Old friends...and I mean that

Seems like all my friends from school are turning 50 this year. I don't know how they got so old!

I first met some of them in Shakamak High School's Kindergarten class. My first memory was Jeff Eccles, who wasn't having a good drop-off experience. His mother pointed across the toddler-sized table and suggested he be brave like me.

I wasn't being brave. I think I was probably too terrified to speak. The youngest of seven country kids, my mother had seen no need to indoctrinate me into relationships with foreign children. And as I'd already survived five years of my brothers, I'm sure it didn't occur to her to stick around and make sure I was OK in this new pool of fish.

Let's be honest: it was her one chance of freedom in, what, 10 years of having kids at home. I'd have gotten the hell out of Dodge too. 

So I survived that day and all the others that followed. Most of the kids I met that day were still with me when I sat in a hot gym to graduate from high school. And now, they're all turning 50.

How did they get so old?!  I remember that day in kindergarten as clearly as the (in retrospect) ugly white shoes I wore to graduation. Now I see their grandchildren on FaceBook. That's right. Grandchildren.

Alison's only 13. That makes me at least a decade younger than my classmates, right? Probably more.

To celebrate their status as the last of the Baby Boomers, I thought I'd offer up 5 Things You Should Have Learned by Your 50th Year. I had the idea I could impart 50 bits, but that's an awful lot and as I'm not yet 50, I'm not really qualified:

1. It's not all about you. Never was, really, but by now you should accept it. 

Alison had a "teens only" gathering after her acting camp last week. Wrapped up in having unchaperoned fun downtown, she was MIA from our original plans and had forgotten her phone so it was hard to reach her. I ended up tracking her down at the mall because I had another commitment that she had to attend as well. My friend Jodie and I were together when I spied her. She wasn't ready to go. She went without a fuss but explained down two escalators, in great detail how I was a joy killer. We got to the parking level before I asked her if she was going to say hello to Jodie. "Jodie's here?" she exclaimed and immediately gave her a hug. 

Here's the thing. Yes, Ali can be self-absorbed. But she's 13. (And at her own volition before we reached our destination, she apologized for "being a brat.")  By the time you're 50 -- decades earlier for you high acheivers -- you should know that it's not all about you. And act accordingly.

2. It's not about the size of your ass or your bank account it's about the condition of your heart.

Some great woman posted the other day about how she knows she's not a single digit size any more but dammit, she's going to play in the pool/ocean/lake with her kids anyway.  I love that. Sure I worry about my gut and my sausage thighs. But I'm the one who frets. And if there are people who point out my imperfections, well that's on them. They're assholes. 

It's true that I embarked on a weight loss/fitness journey because I was concerned about my appearance. But along the way, I learned that it's not appearance that's important. I'm more fit, more healthy now that I ever have been. And that means I should be able to enjoy those golden years (so far down the road) so much more than if I wasn't. And hopefully I'll be around and in shape to play with a grandchild or two when that joy comes my way.  

I complain a lot about the Pentecostal upbringing I endured, but I'm sure it's the foundation of my belief that if you are in a position to help someone, you should. My family was far from rich and there were times that were harder than others. My mother was so ashamed during those harder times. But we got through it, in part, because of (gasp!) governmental assistance. 

We were so poor I qualified for Pell grants. Had it not been for those grants, I would not likely have gone to college. I'd be living in a trailer somewhere with 12 cats and an equal number of addictions.

I'm grateful. And I know there are tons of other people in similar conditions.

Giving someone a hand doesn't even always involve money. 

Donna Gorby (Miss Gorby to Shakamak grads) saved me from that trailer. She was my high school English/Journalism teacher and she recommended me when the Terre Haute Tribune Star was looking for stringer. Getting and keeping the job was up to me, sure. But without her, I wouldn't have had the opportunity.

If you can help with money, and you want to, go ahead. You could also mow the neighbor's yard if you're already out and have time. Clear the driveway of the folks down the road when you're out with your plow and they don't have one. Smile at someone who's having a bad day. Babysit for the couple who can't afford a sitter. Coach kids, like my friend Jeff Eccles, who survived kindergarten quite well after that first day.

Write a blog post about swimming with your kids regardless of the size of your swimsuit. Recommend someone for a job. Hell, GIVE someone a job if you can. Even if you're the only one who sees promise in that person.

Whatever you do to help someone, just give it and let it go. Don't expect your hand to be kissed or sky writers to tell the world how great you are. You know. Revel in your fabulosity if you want, but keep it to yourself. Make a habit of it and you'll find yourself not needing that revelry eventually. It really is an investment in self-worth. If you have to look at it that way, go ahead.  

