Pivot Left!

If you don't mind, I'm just going to ignore the fact that I've been absent from this space for...oh, a very long time.

{  pivot left !  }

The twinkers are wrapping up their first year of middle school, and I can't lasso all the thoughts pinging around my head. When September started, they were just goofy little nutjob kids. And now here we are in June and, yes, they are mostly still goofy little nutjob kids, but more and more I catch sight of the women they're going to become. And the kind of women they are going to become are the kind of women WHO KICK ASS. They are all about words that begin with "s." They are super studious, social, and studly. I will give you pictorial evidence of the stud-ness:

Why is that silly girl chasing Risa! She will NEVER catch her:

Why would anyone hit a grounder directly to Vida? Vida will scoop it up, whip it to first base, and even though the batter will run with all her might, she will be OUT. So out:

I'm just guessing, but I think it's probably not too easy to be the twins' little sister. In fact, if I were their little sister I would spend most of my waking hours rolling my eyes and making faces whenever they speak. Lea is much nicer than I am, though, so rather than suffocate under the weight of their twin-ness and "s" words, she just makes her own way. She sings and dances and makes people laugh, kind of like a miniature Carol Burnett. When we were in New York City this past April, she plopped herself down in front of the Mad Hatter and proceeded to have a lengthy and quite serious conversation with him. I didn't listen in; some things are private.

The truth is that this has been a triple X crazy year. The truth is that it's only going to get crazier. And the truth is that these three girls are what keep me going.

Adventures in Zen Gardening

Not that I'm doing any Zen gardening, mind you. I refer simply to the fact that last week I taught some 4th graders an art lesson about Japanese Zen gardens. This required much rooting around for supplies. First on the list: shoebox tops to serve as garden containers. Where the heck, thought I, am I going to find 30 shoebox tops? I considered emailing the parents and asking them each to send their child to school with one. I thought about randomly raiding my friends' homes. I thought wistfully of all the box tops we had broken down and sent out with the recycling right after the holiday. And, finally (my brilliance takes time, you see), I thought: a shoe store!

So I headed over to a shoe store that shall not be named. At the door I was greeted by a young woman with one of those Madonna headset things (evidently, selling shoes today requires more...communication?...than it used to). "Hello," she said. "Do you need help?"

"Yes. My daughter's class is working on a project, and they need shoebox tops."

She stared at me with nary a glint of oh-I-get-it in her eyes. I explained further: "So I thought I'd come here and ask. Because this is a shoe store. Do you have any shoebox tops?"

"Oh...no," she said, not quite sure of herself. "We don't have any of those."

"Really? 'Cuz this is a 2-story shoe store, so I'm thinking you probably have some shoebox tops."

She looked around. "Well, let me ask someone..."

I left her without saying farewell. I found a manager, who told me to come back at closing time, and she'd give me everything they had. Thank you, manager lady!

Next on the supply list: river stones. Easy.

And then: moss. No problem.

Moving on: twigs, acorns, pebbles. Done!

And, finally: sand. Sand which would be placed in a nice layer at the bottom of the shoebox top, and then raked with a fork into pleasing lines and curves and whatnot. I went to the craft store. They were selling 3/4 lb. bags of sand for $3.49. I figured I needed about 10 lbs. I left the craft store and walked into...KMart. I've never been to KMart before; I will never go to KMart again. And, besides, they did not have sand.

I went to Home Depot. Smallest bag of sand: 60 pounds. They sent me on a semi-goose chase to the lumber department, where a nice man named Jamar whispered, "Have you tried Orchard Supply Hardware?"

I called Orchard Supply Hardware. "Do you have small bags of sand?" I asked. "A ten pound bag, let's say?"

"Yes, we do."

"You're sure?"

"Yes, ma'am, I'm sure."

Great! I drove to Orchard Supply Hardware, where I accosted the first salesperson I saw. "I need a ten pound bag of sand, please."

Again with the blank stare. "I don't think we have anything that small."

"I just called. The lady on the phone said you definitely have 10 pound bags of sand."

We walked over to some sort of display with various tickets depicting various bags of sand. "You just want, what, regular sand?"

"I guess. Like the kind of sand that goes in a sandbox."

He stared at the display. "Smallest bag is 50 pounds."

I sighed. "Okay. Can I buy the 50 pound bag, take what I need, and leave the rest here?"

"No. We wouldn't be able to do anything with that."

I looked dramatically around the store. "You mean there's absolutely nothing you can do with some sand in this HOME AND GARDEN store?"

His loathing was thinly disguised. "No. We would just throw it away."

"You would throw the sand away?"

"Yes. Uh-huh."

It was at this moment that I thought of the headset-wearing young woman at the 2-story shoe store. I hoped with all my heart that these two people would never meet, never fall in love, and never procreate.

So, anyways: I bought a 50 pound bag of sand. And do you know how much it cost? $4.99! I was grateful for one thing only: that I hadn't purchased 10 bags at $3.49/each at the craft store.

Here's what the kids made:

***

In other news...just yesterday I received a text from the taxi driver who took me back and forth from the airport in New York sixteen months ago. Here's what it said:

Hello Veronica! Happy New Year from crazy New York. May Almighty God Bless u and ur families with Health, Peace, Happiness and lot of money. Tarek, ur Egyptian Taxi Driver.

Happy new year, Tarek! And happy new year to all of you, too!

The Final Days of November Post

Today Lea was singing along to Adele's Chasing Pavements, her voice as rich as her 9-year-old body could muster. Full of emotion, she crooned, "Should I give up/or should I just keep chasing cavemen..."

Oh, the hilarity.

