrained from talking much about "this" because:

A: I've been freaked out about her being a grown up at every developmental stage;
B: I'm starting to freak out about the idea of having just Jeff and me rattling around in the Broad Ripple starter home I've never felt compelled to leave; and
C: I'm planning on making the most of every second still available to me.

Plus, she's asking us -- sincerely -- to be a part of this process. She hasn't completely shut us out of her life. We spent a lot of time this weekend discussing her essay, her use of the semi-colon and particular word choices. She asks us separately because our approaches are so different and she wants to have as much information to consider as possible.

Jeff likes to dive deep in his editing. I've learned to ask before I apply the red pen because sometimes she's just looking for content help and will address grammar last. Also: "I know how to properly use a semi-colon, Mom."

The required essays are short, and anyone who's ever tried to "write short" knows it's a harder process than having the luxury of waxing poetic for pages upon pages.

I forget the exact prompt for the essay. It was something about naming a time you questioned a belief. She used her frustration with her K-8 catholic education when she routinely would hear "It's God's plan" in answer to questions. She discovered and dove deeply into chemistry and the scientific process at Herron High School. She's hoping to continue that in her college career.

It's a good essay that I hope gets her where she needs to be next, even though it's going to be hard to have her gone. I'm by turns incredibly proud of her and eager to see what transformations she has left to make and weepy over the thought of her having a life that doesn't include waking up at home and getting in trouble with her father for powering through a bag of dried mango strips or hiding sea salt caramels under her bed.

She's still not gotten her driver's license. The other day we were coming home from school and I was driving as we're putting off teaching her the magic of the stick-shift until she's gotten authorization for solo passage in the Subaru.

"I pray a little every time you pass another car," she volunteered from the passenger seat.

I laughed because she works really hard to convince people she doesn't subscribe to a faith. She's been all in to the idea that I'm a bad driver for a long time. It's been a while since she blared "Highway to Hell" when we've been in my car together, though. I was kind of hoping she'd decided I've improved on the roadway. I do use my turn signals more often than I have in the past, but her routine scan of the speedometer hasn't slowed me down much.

She's been battling a cold for the last few weeks and it wasn't until 4 p.m. on the Friday of Labor Day Weekend that she confessed that rather than getting better -- which allowed her to go to a sleepover with friends -- she was worse and needed medication. Not able to get into the doctor, we ended up at Urgent Care Saturday morning.

Unusually, Jeff joined us. I think he was expecting she'd go with us to shop for a new bike for me. Ali, who's taller than me now, has been using my bike rather than her own, and we plan to let her take it to college.

I handed her the patient paperwork. Jeff gave me a look. Usually it's him who's pushing the teachable moments.

"If she gets sick in college, she'll have to do all of this by herself," I said.

She filled out the form and said she was fine going back to the doctor alone.

"I can do this," she said, unintentionally conjuring up all the times she's used that phrase in the past: tying her own shoes, filling her own glass, riding her bike.

The Captain shook his head but didn't protest. I swallowed hard. We let her go home while we bike shopped and waited for her prescription to be ready. We came home with meds and a new bike that Jeff was itching for me to try out.

But Ali put her sick little head on my lap and I suddenly had zero interest in going for a spin.

Every second, man. Every. Single. One.

Her love of junk food started early. That's a Hostess donut she's focused on. I LOVE this photo. Alex is over six feet now, I think. Hannah is in college. Gulp.

Pee-eww!

It's been spectacularly humid in Indiana lately. Jeff and I went to a lovely outdoor wedding where I'm pretty sure I sweated off about five pounds. It was short-lived, though, as the dessert table was right next to us, and between that event and a few others, I consumed enough calories to tip the scales the other direction.

Speaking of sweat, the Captain and I spent most of Sunday outdoors at the Indy Women in Tech golf tournament last weekend. It was super fun but we were both dripping only a few minutes in.