3. Leave Judgment Day to whatever judge you worship.

Lord knows I'm judgmental by nature. If I was queen of the world, man, people would straigten up and fly right. Right. :)  I try, routinely fail, but really try hard to not impose my way of thinking/doing things on people. Unless it's really something stupid.  Seriously, though, whether you believe in a higher power or not, we should all be able to agree that reasonable people can disagree and still maintain good relationships. 

Here's a shocker: I'm not perfect. There's a ton of stuff to judge me for if you're of a mind to. I hope you're not. And I hope I'll give you the same courtesy. I wouldn't have in my teens or twentys. Maybe even my thirties. I guess getting older DOES bring some positivity afterall....

4. Laugh

Remember back when you giggled? When you busted a gut over something so stupid no one else could understand it? Do that again. As often as you can.

A hundred years ago, Debbie Ellis and I were getting ready to go to a basketball game and one of us (probably her) said, "I got gave a pig." Someone (probably me) poked a little grammatical fun at it and we were off to the races. I don't remember where the game was, only that her mother drove us, shaking her head at us and laughing herself because we couldn't stop laughing about it. Stupid, huh?  I still smile when I think about it.

5. Love something.

It's ok to love your pets. Just don't love your pets, if you know what I mean. When I was a kid, I didn't dream of a wedding or being a mother. I never thought it would happen and it was better not wasting time on it. I'm grateful for my family and my life. Every single day.

I'm not saying you have to give birth or be married to understand love. There are tons of ways to love something or some one or several somethings and someones. Being a good friend is loving someone.

It's amazing to me how much I love that little red head who lives with us. I struggle to keep from hovering over her all the time to be sure she's happy; that people treat her well; and that her life is as good as it can be. I know I have to let her struggle through these middle school years when it's so hard to find your place. I know there are harder struggles coming.

But having her has widened my scope on life. It truly isn't all about me. It's not all about her, either. It's about all of us. 

I think, at this stage of my life, it's this "Love something" thing that might be the key. Maybe it was seeing "Love Actually" the other day for the 124th time. Maybe I'm just sentimental this morning. Maybe I'm learning from my older, wiser classmates.

I'm not even drinking, but I'm pretty sure that if you're reading this, I love you. 

So there you have it: 5 things you should know by now. Come to think of it, you probably don't have to wait til you're 50 to learn them. 

The art of summer

Before I hand it over to a guest blogger (who doesn't yet know she's guest blogging) I just want to thank The Golden Ace and Santorini's Greek Kitchen for serving my sweaty self fresh from the gym and my semi-sweaty friend, Jodie, who'd helped on a Habitat for Humanity build earlier in the day. Also, Jeff and Troy, who both were still in work clothes and looked like they belonged out on the town, who still agreed to sit down with us.

We followed up the dinner out (Ali was at Jenna's for a sleep-over) with a trip to Talbott Street Art Fair -- always fun. Today, I fear I'll have to work out twice to make up for the other.

As we entered the art fair, I told Ali that her father was there to appreciate the art but he was mostly concerned about the food he'd find.

"Mom," she said. "Food IS art."

She is her father's daughter... And now, the guest post, gently edited, from Amy Tokash:

She was hosting a dual sleepover -- Drew and Jenna each had their best friends over. I know I've mentioned that Jenna and Ali claim to have become friends while still in utero. Andrew Tokash (Drew to the world) and Andrew Fralich had to wait until Day Nursery to meet, but they're just as commite to each other as the girls.

The foursome does play together a bit, but the boys are, well, boys and the girls are girls. So there's a lot of sibling jeering back and forth. They tend to separate when forced together. The boys apparently had biked off to chase neighborhood girls (not the icky, sister-y kind) and the girls had gone to the neighborhood pool. 

Some parents would have lived it up, watched non-animated movies or had a tryst as they enjoyed the solitude. Knowing Amy, she probably trysted with her washer and dryer. 

In any event, the girls had an 8:30 curfew. The boys (two years older) got an extra hour.

 

In between the time they had to come home and stay home, the girls were total water sprites. They boys interrupted their girl-chasing to stop by home to eat a whole bag of Doritoes.  Then they went to the pool and probably annoyed Ali and Jen for a bit.  Then it was back home for tacos.  Then video games downstairs (with the girls who'd only reluctantly dragged their butts home, lured no doubt by the taco aroma drifting down the street). The boys went back outside on their bikes.

 

As they left, the girls hot-footed it upstairs to track down the lady of the house.

J:  "The boys don't have to be home until 9:30!!  It's not fair!"

Amy:  "They are two years older and boys.  Big difference.  And it's not midnight; it's one hour later."

J:  "Whine, whine, whine."

A:  "Whine, whine, whine."

Amy:  "Come here and let me hug you both and wholeheartedly apologize for loving you both so much that I don't want anything to happen to either of you."  Big hugs.  Yes, they still both let me and even hugged me back.

J:  "But we have a NICE neighborhood, Mom!"