Also today: my husband pulled up to our house in a cab, jumped out, opened the front door, and kissed me hello. Then he tilted his head to the side. "You look beautiful," he said. And then he ran back outside, jumped into the cab, and was gone again.

Oh, the hilarity. But also: why did he tilt his head like that?

I saw two movies over the weekend, both adapted from graphic novels. We attempted a go at The Descendants, but it was sold out, and so we ended up at...Immortals. It was filled with eye candy in the enviable shapes of Henry Cavill (yay The Tudors!) and the glorious Frieda Pinto; gasp-worthy violence (oh, the poor faux virgin oracles!); a campy Mickey Rourke; and sets that looked like they were straight out of a Hellenic-themed Vegas spa. In other words: so excellent.

On Sunday I took the girls to Hugo, a book much beloved by all three of them. So dreamy, this movie, what with the steam and the snow and the enormous clocks. And the automaton! Anyways, go see it. Make it a holiday gift to yourself.

Camp Makes Me Sad

My older girls are about to start their second consecutive week of sleepaway camp at a working organic farm. Just typing that makes me laugh; the list of things they can do that I've never done and will likely never do, grows more lengthy by the day. I'm talking about:

• mudding a pig

• milking a cow

• grabbing chickens

• archery

• feeding goats

• real gardening

And while I'm at it:

• base stealing

• base sliding

• homerun hitting

• bunting

• pitching

• scoring the winning goal

• presenting in front of the School Board

• making & launching a rocket

• performing in a talent show

• being Student Body President

• being Student Body Environmental Leader

These things are, admittedly, not extraordinary. They are the stuff of a privileged childhood, but they blow my mind because at their age I was far too shy/too self-conscious/too willing to sit on the sidelines. Simply put, my kids are way cooler than I am.

My original point, though, is that they've been away exactly seven days, but it feels exactly like one year. I miss them; it's distracting. Parents have access to one-way email communication, of which I take extreme advantage, furiously typing stream-of-consciousness messages at one o'clock in the morning (in my defense, stream-of-consciousness is really the only way to go when the communication is one-way).

My younger daughter attended the one-week version of this camp, and when I picked her up on Friday, she was busy exchanging phone numbers with her new friends. I experienced a mild feeling of, "Oh, shit," because I'm sure that Ri & Vi will be performing the tween/teen version (the kids in their camp are ages 11 - 15) of this ritual, which is likely to include email addresses and cell phone numbers. But...they have neither. Why? Because our plan all along has been to give them these things at the end of summer, just before they start middle school. Having to inform their new friends of the deprivation that they must endure at the hands of their despotic mother will no doubt cause them embarrassment, so yay: I've managed to embarrass them without being present.

I'm sure this will continue for many years.

Getting To Yes

My default answer is, "No." It doesn't matter, really, what the question might be.

"Mom, can we ride our bikes around the block?"

"No."

"Mom, it's super hot. Can we get a frozen yogurt?"

"No.

"Mom, my Van's have a hole. Can I get a new pair?"

"No."

"Mom, I'm done with my homework. Can I go online for awhile?"

"No."

"Mom, can I wear your t-shirt? You know, that one with the thing?"

"No."

No, no, no, no, no.

I don't even know why I do it. I'm not adverse to bike riding, frozen yogurt, Van's, or any of the other one thousand things I say "no" to on a daily basis.

I didn't start feeling bad about it, though, until after the twins' 5th grade graduation on Wednesday. Between them they garnered something like 10 medals for academics and community service, 12 certificates for various things, and 2 academic scholarships. Vida led the pledge, and Risa gave a speech. And then the next day, Vida gave a presentation on her school's 5th grade rocketry program in front of the school board and a full boardroom. Basically, in their 6 years at their little elementary school, they could not reasonably have accomplished more than they accomplished.

I am so proud of them.

Suddenly all of my no-ing, all of my absolutely not-ing, all of my you can't be serious-ing, made no sense. So I'm happy to report that on Thursday, I became The Mother Who Says Yes. It was yes to two hours at the Redwood City Library, yes to new shoes for everyone, yes to eclairs and cream puffs and fish 'n' chips, yes, yes, yes to all of it.

I'm sure it won't last long. They're headed to middle school, after all...

In the Mornings

This morning I returned home from dropping the girls off at school. On the dining room table, I found the following:

• 1 furry pink bunny slipper, existence inexplicable

• 1 copy, Pippi Longstocking, illustrations by Lauren Child

• 7 elastic headbands, black

• 6 ponytail elastics, black

• 1 ponytail elastic, fuschia, origin unknown

• 1 sillyband, rainbow colors, shape indeterminate

In front of the hallway closet, I found the following:

• 1 metal hanger, twisted

• 2 flip flops, silver

• 1 ballet flat, silver

On the bathroom counter, I found the following:

• 2 hairbrushes

• 1 lipgloss, Kiel's, hint of pink, top missing

• 1 lipgloss, Burt's Bee's, pale pink, top missing

• 2 drops Cetaphil face cleanser, spilled

• 1 pair earrings, cupcake-shaped

• 1 pair earrings, peace sign-shaped

• 1 pair earrings, flower-shaped

• 1 necklace, initial "V"

There are days when I return home to this and I am super annoyed. I harumph my way around the house returning things to their proper place and mumbling to myself in exasperation. But today I felt all sentimental and tender about these objects. They are the odd and ends of girlhood, the talismans of mothering, the good stuff.

Welcome to the Jungle

So...I went to a middle school orientation last week. I should have been thinking about my twins: how they would adjust come next year, what they would love, what would give them pause. But of course I didn't manage to do what I was supposed to do, for I am too self-absorbed! It must always be about me! Me! ME! And that is how I fell down the memory well and directly into my own junior high school experience.

