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bone-free and really an enormous root cellar that serves as a support structure for a community building that's long been replaced by the City Market.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.