A:  "Yeah, because one of my friends, she lives in a neighborhood that if you go trick-or-treating, you get abducted and stuff stolen from you!"

Amy:  "Unfortunately, girls, good neighborhoods or bad neighborhoods, there are bad people everywhere, even here.  They may just be driving through looking for a really cute redhead and a brunette to pick up.  Besides, Cat, what in the world would your mom and dad say to me if I had to call them and tell them that you and Jen never made it back from the pool?"

A:  "I know what my dad would say--he'd say 'What the BLEEEP!   And my mom would probably just make another baby."

Amy:  After dying laughing inside said, "I may not know your mom through and through, but there's one thing I know for certain, and that's that we're BOTH done making babies!  I can bet my house on that!"

A:  "Ewwwwww!  Can we stop talking about THAT?!?"

Amy:  "You brought it up, Cat!"

 

Two gigantic eyerolls and a trip back up to the safe haven (away from those two-year older dudes, who just happened to walk in the house at 8:55) of Jen's room, and that was that. 

 

Of tools and schools and summertime

We're not quite done with Alison's room but she's moved back into it as we work on the final touches to her new,

more grown up decor. Three garbage bags of stuffed animals await new homes, as does a four-foot-tall stack of 

once mesmerizing boks.

Yesterday we did our usual errands. Alison made cookies as she did her chores and at one point got a little snotty.

Not in a horrible way, but just enough past cute to be annoying.

I remarked that I was a bit unhappy with her attitude. We chatted a bit and she went about her business.  She 

was quieter than usual for far too long and I asked if she was OK. "Just trying not to be snotty," she said.

Oh well then.

We chatted some more.

She's not even an eye-roller yet, so I'm not really complaining. She ended her school year Friday with really

great indications of another good year. We celebrated a little bit with a stroll down to Mama Corrolla's. She is

just about ready to admit Mama has a bit of an edge over her favorite, Fazoli's.

And she's not too greedy, either. I was all set to treat her to a zebra print rug to go with her new bedding but 

"That's just too much, Mom."

Not as in, "Oh you've done so much for me already," but as in overkill with the zebra theme. She picked out a 

turquoise shag and one small pillow to help that color punch. We haven't decided what to do with the curtain yet.

While we were in the store, she was eyeing some new books and I reminded her that she could use her 

allowance.

She reminded me that she's still paying off her new retainer after having her original fall out of her pocket at 

Lowe's on a paint run. By the time she remembered where it was and she and Jeff went back, it had been

run over by a shopping cart. She's forfeiting her allowance to pay half the replacement cost.

Don't tell her, but if her report card comes back as good as we expect, the captain is going to forgive her debt.

Totall his idea and a reward for her working hard at her core job: school.

As she's out for the summer, I suspect she'll be trying to expand her culinary skills, and the Captain is all about it.

He came home the other day with a new  kitchen toy: a small blow torch. Because you can't make creme brulee 

without a blow torch..

I'm not sure which of them was more excited when Jeff came home with it. It's second only to his absinthe mister.

He had to have that after his new favorite bartenders showed him how they make this new drink he's in love 

with -- a sazerac. 

It requires you to put absinthe in an iced glass then toss it out. In a shaker, you mix simple syrup, rye, 

Peychaud's bitters and ice. You strain that into the iced, absinthe-coated glass, twist a lemon peel over the

glass, then rim the glass with the lemon.

Jeff didn't want to waste the absinthe by following the recipe as he found it. The guys at the Libertine make the 

drink with a special mister, which I'm sure was designed for something else. But of course we have one of those

things now.

As for me, I'm enjoying my back porch and my yard with the same set of tools I had last year: a newspaper, a

pencil for the crossword puzzle, and my iPad. I guess I did kill the old lawn mower last year and so I have a new

one of those. But the shovel and the spade are older than Ali. So I'm still mostly old school.

Shots today include a bouquet my neighbor surprised me with as a thank you for a little work I did in her yard. 

She's a single mom, and I'm a little lopsided in my debt to Karma, so it's a win-win.

Go here for a look at her old room, complete with dum dum wrapper wall paper: 

http://teamreedblog.blogspot.com/2010/11/spa.html

Room with a view

Back when I was pregnant and convince i was going to give birth to a boy, I suggested to Jeff that we paint the nursery with a baseball theme.

We called the baby "Fenway" and I was so sick and disgusting-looking that I was 100 percent certain only a boy could cause me such grief. My good friend Jim Hester had the opposite viewpoint. Under duress -- it wasn't that hard to get it out of him -- he told me his theory.

I'll never forget it. We were walking down a tunnel from the Statehouse to lunch in the mall. Jim was a linebacker back in the day and still had the imposing physique to prove it. My pre-natal majesty dwarfed him. I was huge. Not in a good way. And unfortunately, I'd not grown taller. Just wider.  