Which was horrible.

So awkward.

Bad hair, owl glasses, Chinese slippers. Tough girls who smoked and swore and had hickeys and who scared the crap outta me.

Algebra. Absolutely did not get algebra.

And there was some guy who had the locker above mine, and he'd always reach down and grab at my non-existent boobs. This was so traumatizing that I cannot remember his face or name.

Kids at this age are the worst kids EVER. My science teacher's husband committed suicide by jumping in front of a train, and on her first day back at work one of us said, "How do you feel about trains now?"

Girls would get in fights, and the object would be to inflict embarrassment by ripping each other's shirts off. And did any of us try to stop these fights? No, we'd stand there in a circle, screaming, screaming.

I was called "schoolgirl" and "virgie."

I do not recall a school library; I do not recall a school principal, school office, or any place or person of comfort other than my childhood friend, Paul, who walked to school with me every day.

I was pulled out of a class once a week—I can't remember which—to attend something called "High Potential." Every week at the appointed time, I would raise my hand. "Yes?" the teacher (male) would say.

"I have to go now."

"Oh? Where do you have to go?"

"To my HP class."

"What does 'HP' stand for?" he'd say, even though I did this every week, and even though he already knew.

"Um, high potential."

"You think you have higher potential than the other kids in this class?"

"No," I'd say, my face turning red. "I don't know."

"Well, someone apparently thinks that you do." And I would just stare at him, stupid in my owl glasses and bad short hair and red face. "Well, what are you waiting for? GO!"

And that, my friends, is some of what I can recall of junior high school. The idea of my own children having to be dropped into such scenarios makes my head hurt. But I have to say that the school I visited did not at all appear to be the same sort of lawless jungle that mine was. But we'll see, right?

We'll see.

Birds, Bees, and Wisdom From the Count of Connotation

The twins have turned eleven years old. Over the past year, I've been wondering how to broach the subject of what I believe schools refer to as "family life." Certainly, the various topics within the larger context have popped up during the course of everyday conversation, and so going into this, their eleventh year, they did have some general knowledge. While holiday shopping, I found what seemed to be an excellent book that covered just about everything. It's titled, It's So Amazing: A Book About Eggs, Sperm, Birth, Babies, and Families.

I wrapped it up with some of other books and put it under the tree. It was unwrapped along with their other gifts, but just as I imagined would happen, it went mostly unnoticed during end-of-the-year mania and back-to-school preparation. But yesterday, during a quiet moment, I saw Vida pick it up and begin reading. I headed back to Nesting Ground Central, still within earshot of the complete silence. Ten minutes in, Risa entered the same room and said, "What're you doing?" And Vida said, "This book is...kind of...odd." More silence, in which I could tell they were reading together. I gave them another ten minutes and nonchalantly walked into the room.

"Mom!" said Vida. She looked up from the book, concern all over her face. "What the HECK?!"

And I said, "Look, you guys are eleven years old now, and I got you this book because I thought it might help with any questions or concerns you might have AND because I felt you were mature enough to deal with it in a...mature way because you're so...mature. If you have any questions, just let me know."

"I didn't know the man sticks..." Vida began.

Risa immediately put her hands over her ears (this, too, I knew would happen) and said, "Can't. Can't do it. Can't do it."

"Okay, okay, Risa, GEEEZ," Vida said. "Mom, can I speak to you in your room?"

So, yesterday, I spent much of the late afternoon fielding questions such as these from Vida:

What is the difference between sex and making love?

How do gay couples have children?

Is there any way BESIDES sex to make a baby?

I guess you really have to be in love with someone, then, to make a baby with them?

What's masturbation? I don't get it.

THAT'S masturbation? Oh. You can't hurt yourself, can you?

Etc. etc. I'm sure I will be barraged with still more questions, but I'm feeling pretty good about all this. And I highly recommend the book (it's for ages 7 and up, and there is another for ages 4 and up, plus another for when puberty arrives). The whole thing was neither as difficult, nor as easy, as I thought it would be. At the very least, I feel even more prepared to discuss the subject(s) with Risa whenever she decides to uncover her ears.

***

It doesn't seem right (or maybe it does?) to blithely blog without mentioning the political assassinations—both attempted and successful—that took place in Arizona, that current hotbed of unrest, this past weekend. Over-the-top, unimaginative (hi, can you think of any metaphors that don't revolve around violence?), hateful rhetoric may not have had anything to do with the shootings. And yet the shootings have directed the spotlight towards the senseless jabbering. The right blames the left for directing said spotlight, but I don't think the left had to do very much: it's simple to make the connection.

Is there crazy talk on both sides? Of course there is. But the left does not have leaders who use inflammatory language in the style of the former Governor of Alaska, Rush Limbaugh (some will say he doesn't lead the movement, but I would argue that oh yes he does), and their ilk. This columnist at Politics Daily correctly points out that only the right has "institutionalized their side's craziness."

I was reading The Phantom Tollbooth last night with Lea, and I think that the Count of Connotation (loyal servant to the King of Dictionopolis) should have the last say: "'You see,' cautioned the count, "you must pick your words very carefully and be sure to say just what you intend to say.'"