We left the golf course when my niece, Jaime, called to tell me she and her daughters, Rachael and Aleasha, were on their way to my house from a visit with her father-in-law at an Indianapolis rehab center.

I should have gone straight to the shower, but with company on the way, I opted to just cool down on the couch. Jeff stayed home in the cool basement when the rest of us went to an early dinner. We used two cars because they were going to head home right after.

On the way home, I mused out loud that I still needed a shower.

"Oh yeah," my chauffeur agreed.

I looked over at her and she laughed.

"What?" she asked. "I noticed in the restaurant but I didn't say anything."

I showered pretty fast after that, but it wasn't until many hours later that Jeff came to bed. I kissed him, as I normally do, but it was late and I was nearly asleep, so I wouldn't say it was one of my better attempts. He seemed salty but not so much that it woke me up. In the morning, he confessed that he'd delayed his shower, too, and by the time he got to bed, he'd forgotten all about our morning.

All this to say, folks, is that we stink. Sometimes literally.

When you can't tell family from friends, you've got it made

Possibly the best line I heard at my first-ever book signing this weekend came from Meredith, the IndyReadsBooks manager.

"It was clear you had a lot of family members come out to support you," she said. "That's key."

What's great about that statement is that only about 12 percent of the small crowd had a blood connection. So it was awesome when a stranger observed us in a semi-natural habitat and saw a family, too.

 

For the record, the official family members included my sisters Donna, Nancy and Debbie; my cousin, Lori; and my niece-in-law, Shannon. They braved city traffic and drove two hours to mingle with people who have known them for years via my stories. They were more than happy to be on the story telling end of things for a change.

Eric and Tracy won the prize for longest distance, coming up from Evansville, about three-and-a-half hours away. Kirsten win, through her mother, the prize for best marketing. Her mom has bought and read all four books. She lives in Australia, so I'm officially an internationally known author.

Also attending were most of Book Club and Bunco, and even a Showgirl. People from former jobs, current clients,  people who were at or in my wedding. We solidified a new friendship with folks who are new to the city and took a chance on stopping in to a room full of strangers who were at least an hour ahead of them in the drinking game.

I will admit to being terrified that no one would show up. And getting out the door with all of the books and snacks and drinks and things was a bit of a train wreck.

At one point, running late and still discussing if we had the right collection of libations, we were driving south on Keystone and slowing for a stoplight when a voice came from a motorist in the next lane.

"Sir, Sir! Something fell out of your car," said the nice woman.

We looked back. Jeff had lowered the back windows to get a little air, forgetting the back of our Subaru was stuffed to the gills. A bag had been leaning against the glass and spilled some of its contents when he lowered the window. Traffic was hopping, but Jeff jumped out to retrieve the spillage before we left a trail of snacks along Keystone Avenue.

Once we got to the store, though, it all fell into place. And people came!


Folks who couldn't attend the signing, but wanted to, reached out over the Interwebs and phone, so the crowd there was even larger emotionally than physically. Alison's French macrons and cupcakes were a huge hit, as was the array of libations the Captain was pouring.

We even sold a few books -- dozens of mine in addition to stuff from the shelves -- which was awesome because revenue generated at the store helps support the IndyReads literacy program.

I began this report with the best line, but there were many others bandied about as we essentially had a little party in the middle of the store. We even went over an hour our allotted time, which no one working at the store seemed to mind.

The Captain got a special bartender's license so he could serve.

"I want to meet your sisters!"

"Are you Chris from Facebook? The things you post are so funny!"

"I think I know that voice."

"Oh, my gosh, is that you? I haven't seen you in years."

"Tell me stories."

"That's the Captain."

"These macrons are stupid good."

"Are you going to read something?"

"When's the next book?"

Thanks to everyone who came or sent good vibes or messages and made it an awesome day.

That's Meredith behind the counter and Sarah Branham (and Anderson) checking out.