Anyway, I was pestering him to tell me why he was convinced that I was having a girl. I pushed my stringy hair out of my sweaty eyes and puffed out the words: "But why, Jimmie. Why a girl?"

"Well," he said, his eyes a little wide and edging away from me.  "When a woman is having a boy, she glows. Her hair is beautiful. She just has this beautiful look about her."

He skittered to the far wall. "You," he said. "Are having a girl."

I remember laughing out loud. 

A few months later, we had to rename Fenway.

We hadn't painted the nursery to replicate the Red Sox' ball field. Jeff wasn't as convinced about the gender as Jim was, but his rationale was that he didn't know what this kid might like. So we shouldn't force a princesses or sports theme on it. Instead, we had each of the formerly paneled walled painted a different color and coordinated the bedding (hand made by Aunt Donna) and such to flow. 

When Ali was 5 or so, we put up a flowery kind of border and switched out the curtains, rugs and quilt. She'd had Nemo stickers before. Later on she decided she needed a new look but was in a "green" phase. So she recycled her dum dum lollipop wrappers and had filled up most of the southern wall with them. Adhered with Scotch tape, they didn't look bad.

But in essence, for 12 years, the basics of the room haven't changed. We're spending a good portion of this weekend changing that. The room is now coated in white primer. We spent most of the day Friday sraping off that pretty little border. About 57 hours into it, I remembered the instructions as if I was Sheldon Cooper with his eiditic memory. I swear I saw the words on the paper: removes easily with water.

It went faster after that.  I let Jeff take over with the power sander yesterday. I tried to convince Ali that wallpaper will work just fine, but she's enamoured with the idea of painting.  

It's been a fun project, with more than a few walks down memory lane -- bringing her home; listening to her cry at night and Jeff insisting that it would be better NOT to bring her into our bed (yes he was right but that was hard); rocking her and reading her little books to her; Grammie settling into those spots and snuggling; setting up the crib; the toddler bed; the real bed; the bunk bed; measuring her height (we may have to re-create that timeline that's just hit 5' 1"; the first time she shut the door and asked if she could just have some alone time. 

A lot has happened in that little space.

Today we might get a couple of the walls with color. She's sticking to the different colored walls, but adding chalkboard paint to one so she can write notes to herself. She's got zebra sheets and a blanket and I might have to get that rug from Target when we're done.

We were all working away late yesterday with the first coat of primer when she said, "You know, this is kind of cool."

"What's cool, honey?'

"Us. Doing this together," she said.

And another little spot on memory lane was born.

Banished

There I was in the kitchen, minding my own business, having my coffee and just digging in to the NY Times. Jeff had left for basketball.

A sleepy red-head comes shuffling into the room. "Hey mom," she said.

It was nearly 9 a.m. -- late for her on a weekend but she's got a cough again and I was hoping she'd snuggle in there longer.

She comes close to me. Puts her little head on my thigh and hugs me.

"Hey mom," she says. "When I make my cupcakes this morning, would it be ok if you were, uh well, not in the room?"

I looked down, aghast. Baking and decorating has always been our thing. Sure, we let Auntie Jen in on the fun at Christmastime, but day in, day out, we're a baking-decorating team. It is not a solitary sport. Even when she's the primary and feeling her way with new things, I'm in the room as the advisor.

So here I am in the bedroom. Stupid adolescence.

My friend Lisa did brighten my morning with this gem:
http://www.indystar.com/article/20130207/LIFE/302070035/Valentine-s-Day-What-do-women-really-want

That was a fun day. Long before I'd an ungrateful child who wants to be in charge of her own destiny..... :)

Send your warmest thoughts, if you would, to my family in Maine and anyone else in New England today. Happy Valentine's Day to everyone.

If you were with Jeff and me about a week ago in February (and I wish all my great friends who I met afterward had been there too) the photos are a happy retrospective for me and I think for most of you. David Cowan gets credit for most of them.

I did have a great time that day, and just about every day after.....

Sassy

So the other day, I got a request to offer up to the local paper my Valentine's Day wish. It's a little feature that will include women around town. I'm guessing I'll need to be clever to make the cut, and I was looking for advice from my co-pilot.

"I'm thinking about saying I want your father's metabolism and your long legs," I said, voicing a sincere and devout wish that I've had for a while.

I've considered selling my soul to realize those wishes. The only thing holding me back is Satan apparently isn't worried about whether he'll collect me in the end. That and I still have residual Pentecostal fear if I did actually make the official offer, Satan would take me up on it and then I'd be screwed. Not that I believe in that kind of thing anymore. Much.

Anyway, I pose the draft wish to my daughter. She said, "What's a metabo-- metaba, what's that word mean?"

I explained. She got it right away because she's trying hard to accept why I don't eat her cupcakes in the quantities I'd like. "How about you want his metabolism and my sassy mouth?" she countered.