Bad Start, Strong Finish

After a morning and early afternoon of unrelenting mayhem (buy 30 bagels! buy 6 cookie sandwiches and a giftcard at Teacake! buy 2 gallons of milk! now use the milk to make a vat of homemade cocoa! cut out a few more corrugated cardboard circles! transfer cocoa to thermos carafe thingies! pack chocolates, cookies, and...well...everything! bring it all to school, but make sure none of it gets wet! put your hood up! try to maintain some dignity, you hood-wearing pack mule! set up 2 class parties! do a craft with the 3rd graders! try not to scream while all of them at the same time say, "Ms. Montes? Ms. Montes? Ms. Montes? Ms. Montes?") punctuated by equally unrelenting rain, the kids and I crossed the threshold of our warm little house. Vida went to the den to read. Lea went to her room and shut the door. Risa checked in at Woozworld. And me? I earthwormed into my bed and read Lord of the Rings while the rain pattered my window. Just like that, the hours preceding disappeared and life was good, warm, dry, and so nice.

Then I decided I would make Arroz Caldo with Chicken. The recipe (I know what you're thinking: why does she need a recipe?) called for "1 small chicken." I didn't have "1 small chicken," but because the cookbook was my mother's and was published in 1970, at which time I imagine chickens were quite small, I just decided to use the fat chicken breast in my refrigerator. Also, sadly, I lacked "1 small onion, chopped." I did, however, have a leek. So I used that. And it turned out so excellent and reminiscent of both my childhood and, not unpleasantly, the Greek version (is it avgolemeno?) of the soup. Now the kids and the SU are sitting in front of the fire playing Monopoloy and drinking eggnog. And, yes, there are Christmas carols and twinkling lights and stockings. I like it here.

Despite the annoyances that occurred earlier today, I just caught sight of the holiday craft I did with the 3rd graders, and it's kinda cute. Here's Lea's:



The SU says it's the "least offensive craft ever." I think that's what people mean by the term "faint praise." I'll take it.

The Post in Which I Start with Lord of the Rings and then Veer Off Course

For reasons unfathomable, I picked up a copy of Lord of the Rings, pondered briefly, purchased it, and now cannot stop reading it. I don't know why I've never read it before, though I have a vague memory of thinking that it must be exceedingly dorky. Now I don't care if I'm dorky. Frodo rulez!

On the same day, I found a new, hardcover copy of The Dictionary of Imaginary Places (which I have wanted for quite some time now) for twelve dollars! So if I ever get lost in Middle-Earth, I can refer to it, and all will be well. But seriously, it's difficult to pass up a book billed as "...an invaluable guidebook to more than twelve-hundred places-that-never-were," including Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere, Eco's Island of the Day Before, and...how much do I love this?... a two-column entry for Dictionopolis and Digitopolis from The Phantom Tollbooth!

As I continued to ride the train of consumerism that day, I also purchased Hunter rain boots. But I did this for good reason, as heavy rains were imminent and my current boots had a hole. And also I bought other things, for reasons not as logical.

Moving on...

The spousal unit and I recently watched two films which I thought were excellent. First, I Am Love with Tilda Swinton as the lady-what's-in-charge of a villa-dwelling Milanese family. Super rich folks have major issues, people, but they also have dreamy shoes, textiles, food, and wait staff:

And then there was The Kids Are All Right with Julianne Moore (on whom I have a huge crush) Annette Bening, and the charming, rakish Mark Ruffalo. It was hilarious and true and good:

While I'm on the subject of recommendations, I shall now call your attention to my Pinoy/Pinay lit recommendations for this holiday season, which were cross-posted at the PAWA blog and the Re: Angelica's Daughters blog.

Finally, I will post a picture of my youngest, who now appears to be not-so-very-young. I post this because she was so extraordinarily overjoyed on this day and it made me—by maternal extension—extraordinarily overjoyed, as well. She performed in a holiday dance show, you see, getting all jazzy to the strains of U2's It's A Beautiful Day. I find these dance shows absolutely hilarious, but they also make me cry. Life is confusing.

Hey, the doorbell just rang and it was the UPS guy (did you know I harbor a not-so-unreasonable belief that one day I will open the door and the UPS guy will be an old high school classmate? Well, I do) with a big old box of holiday cards for me to address, so...yeah. I have to go.

The Post In Which Three Disparate Topics Are, In Fact, Not Disparate But Rather Related Via the Theme of Time and Its Passing

I think the first day of school is a lot like New Year's Day. At least for stay-at-home parents of younger, school-age, out-schooled children. It's the day we think things like now I'll start working out regularly again, now I'll get the house in order, empty every laundry basket I see, have lunch with my friend, make an appointment for a haircut, get the oil changed, call the refrigerator guy. I took a little unscientific survey of moms this morning. "What are you doing today?" I asked. And every single one was going to yoga or running or doing some other physical activity. It's all so re-birth-y. In fact, for the past two years my personal yearly calendar has begun in August.

And speaking of rebirth: my children look like completely different children now. When did this happen? How did this happen? In July they were just little tangled-hair-water-nymph-like babies, and now they look like...I don't know. Well, let's just do a visual. Now they look like this:


It's ridiculous that I'm always so shocked that...gasp!...the clock keep ticking. All I know is that if I had a superhero power it would be The Ability To Freeze Time.

***

So I downloaded Scrivener (tagline: "Outline. Edit. Storyboard. Write.), and I kinda love it. It took me a minute to orient myself, but once I watched the intro video, I was good to go. I think it lends itself well to the way I write and organize, and it addresses my need to have a bunch of sketches and bits and pieces super close at-hand. If you're planning on tackling National Novel Writing Month (I don't know if I will this time, but you never know), you should definitely take a look at Scrivener. And guess what? It's free for 30 days and NaNoWriMo is...ta-da!...30 days long!