Jeff and I capped off the amazing weekend with a 2.5 hour hike with Eric, Tracy, Susan and a group of other fun new friends. Susan, who had come to the signing, along with her husband, Jeff, asked me what I'd learned from writing the book(s). Susan is often more philosophical and kinder than I am, and I'm always hoping some of it will rub off.

So there, along a trail at Eagle Creek Park, I pondered her question. What had I learned in the year I took to mostly focus on the thing I'd wanted to do for so long. That I could do it? That I should do more passion projects?

Yes, those things are true for me, and probably for you, too. But I think what I'm taking away mostly from this weekend is that I am truly blessed to have the family I have -- and I'm using Meredith's definition.

And now, a short note from our sponsors:

 

We went in with three boxes of books and came out with one, so we have a small surplus available at bargain prices. Hit me up if you want one. I suspect I'll have a sampling in the trunk of my car for a while. If you're out of town and want a book faster than the next time you see me, or better yet, you know someone who would enjoy my little thriller, direct them to Amazon here.

Gravel in our Travel

I reported already on Alison's Awesome Summer, but this morning our NBC affiliate, WTHR, aired its story on the filming of "The Misadventures of Bindu," and our messy-haired redhead made the cut. So it seemed like I should share the story.

You can see it here. I love her giggle at the end. It's so Alison.

In other news,  Ali drove us down to Brazil Saturday, her first at-the-wheel experience on the Interstate. Traffic was light so that helped, but she still had to deal with semis and other drivers coming up fast behind her. She did really well in both the city and on the highway.

It was a slightly different story when our GPS turned on us and directed us to leave Indiana 59 in our quest to get to a baby shower at Briley and Patrick's house. We'd not been there before, and if I'd only explored a tiny bit, I would have known that it required no gravel in our travel at all.

But I made the mistake of trusting the voice coming from my GPS. We turned onto a county road and Ali learned that not every roadway in America is clearly marked.

We wandered around a bit and found ourselves at an intersection with a road not referenced by the GPS. The numbered county road we were on led to what my rurally-trained eye told me was a driveway.

"Let's try right," I said, thinking that was at least in the direction of where I thought we needed to go. We hadn't gotten far when I decided we needed to double back. We met Cujo turning around in a driveway.

"Uh, Ali," I said. "Drive faster."

She was busy trying not to land us in a ditch, which I guess was a good thing, too, but the dog wasn't looking friendly as it approached. Yeah, we were wrapped in steel, but I had no wish to get Cujo slobber on the windows or to explain claw marks to the Captain.

We went back and through the intersection and found nothing but fields. We turned back again as I wondered if I'd entered the name of the road incorrectly. I'd never heard of a West State Road. Usually, three word-ed streets are county roads. So I changed the GPS to WCR instead of WSR.

We lost our signal, wandered some more and found ourselves back at the Cujo intersection. I mumbled something about being lost in BFE, using the three words of the acronym and taught my teenager a new word. I can already hear the detention message I'm going to get in a few weeks from her school.

Sitting at the now very familiar intersection, Ali said, "Let's just go straight."

She's a scientist. That was the one direction we hadn't tried.

"That's a driveway," I repeated.

"I bet it's a road," she said. "We are in the country."

"It's a dirt path," I said.

"Right and left didn't work," she reminded me.

"I have to pee," I said.

"Well I'm dying of thirst," she responded. "We have to get somewhere!"

We went straight and encountered a shirtless, unfriendly man coming out of a barn. Because it was a driveway.

She hit reverse again, seemingly more concerned about a close encounter with the man than she had been about the rabid dog. Backing up and turning is a new skill for her and she always has to remind herself out loud how to turn the wheel to point the car in the direction she wants. Amped up by thirst and adrenalin, she got out of there -- cleanly -- in record time.

I called my sister, Donna, who we were to meet at Briley's house. She also hadn't heard of WSR 340 and was coming from Brazil. She had the same address I did because I'd given it to her. I told her we'd drive until we got our signal back and let her know.

We found ourselves back on Indiana 59. We called Donna again. She had no clue and also hadn't heard of the WSR.