"YOUR sassy mouth? Where do you think you get yours?" I asked.

She rolled her eyes. "I've never heard you say anything bad about anyone ever," she said.

I almost wrecked the car. And then I congratulated myself for my excellent mothering skills.

"Well I do try to behave around you and be a good influence," I said, confessing, "Sometimes when you're not around, I slip up."

She thought about it while we waited for the light to change.

"Well, there was that one time in the car, remember when that guy pulled in front of you?"

"Uh. Yeah."

"And then there was that time when Alex was with us and you said, can I say it?"

"No!"

"And that time in the yard when..."

In my defense, I did say I try.....

I'm becoming Joe Kernan

Cupcakes notwithstanding, it's been another busy weekend here at Chez Reed.

Excerpts:

Alison stopped by my bathroom the other morning as I was getting ready for work.

"Hey Mom, you know how you dye your hair so no one knows how old you are?" she asked, earnestly.

I paused in my mascara application. 'Yeah? " I asked cautiously.

"Well. You might want to forget about that," she said. "See your eybrows there? One of 'em is kinda gray."

(I love Joe Kernan. I even love his eyebrows. That doesn't mean I WANT them... :))



*****

Last year at the Christ the King Trivia night, my friend Chris Austin took my place on a team we've had a few years. I can't remember why I couldn't go, but the Vielees, the Haases and the Christoffs were happy to see him because they won they whole shebang that year and we have the trophy to proove it.

This year, they agreed (I'm sure reluctantly) to let me back in. I did bring some fairly awesome food, but sadly, we needed Chris and his encyclopedic brain.

Out of a potential 100 points, we scored 90. Not bad, and had spelling counted, I'm sure we would have won. Sadly, the winners had 94 points. I think we came inn 5th.

It was way fun. I'll try to get photos. It was a movie themed event and our team was "Leave the gun, take the cannoli." The Vielees had suggested the men slick their hair back like mafiosos.

Ten minutes before we were to arrive, Jeff comes in wearing pleather pants, a white teeshirt and his best John Travolta/Pulp Fiction hair. I scramble from the bed and replace my blue jeans and sweater with my best (albeit quick) Jersey girl impression.

It was a fun night. But yeah. Austin would have put us over the top. Anyone out there know Ducky's full name from Pretty in Pink. (And no, John Cryer doesn't count...)

***
Ali had her first volleyball competition Saturday. It was a round robin kind of thing. Real games start next week, I think. One of her teammates, Danielle, was on her basketball team, and Danielle's mother made the mistake of telling Coach Reed that Danielle wasn't planning to play basketball again. The sport was apparently too hard on her knees, she'd said. Volleyball, in which the girls all wear knee pads, was going to be a bit nicer to her body, Danielle reasoned.

At the end of the tournament, the Captain called Danielle over and advised her that she could wear pads for basketball, too.

On wheels -- but not in a wheelchair ... yet!

Alison is looking at her 11th birthday here in a bit and Jeff really wants to buy her a big girl bike. One with gears and hand brakes that fits her leggy self.

She's had a nice little bike for a couple of years and it's too short for her, has a pedal brake, and until the first bike ride of 2012, had a little white wicker basket, butterflies and noise makers on the wheels.

She thought she'd outgrown the girly little things, so off they came.

So anyway, she and Jeff went bike shopping today and when they got home, he had her try out my bike. She's going to be taller than me, but she's not quite there yet. She is 4-feet 11-inches to my 5-4.

She did a great job with it. It's a tiny bit too big for her, but it's next progression. The sad fact is that one day my bike will be too short for her. But she was living large on her practice runs.

So as we were finishing up dinner tonight, Jeff suggested a bike ride to Bric's instead of her standard vanilla cone at home. She readily agreed and opined that she could ride my bike.

I smiled and said, "Uh, and how will I get there?"

She looked at me and said, "Mom, there's really nothing you will have there, is there?"

I said, "I AM going with you."

"Oh." she said, resigning herself to her little bike.

"Hey! How about I roller blade and you guys ride?" I suggest, thinking that I'm not just a cool mom, I'm an unselfish and creative mom.

She frowned. "YOU know how to rollerblade?"

"Sure," I said.

"I don't think this is a good idea," she said, following me around like a little hen as I unearth the roller blades, which came from the previous millenium.

Now, it's true I haven't had my roller blades on in, oh, at least a decade. They've been living in the garage. While I didn't let on, I WAS a little concerned that I could:

a.)get upright
b.) stay upright and
c.) make it the mile and back to the ice-cream shop.

I had, you see, already ridden my bike and worked out for more than an hour that morning. Then, I'd spent a few hours planting some lilacs, relocating some flox and weeding the last of the flower beds. I mowed the back yard and relocated some bricks and rocks that border the flower beds.