***

In other news, except under rare circumstances I am (sort of) no longer transported by the shopping experience. But I have to confess that I have lost all semblance of control when it comes to GILT. I don't know what it is, people. Actually, I do: they combine some great stuff + good prices + the thrill of the chase. The sales open and close at certain times, quantities appear to be super limited, and you become paranoid that you're going to miss out on something amazing because as you peruse, all kinds of super cute dresses or whatever are suddenly marked as "In Members Carts Now," and you start thinking oh my gosh that IS super cute and if I don't get it right now they're going to sell out so I better hurry, gah I hope they have my size oh oh oh... Then sure enough if you're a few seconds too late, the loathsome "SOLD OUT" message pops up on said super cute dress. There's also a gameshow element because even if you do manage to scoop up the super cute dress of your desires, you only have ten minutes to pull the trigger or the item is removed from your shopping cart and set back out into circulation. It's all too much. In fact, I'm going to head over there for a minute right now...

Mothering and Writing and What-Not

Remember when John Travolta was on Welcome Back, Kotter, and his character used to describe his activities as "Rockin and rollin' and whatnot?"


Yes, I am old. Leave me alone

I am feeling like quite the on-top-of-it wunderkind mother. Of course all of this will fall to pieces in a couple of weeks, but for now I can sit gingerly on my laurels having...

...brought everyone for their summer teeth cleaning
...brought everyone for eye check-ups
...made everyone appointments for tooth sealing
...input a total of 32 soccer games on my iCal
...input dozens of soccer practices, fall ball practices, and jazz classes (note to brother: don't get excited—it's just the rec center)
...insured all uniforms, shoes, accessories, equipment, etc. has been obtained
...become fully cognizant of the 3rd grade and 5th grade school supply lists
...mapped out an attack plan for back-to-school shopping

*rubs hands together in gesture of semi-triumph*

In other mindboggling news, I submitted a little piece to a little place and we'll see if I have a little luck. I realized it had been a while since I last launched a story into the unknown, and this was making it a struggle to continue to think of myself as a writer. Easy enough fix, right? Write something, send it out. It doesn't have to be such a big freaking deal. She says to herself. Rhetorically.

And remaining on subject (for once), I shall now draw your attention to the exciting fact that the excellent Bamboo Ridge is soon to publish their 100th issue, and they have two fun ways to submit. From their recent e-newsletter:

Don't forget that the 100th issue of BAMBOO RIDGE is coming. There are two writing events running right now to celebrate the landmark 100th issue.

There are two writing possibilities here. The first is a 100 line max story or poem for possible publication in the upcoming 100th issue of BR. The second is The Great BR Short-Short Story Contest, 100 words max:

First, the submission guidelines for pieces submitted by mail for publication consideration in issue #100 of BR:

1. 100 lines maximum of poetry or prose. (Approximately 3 typed pages, double-spaced, 1" margins, 12 pt Times Roman font. Poetry may be single spaced and more than one poem may be submitted as long as the total number of lines is
100 or less.)

2. Submissions must be postmarked by Dec. 31, 2010.

3. Authors must include a legal size self-addressed envelope with sufficient postage for notification and return of your manuscript.

4. No online submissions will be accepted.

* * * * *

And here are the online only submission guidelines for the Great BAMBOO RIDGE Short-Short Story Contest:

1. The piece can be no more than 100 words long.

2. The piece must have a title, and the title does NOT count against the 100 words.

3. The piece must be submitted on the Bamboo Shoots page of the BR website between July 1, 2010 and December 31, 2010

http://www.bambooridge.com/bambooshootlist.aspx

and you must be registered on the BR site in order to submit an entry. You can use a "pen" name if you choose when you register : )

4. The author must write "BR 100 word contest" in the "A blurb about your piece or a good quote from your piece" section.

5. Only one submission per calendar month is allowed (six total submissions possible).

6. Any designated "winner" will receive a $10 Bamboo Bucks to use in the BR online store.

7. The winners may or may not be published in the 100th issue of BAMBOO RIDGE

I can swing 100 words or 3 pages, can't you? Let's shake on it.

Good Day, Mini Rant, 500 Books, and Softball

Yesterday was my definition of a pretty much perfect Summer day. Behold:

1) Slept in slightly, awoke, made chocolate chip pancakes, ate one too many
2) Pilates. Ouch.
3) Drove to Menlo Park with the kids, singing Journey songs super-loud while enjoying the scenic 280 route
4) Ate a shrimp melt on sourdough for lunch
5) Moseyed over to Kepler's Books, where we browsed for well over an hour. Purchased 12 books.
6) Left and had chocolate milkshakes at McDonald's (and we're still alive!)
7) Drove to Risa's softball practice and, since it went for FOUR hours, played at the park with the other two and read our books

Lovely day.

***

So, I've been disheartened by the constant barrage of complaints about President Obama. He's doing too much say some. But...isn't there an awful lot to do? And doesn't the list keep growing? He's not doing anything say others. Really? Maybe he'd get more done playing cowboy every other week at his Texas ranch like his predecessor? He's not doing exactly what I want him to do so he's an idiot others seem to be saying. I don't feel like there's an awful lot of time for special interests at the moment, do you? In the immortal words of LOST's Jack: "Live together or die alone." We can get to the special things when the not-so-special things have been resolved. He's going to be a one-term President scream the gloom-and-doom crew. Well, you know what? I hope he IS a one-term President just so he doesn't have to put up with this crap anymore. Jeeeezus.