"Call Nancy," she suggested, another sister.

Nancy confirmed we had the right address all along and that WSR was really a thing. We plugged it in again, and it sent us right back to where we'd been. We waved to Cujo from the safety of our Subaru and eventually emerged onto US 40.

I remember enough about my home area geography to know that Indiana 59 intersects with US 40. If we'd stayed on the original state road, we'd have never gotten lost and been to the party on time. Stupid GPS.

The good news is that Ali and I got our diametrically opposite bodily needs met, we got to see family we hadn't seen in too long and Ali is more comfortable driving backwards.

She later drove Donna's big-ass pickup truck on US 41 on the south side of Terre Haute. The vehicle is larger than my house, so she had a tiny bit of drama turning off the highway where she and Donna met me for dinner. Two lanes of traffic turn into the street she needed and there was a vehicle right next to her as she made her turn. She apparently encroached a little bit into her neighbor's lane.

To her credit, Donna didn't yelp and Ali didn't panic.

But come to think of it, Donna hardly ever orders a cocktail at dinner and she didn't fight the suggestion.

Addendum:  While Ali and I were wandering Indiana, the Captain had another niece, Becca, on a morning whirlwind of shopping.We've been lucky to have Becca stay with us a few weeks while she takes some summer classes. She'll leave us soon to go back to Butler, which will make us all kind of sad.

It's not been too much of an eventful summer, but she had a budgetary trifecta hit. Her phone died and her car needed an oil change. Jeff likes nothing better than bargain shopping, and she and Becca had spent a good portion of Friday night talking about phones.

So they spent the morning first getting an oil change for her car, then phone shopping. Now, Jeff has hearing issues, but even he could hear her brakes grinding, so he forcibly suggested she get her car fixed, too.

The bargain he won for her phone was eaten up by the brake job, but at least she's safer.

Rock star? Check. Movie star? Check. World traveler? Check. I want Ali's life.

Unless you're a Kardashian or some other crazily entitled person, my guess is you will be -- as I am -- jealous of one Alison Reed. Here's what her summer has been so far:

• 10 days in Eastern Europe on a school trip, where she made out with a yellow boa constrictor ala Brittany Spears, ate amazing food and saw amazing sites, tempered by an incredibly emotive visit to Auschwitz;
• 6 days in Maine with her best friend at Auntie Jen's lake house where they spent more time in the water than on land and got to work on their water skiing skills;
• Serving as an extra in a Hollywood movie called "The Miseducation of Bindu." It includes David Arquette and other up-and-coming famous people, and Ali has spent hours and hours on set. 
• She was sitting around waiting one day when the director pointed to her and said, "We need someone to talk to a reporter outside. You! Go." So she did. I flubbed recording it on WTHR and found only this online. Her interview could have been cut, I suppose...



The extras hanging about the school yard.

• Kelly Wilkinson, an Indy Star photographer, snapped her and used the shot above in a 50+ photo gallery that accompanied the story you can get to via the link above.
• Singing on stage with Foreigner. Sure, only one of the original band members is still on tour, but it was really Foreigner. She and some of the Herron High School choir provided backup vocals for "I Want to Know What Love Is." 

  

  She's in the group on the left, but hard to see.

• Taking an overnight trip to Holiday World with friends from school. No chaperones. Yeah, that's coming up next week and both the Captain and I are queasy. Not because we don't trust her. It's just a long time to be on the highway in an SUV full of teenagers. Any of my Evansville peeps want to go shadow them and report in regularly that all is well?

She still has about a month left before she had to report back to school for her (gulp) senior year. She had exceptionally good grades both in school and on her AP tests and finals and she hasn't stepped too far out of line yet in the chores and attitude department so it's getting hard to say no to her.

I'm just saying that this is not how my summers went back in rural Clay County. To be fair, I guess, last year she broke her collarbone to kick off the season. Still. I'm a little green-tinged these days.