I had worked out more than enough. But there was no way I was wimping out now. I got the roller blades out, shook out the decade of whatever had crawled or fallen in there and said prayer of thanks that I wasn't squishing any mice babies when I crammed my feet inside the little booties.

I wondered if the wheels would even turn. I got up and windmilled down the driveway, Alison trailing my every move. "Are you sure about this?" she inquired.

Still a bit wobbly but recalling the basic balancing moves, "I panted, "Why are you so worried about this, Alison?"

"Well, I have known you for ALMOST 11 years now and I have NEVER seen you on roller blades. I don't want you to fall down and get hurt," she fretted.

I told her to get on her bike. I was heading north and she and her dad could catch me.

"Are you sure you can go uphill?" she called.

I get up the hill and start north on the Monon with her at my heels. We get on our way and damned if Worry Wart No. 2 didn't come by carrying my bicycle helmet. I put it on and shooed him to catch up with Ali.

We get to the ice cream store. I go to Brics with them, but the diet selection is non-existent. So I usually wait until I get home to have my ice cream on these trips.

I tell them to go in and I'd snag a table. "Bring me something chocolate. Full fat if you have to, I don't care," I said.

Jeff almost fell down.

Ali had her standard vanilla in a cake cone. Jeff had some new concoction of chocolate-covered pretzels in vanilla ice cream in a pretzel cone. I do not approve of salt in ice cream. And the only thing I want in my chocolate is more chocoalate.

He did not disappoint, and it was goooood.

I'm going to roller blade more often.

On the road and back

Alison was watching the Simpsons today. She discovered them at the Ogdens recently and has been DVRing like a rabid beaver.

She laughs out loud and says, stuff like, "Oh, that gets me every time," and, "Now THAT is funny." She sometimes laughs like the bully: "Ha-haaa."


It's hysterical just listening to her. But today the episode she was watching involved Bart's wish for a little brother and got a little close to home on how that actually could be accomplished. I remarked that maybe she should cut back on her time with her newfound friends.

"Mom. Do you think this is where I learn words I can't say? You should listen to boys practicing football at Aftercare," she said.

"What do they say?"

"Stuff I can't say. And I would NEVER say," she said. "And a lot of it. But that's not where I learned the most stuff."

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and dared to inquire further.

"In that canoe with Uncle David and Uncle James," she said, hearkening back to a canoe trip we took down the Androscoggin River a couple years ago. "I learned 7 new words that day. Seven!"

I did not ask for specifics.

***

Profanity aside, I think she was thinking of that trip because we canoed a bit in Florida over Spring Break. It was a great, great trip, made even more special with the addition of Rachael Weir, the cousin closest to Alison in age. They're great travel buddies, and buddies in general. They're both avid readers, Harry Potter fans and ice cream afficiandos.

Rachael may be the most easy-going kid you'll ever meet. While generous with her things, Alison is a serial clothes borrower and a terrible bed hog. Neither of these foibles seemed to annoy her cousin. Rachael has two sisters at home (one younger, one older)so Alison's encroachments are apparently a refreshing change.

Rachael is also a great softball pitcher and a big STL Cardinals fan, which went over really well with Team Johnson -- Bob, Kathy and Millie -- who we visited a bit on the trip. Bob is also a Cardinal fan and he took great delight in giving Rachael tips on how her Uncle Jeff was not entirely trustworthy given his allegiance to the Red Sox. She soaked it all up.



Rachael was missing some of her school days to go with us (date mix-up among the mothers) and had to make a daily journal entry. One day I asked what she was going to say about the day and Jeff offered himself as a worthy subject.

"Why?" we asked.

"Because I'm so awesome," he said, matter-of-factly.

"You're not THAT awesome," Rachael retorted. "You're not even a Cardinals fan."

He tried again: "I am super-awesom. I drove you to get ice cream that you said was the most awesom, best-ever ice cream you had ever tasted."

"No you didn't. BOB drove us the first night," she said, a wicked gleam in her eye. "And, YOU pushed me into a cold swimming pool."

***

We had started our trip at Disneyworld, ventured to Universal's Islands of Adventure for a visit with Harry Potter, drove down to Fort Myers to see the Johnsons and get Jeff and Bob to a Red Sox game; us all to the beach; and the girls and I to a little canoe adventure.

The time just flew. We stayed on the Disney property, and I thought I'd arranged for unlimited park visits, but we learned at 8 p.m. or so that we were limited to one park a day.

It was outside the Magic Kingdom we learned this, and Rachael had been regaling us with all the rides that awaited inside. We'd spent the morning in the Animal Kingdom where we rode her favorite ride -- Everest -- and had a little R&R at the resort pool in between trips to the parks.