I appreciate what Andrew Sullivan has to say in his Getting Shit Done post. Here's a piece of it:

I sure understand why people feel powerless and angry about the vast forces that control our lives and over which we seem to have only fitful control - big government and big business. But it seems to me vital to keep our heads and remain focused on what substantively can be done to address real problems, and judge Obama on those terms. When you do, you realize that the left's "disgruntleist" faction needs to take a chill pill.

And also:

[Obama's] refusal to pose as a presidential magician, and his resistance to taking the bait of the fetid right (he's president - not a cable news host) seems to me to show not weakness, but a lethal and patient strength. And a resilient ambition.

You can read the rest here. It's really good.

***

The kids have created a family goal of reading 500 books before school starts again. We have about ten under our belts so far, but these deserve special distinction:

Henry and Beezus by Beverly Cleary - read this out loud to Lea at bedtime.
The Selected Works of T.S. Spivet by Reif Larsen - I just finished this; I thought it was amazing. Go get it.
The Magician's Elephant by Kate DiCamillo - read this out loud to them. Another good one.
The Sisters Eight, Book 5 by Lauren Baratz-Logsted - Vida and Risa love this series.
Sophie The Awesome by Lara Bergen - Lea thought this book was pretty funny.

***

This coming weekend is yet another one devoted entirely to softball. But whenever I look at this picture of Risa with her teammates, I can't find the heart to complain. Look at her just right of center. Have you seen a happier kid?

The Post About Keeping Secrets, Nonsensical Cheering, and Random Photos

I have in my fevered possession some book galleys to look over, but...oh, gee, I can't tell you because the whole thing is a big huge secret. Sorry.

I have in my fevered possession some architectural drawings to peruse, but...oh, gee, I can't tell you because the whole thing is a big huge secret. Sorry.

I bear the very great burden of burning secrets, it's true. I am a bee trapped in honey, a bird with clipped wings, a guitar without strings, a wallet with no money. Mostly, I'm bad at rhyming. But that's a whole different topic. Let's just say that I've come to understand that having to keep these two secrets a secret has prevented more frequent blogging. In casting about for something I CAN blog about, I settled on the following:

1) Over the Memorial Day Weekend, Risa and her All-Star Slammers team played six softball games. They were the victors in all six, and thus crowned winners of the tournament, which was all very wonderful and all, but by the sixth game, it's fair to say that we (we being the rest of our family) were sun-drunk, covered in softball diamond dust (this begs the question: why do I shower? EVER?), and generally just OVER it. To amuse ourselves, the spousal unit and I began to yell nonsensical things any time our team displayed particularly noteworthy softball prowess:

"Uh-huh! That's how we do it in SAN MA-TAY-O, people!" (other teams in the tournament had come from all over the Peninsula, East Bay, and San Jose) I screamed this one while bobbing my head left to right, prompting Vida to cringe in embarrassment and mutter, "Mother..."

At one point, the spousal unit yelled, "Yes! Yes! That's how it goes down in GLOVE TOWN!" The gloriousness of this outburst, the inanity of it, almost made me fall through the bleachers, where I surely would have drowned in a sea of sunflower seed shells, coins, and corn nut wrappers.

2) About a month ago, I read a quote from someone somewhere that went something like this: "Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a great battle." I've been trying to live by these directions ever since, but you know what? It's a difficult thing to remember in the heat of annoyance with people who...test me.

3) I think it was Sunny who shared this video via Twitter earlier this week. It made me cry, and I'm not even PMSing or anything like that. What? Too much information? Never mind—just watch the video:



And now...pictures! Here is Risa with the aforementioned trophy:


And here's one I've been meaning to post. This is when the spousal unit took the girls to Yosemite. The great outdoors is so lovely, especially when I'm not there and can enjoy them via pictures from the safety and comfort of my own home, free of bug bites, allergies, and the threat of being mauled by a bear:


I bid you good evening.

Humor Me.

It is Mother's Day, and I decree that I shall blog! And I further decree that in this post I shall exercise any and all maternal bragging rights. You might want to make sure your seatbelt is tight and, of course, have your discreet vomit bag at the ready.

1) Vida—along with twelve other classmates—qualified to represent their school at the National Math Bee in Indianapolis. Ours was one of only 3 schools from California, and it was the only PUBLIC school (rep.re.sent!). Add to this that the team was 99% students of color, and you have a situation over which the entire school community was ecstatic. Everyone donated time and money to get the kids to Indy. In one extreme example, a small cadre of parents sold $1500 worth of nachos, lemonade, and homemade tamales.

The kids, some parent chaperones (including my intrepid SU), two teachers, and our principal left at 4:00 in the morning on Thursday, spent the afternoon at the impressive Children's Museum, went swimming, and dropped off to sleep. The following day they walked to the competition at the Indianapolis Zoo, and the computers promptly crashed. After a few hours of fruitless tinkering, the damn National Math Bee was CANCELLED. Oh, the sadness. Apparently there was a team of 61 kids from Alabama who not only arrived in completely color-coordinated attire, but who had endured an ELEVEN HOUR bus ride. Oh, the sadness.

There are many different levels of disappointment: several Math Bee parents sacrificed quite a bit to get their kids to Indy; many teachers worked hard to prepare them for competition; the kids themselves drilled and drilled; and our parents and administration worked a small miracle to raise all the necessary funds. In the end, the kids had a great time (about half had never been in a plane or stayed in a hotel before); they just didn't get to do what they'd gone to do.

But getting back to Vida. Of course the fact that she made the team = she will one day be a Nobel Prize winner in Economics. Here she is solving incredibly complex math problems with a couple of her teammates. Or maybe she's just having a great time? I'm not sure:



2) While Vida was at the Bee, Risa decided she would try out for the All-Star softball team. You know those All-Star girls, right? The ones with the fancy embroidered jackets and equipment bags? The ones who walk a little taller, look a little more smug, and seem to know something that you have no hope of ever knowing because they are freaking ALL-STARS, man! And you? You are not.

The tryouts, which kept us at the field until 9:30 pm on a school night—hello!—was stress-inducing (not only that, I was bummed to miss Miguel Syjuco's reading at the Ferry Building). Risa had to run the bases and slide; she had to bunt twice and swing away three times; she had to catch pop flies; and she had to field grounders in left field and throw all the way to first base. She's a strong player, but I really had no idea how she did. I mean, she ran fast, yes. She can slide. She hit both bunts, she fouled twice and then hit a scorcher into left field. She caught all the pop flies. She missed one grounder, but whipped every ball off super-accurate to first base.

Well, she made it. I have already instructed her not to be smug. Walking taller and brandishing her fancy embroidered jacket is fully acceptable, however. Of course the fact that she made the team = she will one day win a gold medal in softball (once it's reinstated as an Olympic sport, that is).

Here she is, about to hit a homerun that propels her team into first place for the season (never mind that there's another team that has yet to lose a single game). Or maybe she's just having fun playing ball? I'm not sure:



3) Lea has invented her own language. It has no verbs, but that's not the point. Also, her chalk, El Greco-inspired drawing, was chosen for an art show. Of course the fact that she has invented her own, verb-less language and had a drawing that was chosen for an art show = she will one day become a multimedia artist whose work will be featured at the 2030 Whitney Biennial.

Here she is displaying her quirky, artistic nature. Or maybe she's just at Disneyland trying on the Mad Hatter hat/wig? I'm not sure:



Because it is Mother's Day, you just have to go with me on all this, okay?

Not So Stinky No More

Since I was so quick to out my 4th grade writers when they were being the Stinkiest Stinkers ever, I should be just as quick to praise them when they are the Loveliest Lovelies who ever sat writing in a little room. Since their Stinky episode, they have joyously tried their hand at writing a 12-line pantoum. In fact, most of them wrote several. One kid said, "Wow, almost no matter what you do, these turn out good." Hahahahahaha! Oh, and here's an actual exchange between the spousal unit and your Nesting Ground Mistress (NGM):

Spousal Unit: What're you doing?

NGM: Typing a pantoum.

Spousal Unit: What's a pantoum?

NGM: A...poetic form.

Spousal Unit: Oh. [pause] Tell me again: why did you marry me?

Hahahahahaha! My 4th grade writers also stepped up and did a fantastical job with my Where Are You From lesson, which I adapted from something I saw on the Teachers & Writers Collaborative site. First I asked them where they were from, and they offered up typical answers: from Stanford Hospital, from my mom, from San Mateo, etc. etc. Then I showed them this video I found on YouTube:



They were really into this video. I think I need to do this kind of thing more often, as they are, after all, the Childrens of the Internets. Afterwards, I passed out a hard copy of the poem, and we read it together. Then I asked them if they felt like Hughes' poem answers the question, "Where are you from?" Lots of chattering ensued. And then they wrote.

This little girl has moved around a lot, and she became visibly upset while writing. Her classmates were supportive, though, and she ended up with this:

I am from the hot dogs of New Jersey
I am from the colorful, spotted peacocks of Arcadia
I am from the fresh air of North Carolina
I am from the humid temperature of Simi Valley
I am from my friends and family
I am not from the crowds of San Francisco

This girl is obsessed with fighting with her brother. She writes about it almost every week, and I was afraid she was going to turn out yet another piece entirely devoted to how "lame" he is, but she managed to restrain herself:

I am from chocolate that my mom makes me. I am from the fights I have with my brother. I am from the books I read; they change me. I am from my loving family. I am from the ice skating we do in Lake Tahoe, I am from Tom and Jerry, I am from the bright city that I live in. I am from lots of colorful ice cream. I am not from jail, where the bad people are.

And this is from my own Risa, who almost finishes writing things before I even give direction. She's so fast. The bad part is she has no interest in editing her work. But her first drafts are usually pretty good:

I am from the letters in my name
I am from the colors I wear
the lines on my skin
and the words that come from my mouth
I am from the people before me and
The people before them
I am from the numbers in my age, which you do not know
I am from the words my teacher speaks
And from the lines my pencil makes
I am a Filipina princess
I am from the world

Here are a few lines from a girl who is reluctant to write when things get too serious. She's from a broken family, and it's so easy to see the different ways it affects her. Her short piece ends with a stab to the heart, pretty much:

I am from the stories that my mom tells. I am from the recipes my family writes. I am from the fierce animals that are inside me. I am from Utopia. It’s perfect there.

And this is from our only boy. He's kind of all over the place when he writes, and this is a good snapshot of his work in general:

I am from the tall grass of England
The buttery smell of lobster
From my dog Brandy
I am from the tall redwoods
The flying football and baseballs
A huge mountain
A lasting friendship
A cookie factory
I am the Christmas spirit.

So I am happy for now. But they are like a dam fixing to burst. Sooner or later we're headed back to fart-talking, crush-revealing, test anxiety, and who knows what else. I must hunker down and plan my offensive NOW...

A Letter from Vida to the School Principal

I made a copy of this letter because it's just so Vida.