We had four hours of Magic Kingdom time to spend. Or so we thought. For a mere $129 a ticket, we could have tapped the magic, but it just didn't seem worth it when we had Universal waiting the next day. We debated. The price came down to $59 more per ticket. (Yeah. Funny, that.)

Jeff and I looked at each other, mentally prepared to fling down the extra cash. But Jeff presented them with the situation and offered the option of skipping the Kingdom for the chance to visit Hogwarts.

"Harry Potter?!" they squealed. We reminded them that that meant we wouldn't go into the Magic Kingdom. "That's OK. What can we do instead?"

Rachael suggested Downtown Disney and off we went. They were happy as little clams, and we had a fabulous time there, not getting home until midnight. Price of admission: $0.

I just love those girls. In seven days, we had not one instance of bad behavior. Well, I almost hoarked on a trip to Mars, and Jeff did push Rachael into that pool. But the girls's behavior was A-plus.

Up a creek

I don't know if it's because I have been reading The Hunger Games, I've become a nicer person or it was just that spectacular of a day, but I found myself taking the time to marvel at the world today.

Alison had gone to church with Alex. Jeff was playing basketball. So I got my bike out and hit the Monon Trail.

With Tim McGraw crooning in my ears, I pedaled to the trail, passing geezers holding hands on their morning walk, new parents with scratch- and stain-free strollers, and disaffected youth who hadn't remembered to put their sneers on yet.

It was a great morning ride. I'd planned to pedal up to the Jordan Y, jump in for some weight work and then pedal back home before noon. Karin had reminded me of our last trip on the trail as she came to collect the kids for church. I remembered that she hadn't wanted to go fast. She remembered that I felt compelled to loudly, verbally enforce Trail protocol.

Karin is a really nice person. She doesn't yell at people. I still contend that I was spreading needed messages to people who let their dogs cross both lanes of the trail while still holding onto their leashes; gaggles of women who couldn't bear to not walk 4-abreast, thereby blocking anyone trying to get around them; and a whole flock of people who seemed to have a common mission of holding me back.

There really were a lot of miscreants out that day. It's possible that I wasn't always polite as I dissemenated rule reminders. Karin hasn't ridden the Trail with me since.

This morning, I enforced no rules and smiled at anyone who tried to make eye contact.

I smiled at the couple whose pre-schooler was running ahead hearing the sentence that ruled Alison's Trail life at that age: "Stay to the right of the red line!"

I waved at the infant strapped in so securely that the only movement allowed was the flailing of her plump little arms.

I think I even braked for a squirrel.

When I got to the gym, it was shortly before its 11 a.m. opening. I was No. 13 of a line of 14 at the main door. I don't know how many people were at the back door. But it was quite a collection of eager exercisers.

They must have Karin-trained because if anyone was irritated (other than the front desk clerk) no one voiced it. In fact, they waved each other through the line as the two converged.

Afterward, Karin and the kids (including the fabled Corbin who I'd heard about for years but never met) and I took a little hike in Marrott Park. We crossed a creek bed on a huge, downed tree and found another one later on. The boys crossed. Alison crossed. I crossed.

I didn't remember that Karin was afraid of heights. She chose to scoot over like Alex had and as she debated her dismount, Alison went back up, reached out and said, "I'll help you Miss Karin."

Cheers erupted when she got down. But we quickly discovered there was only one dry way back over the water. It didn't take long for Ali and Karin to gauge the depth of the stream. The boys and I chose the tree; Karin and Ali splashed, hand-in-hand. In March.

"Oh my gosh. I think I have hypothermia!" Alison chattered.

We all made it back through the woods just fine. Karin headed off to a date with her husband. I hit the couch where Jeff was setting an excellent example of how to celebrate a hard work out, and the kids hit the basement. Other than knowing the Wii and the iPads were involved, I neither know nor care what they did for the next two hours. I'd delivered them tacos and pointed them to the Dr. Pepper. My work was done.

Between the work out, the hike and my effort at being the nicest person on the trail, I was exhausted. My camera in my phone seems equally tired as it won't give up the photos I took. So sorry about that.

I think I'm taking my phone to the couch. We both apparently need more R&R. Hope you had an equally lovely day. And that this weather holds.

Friday night lights (out)

I remember now how I came to be so boring. Staying out all night is exhausting!

Back in the day, when I was young and crazy, I routinely joined all the other fun people by going out on Fridays to blow off the work week. I used the next two days to recover. Sometimes (gasp!) I even went out both nights and embraced Sunday like the bouncy life preserver it was.

For a few -- OK several -- years now, a Good Friday has meant either:

--Carry-out, wine, a book or TV
--Cereal for dinner, wine, a bath and People magazine
--Family movie on TV rented from the couch, popcorn, TeamReed snuggle

You get the picture. But I've been trying not to be so boring, and Ali had a sleepover with Jenna on Friday. So, even after a great but exhausing week at work that's still going on, Jeff and I went out to dinner and a country music show at the 8 Seconds Saloon. Jerrod Niemann was playing.