Dear Mr. A________,

First of all I would like to inform you that if you take this letter as a friendly suggestion rather than a demand, it will sound much better, so please do. Secondly, I would like to say that this is not a classroom assinment [sic], but just a thing that has come to my attention on the school yard. That "thing" is Mrs. C_________. I have noticed that she is sort of harsh. This first came to my attention when she benched me for running around the lunch tables. If she has a reason to do that, I am entirly [sic] ok with it. But isn't lunch for getting out our energy? The other, bigger thing that concerns me about Mrs. C________ is that she never lets us explain why we did whatever it was that we did. In my case it would have been, "Mrs. C_________, I was only playing tag." I am not sure if it would've worked, but it would have been nice to tell her that I meant no wrong. Thank you Mr. A_________.

Sincerely,

Vida

P.S. please, for my own good, do not show this to Mrs. C__________.

After he received the letter, Mr. A. made an announcement over the school sound system: "Vida W., come to my office right now. You are in BIG TROUBLE." She did as she was told, and then of course the two of them just kicked it for a few minutes and shot the breeze about Mrs. C. I love our school.

Dishwasher, Story, Smelly Shoes

All I've been doing since last I blogged is emptying the dishwasher, filling it, emptying it, filling it, etc. etc. Or at least that's what it feels like I've been doing since last I blogged. But the thing about being one with my dishwasher is that performing an empty or fill task provides the optimal amount of time needed to mull something over: a problem, an idea, a solution. I often stop midway through the process to write something down, and I'm wondering now if that's why I put my desk in the kitchen in the first place. Which leads me to...

I'm working on a project with my friend W., but the scope of it doesn't really have a place here at Nesting Ground, so I will just say that it's taken up much of my allotted daily brain function. I muse on this project throughout the day. I fall asleep thinking about it, wake up thinking about it, and trip on my words when I'm talking about it because there is so much to say. I'm looney excited about said project, and I can't wait to see if we can pull it off.

Speaking of pulling something off, I'm pleased (and relieved) that my story "The Left-Behind Girl" was just accepted for publication in Philippine Speculative Fiction V, forthcoming in February 2010, and edited by Nikki Alfar and Vin Simbulan. Thank you so very much, Nikki and Vin. This turn of events makes me happy. Happy like...little kid happy. Bag full of candy happy. Jeans fitting perfectly happy. House nice-and-clean happy. Hot biscuit happy. All socks accounted for happy.

Now, though, I must balance the happy with the not-so-happy. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Vida's super-stinky shoes. They were purchased the week before school began, and they were the kind of adorable that makes me sigh. Now they are so smelly and disgusting, that just knowing they are visible if I care to peek out of the corner of my eye is making me queasy. I'm going to go and throw those shoes away now, and I have no doubt that I will spend the rest of the afternoon facing the wrath of my tiger-like 9-year-old daughter, but so be it. I cannot abide them.

Messy Nest

I could, if it were my nature, spend the entire day picking up after my children: shoes under the table, cardboard bits from class project, library book on the mantle, party favors, backpacks, lip balms, change purses, socks, shin guards, ponytail holders, hats, colored pencils, gluestick, homework folder. But it is not my nature. I do, however, shuffle the most offending items (backpack under the dining room table, for example) to their proper place. Why do I do this? Because sometimes I can't bear to order them around for the 276th time in 24 hours. Some would scoff, I suppose. Yes, children should learn to pick up after themselves. But also, children should not only be spoken to in an unbroken string of do-this and do-that and don't-do-this and don't-do-that. Sometimes I just need to let them be.

The Day that Came Out of Left Field

Yesterday was weird. First of all, I actually submitted a story, an occurrence which happens about as often as a solar eclipse. Here's my modus operandi: I get ready to submit, and then I read over the piece, and then—for a variety of reasons, some ridiculous and some not so ridiculous—I demur. I repeat this many times as the deadline looms ever and ever closer. And then nine times out of ten I decide I'm a horrible writer, and I don't send the piece. Today, though, I was in an inexplicable throw-caution-to-the-wind mood, a start-living-or-start-dying mood, a get-over-it-you-dork mood, a what's-the-worse-that-could-happen mood. Like that. So, almost without thinking, I sent a little story out into the mean, mean world.

Also yesterday, while meeting with a non-profit group to discuss (yet again) ways to engage our Spanish-speaking parents more fully with our school culture, I was offered a job. This gave me great pause. "Your kids are older now," said the job-offerer, a lovely woman whose personality can convince an entire room filled with less-than-inspired people that their greatness is yet to be revealed. She knows this about my kids because she also offered me a job four years ago. "You gotta move on, girl," she added, one eyebrow raised.

And there is something to what she says. Really, how much longer do I remain in the rabid school-volunteer phase of my life? Soon the kids will be off to scary Middle School, where parent services are not so in-demand, and then what will I do with myself? The obvious answer is: write, stupid. But the truth is that I write more when my schedule is constricted. Leave me free and easy, and I will loll about doing very little. Fill up my calendar, and I grow determined to squeeze in writing time. Frankly, a job would help—not hinder—my output (it would do little for the state of my house, but that's another subject altogether).

Later, I broached the subject of Mothers Who Work Somewhere Besides Home with my children. The two older ones thought it would be "cool" for me to work. "Mom," said Vida, "I want you to be excellent."

I almost asked, "What do you mean? Am I not now excellent?" But then I decided that was a can of worms best left unopened. I turned to my youngest, and she squeezed her face up as if someone had pinched her really hard, began to cry, and said, "No, mama, no..."

Then one of the twins berated her, and she ran off weeping to her room. The other twin then berated the berating twin, and went to comfort her crying sister.

I ate some potato chips.

It was all too much for me, really.

And then later in the evening, I attended a PTA meeting at which much of the Latino outreach work we've done so far this year bore fruit. Big, fat, delicious, low-hanging fruit. I went to sleep very happy.

Still, weird day.