If you like country music even a little bit, and you haven't checked this place out, you should. The venue partners with one of the local country music radio stations to bring in great national acts, which, unfortunately for people like me, are on Friday nights.

But like a good party girl, I had a shot of 5-hour-Energy and was fully prepared to wring the last drop of fun out of the night. The first band went on around 9 p.m. (during the week, this is the time I put Ali to bed and assume a prone position in bed or on the couch with the essentials at easy reach: drink, book, TV remote, iPad and phone.)

But there I was, in heels and a top that flirted with my poor excuse for cleavage, standing near the stage. Yes, thank you, Eric Church, I had a drink in my hand. Jeff, sport that he is, was right there beside me wearing the only flannel shirt he owns and a fully blown case of cowboy hat-envy.


We'd been greeted by his friend who manages the place. A girl named Stephanie had tried to pick Jeff up while he was on a beer run. I think I had been invited to be a young lady's special friend outside the ladies' room. We'd also been treated to a video display of the mechanical bull and its many victims that gives the place its name.

Some of those people had no business being on that bull, although the girl wearing the mini-skirt and the sky blue thong was well-received by the good ol' boys. And probabaly that girl by the bathroom, too.

Jerrod Niemann didn't go on until about 11. By then, I'd had another drink, chatted with a man who probably could have sired me but was still clearly on the prowl; talked to a girl who was fleeing the dance floor where she'd bumped into a man whose girlfriend took offense; and was starting to think my energy drink's claims were about as virile as the geezer who'd found me charming.

I'm sad to say that I did not make it through the full act. At one point, I think I fell asleep leaning against Jeff. It wasn't Jerrod's fault. He was great. I am just that lame.

I'm telling myself that had we gone out on Saturday instead of Friday, and if I'd gotten in that nap I'd planned, I'd have made it to the last set. I'll test that theory in future days.

On a more serious note, please give a thought or a prayer to those who are dealing with storm follow today. Indianapolis is cold and windy this weekend, but we were not in the path of any of the storms that struck here and across the midwest. There are some awesome stories of people who acted to protect/save others and some tragic ones where the efforts couldn't overcome the storms.

Be grateful today if you're safe and with those you love.

And the winner is...

Jeff and I walked the red carpet Sunday night. Really.

The red carpet was downtown-ish Indianapolis rather than the Kodak theatre in California, but there WAS a red carpet at Clay Miller's annual Oscar party. We haven't managed to get there for the last few years, but I'm holding firm to my plan to be less boring this year.

So we dressed up. Black tie was encouraged, and I modeled a few dresses for Ali and Jeff, trying to decide what to wear. As I modeled, I was wearing my glasses, no makeup and my hair was scraped back and up into a ratty ponytail. So I was a vision.

"Uh. Mom. You might want to think about wearing a bra if you're going to wear that one," advised my shorter fashionista.

When I drove Ali over to the Ogdens where she hung out while we were gone, I hadn't made a final decision about what to wear. I was not looking any better, either. The Ogdens don't live far. I was wearing my bedroom slippers, an old sweatshirt of Jeffs and my own yoga pants, hoping I wouldn't have car trouble or run anyone over.

Around 10 or so, when I picked Alison up, I'd spent some time with every heating implement in the house short of the stuff in the kitchen. I'd forgotten how hard it is to be a girl, but after a shower, a hair dryer with straightening serum, two flat irons with straightening spray, a wide-barrel curling iron and a set of hot rollers, I had my rats nest of hair into some reasonable shape. But I still had a long row to hoe, if you know what I mean.

I'd discovered some gold heels in Alison's abandoned dress-up drawer. The last time I remember wearing them was at a Christmas party at the Governor's residence hosted by Frank and Judy O'Bannon. It seemed appropriate then that I wore the vintage gown....

Jeff dragged out a bow tie, a newly tailored suit and we were off. I'd forgotten how a well-made gown feels swirling around your legs. And when one of the guest -- a sweet elderly woman I'd never met -- leaned over to tell me, "You have the best costume on here, dear," I decided the effort was worth it.

It was a lot of fun. When we went to pick Ali up, we were still in the Oscar finery, of course. Her reaction: "Oh my gosh, Mom. What did you DO to your hair."

Never mind that she's shanghaied me lately into straightening HER rats nest....She relented though and agreed it wasn't too awful.

We'd spent the previous evening freezing our toes off watching Drew Tokash play hockey. While our toes were cold, it was fun trying to keep up with the boys on ice and catching up with Amer, Lyn and Ginny Reed, Amer's mom.

The girls went black light ice skating. Or to hear Alison tell it, she spent the night falling on her bum. Somehow falling with a friend there to pick you up takes the sting out of it.