There are live musical acts I never pass up if they're in town (why yes, The Indigo Girls, for example), but Brandi Carlile just might be my favorite live performer: petite but packing powerful pipes and radiant positive energy. She plays moving ballads and rocking covers ("Folsom Prison Blues" is a favorite) in a show that only disappoints if her set is short because she shares the headline.
(Look: she's in my minivan, too!).
I bought tickets for tonight's concert months ago, and doesn't everything sound like a good idea months ago (like marathons and pregnancy). Truth was, at about 2 PM I imagined myself in a standing-room-only venue this evening and felt exhausted by the notion. So I went home after work for a tall cup of coffee, and rallied.
What's awesome about follow-through on commitments is that it rarely disappoints, even when it's an early-morning workout. My niece and I got home at 11:30, inspired and exuberant and not even achey after hours of standing. She had never heard of Brandi Carlile; here's to hoping you become a fan, too:
"I sometimes lose my faith in luck; I don't know what I want to be when I grow up..."
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
List: Election Musings
1. Heading to bed knowing who our next President is.
2. Heading to bed wondering if Proposition 30 will pass, and if we'll lose another two weeks of school for our kids. Shame on you, state.
3. Heading to bed suspecting that we will continue to exercise the death penalty in California, despite my vote to the contrary.
4. Heading to bed unsure if GMOs are bad or good or a little of both.
5. Heading to bed wishing I'd taken government class in high school and trying to remember how that requirement was waived.
6. Heading to bed sympathizing for the "only one person" in Little Sis's class who voted for Mitt Romney in her 1st grade class election. Tough to stand alone.
7. Heading to bed cringing at my Facebook feed.
8. Heading to bed wincing at Big Sis's soccer teammate's comment as we walked to the car after practice, about Mitt Romney hating Mexicans, and reminding myself that people's perceptions are their realities.
9. Heading to bed celebrating more states valuing individuals' rights to marry regardless of gender.
10. Heading to bed hoping that things will get better, better, BETTER for human beings over the next four years: locally, nationally, globally.
2. Heading to bed wondering if Proposition 30 will pass, and if we'll lose another two weeks of school for our kids. Shame on you, state.
3. Heading to bed suspecting that we will continue to exercise the death penalty in California, despite my vote to the contrary.
4. Heading to bed unsure if GMOs are bad or good or a little of both.
5. Heading to bed wishing I'd taken government class in high school and trying to remember how that requirement was waived.
6. Heading to bed sympathizing for the "only one person" in Little Sis's class who voted for Mitt Romney in her 1st grade class election. Tough to stand alone.
7. Heading to bed cringing at my Facebook feed.
8. Heading to bed wincing at Big Sis's soccer teammate's comment as we walked to the car after practice, about Mitt Romney hating Mexicans, and reminding myself that people's perceptions are their realities.
9. Heading to bed celebrating more states valuing individuals' rights to marry regardless of gender.
10. Heading to bed hoping that things will get better, better, BETTER for human beings over the next four years: locally, nationally, globally.
Monday, November 5, 2012
Dear Soccer Parents, Chill Out
In my spare time this semester, I am coaching Little Sis's Under-8 Girls' Soccer Team. Despite how much I love coaching, it's the other thing besides parenting that makes me most insecure. I have the enthusiasm and willingness, but I always wonder about my coaching skills and also Am I Subbing Out My Players Equitably. Pondering this can keep me up at night; that's just how I roll.
I have to remind myself that I am not judging Big Sis's soccer coach, and not just because I know him and he's my friend. I am truly just grateful that he is willing to take on the task (as well as 10 fourth graders), and impressed that, under his leadership, his players go out and understand positions and make and save some goals. And more importantly, have fun.
I imagine that the parents of my players feel similarly: Supremely thankful that I, and my BFF/assistant coach, are willing to run around for an hour every Thursday afternoon with goofy, sometimes completely wackadoo under-eight-year-olds and make stuff up, such as drills and games called "Coach Says," while parents watch from lawn chairs. An hour of soccer practice, by the way, is a Long Time, even with 15 minutes of stretching at the beginning and another 20 of scrimmaging at the end. And breaks for water and shoe-tieing and injuries.
Also, it's hard to reach back to one's own rec soccer days to remember cool and fun drills. So even though this is my third year "coaching" soccer, I attended a soccer coaching clinic in September because my insecurities hadn't abated. I learned a lot at the soccer clinic, but mostly I hurt my knee. An injured knee is one thing it's clear I will take away from this soccer season. While the soccer season appears to have taken running away from me.
And yet, I don't resent the coaching or the clinic or the practices. I continue to love them so much that I didn't even think before I responded to the email asking for coaches to volunteer for the all-star tournaments. I didn't even think about the fact that Neither of My Daughters Will Be Playing on This Team of All-Stars I Will Coach. This is because Big Sis plays Under-10, and Little Sis is...not so much an all-star.
But here's what I do resent: today we received the league "Bad Sideline Behavior" email. The Bad Sideline Behavior email must be an annual inevitability, because I have seen various versions of it over my five-year career as a Soccer Mom. The Bad Sideline Behavior email is directed toward the non-coaching, non-volunteering parents of soccer players under the age of 12, and it says, basically, Stop Acting Like an Asshole. Stop Acting Like an Asshole in Front of Your Children. Stop Yelling at Volunteer Coaches and Refs and even your own kids. The email actually does include a part about, if the system makes you so angry, go ahead and volunteer and fix it.
Haha! That part surely makes people angry, because people don't like to quit complaining and fix things. In general, they don't. Election Day tomorrow will prove that. I know some portion of my Facebook feed will be moving to Canada on Wednesday, which is not exactly fixing things.
But, just like the Facebook post I saw today which says, "'I changed my vote for President based on your Facebook post', said no person ever," emails exhorting people to stop being jerks are similarly futile. And I know this because That Email Does Not Apply to Me. If it doesn't apply to you, you feel guilty about it and write back and say I am so sorry did you mean me? If it does apply to you, I imagine that you get in your car and flip off the next Slow Driver you meet on the freeway. Or write a trollish comment in response to an online article.
But what scares me is that if it applies to you, you're quite possibly my neighbor, the parent of my kid's friend, a seemingly otherwise rational person who loses her shizzle when she approaches the soccer pitch. Something about the ubiquity of this youth sport makes everyone entitled to "coach" and "ref" and judge soccer, though only a portion of adults have played it. The fact that there is a reality show for Toddlers in Tiaras, which highlights outrageous stage parents, and not for "Kiddoes in Cleats," suggests that parental passion on the soccer sidelines is acceptably mainstream. Aggressive Yelling Dad and Screamy Mom seem to show up every Saturday. My BFF refers often to Oakland rec soccer, where they had to declare "Silent Sidelines" because of overly exuberant parents.
I get some of the passion, parents; I have had to temper my own "Go go go go gogogogogogogogo gooooooooooooooooo," which is white noise to our children who are either already gooooooooooing or not likely to get up and go at all despite all exhortations. As a coach, I've learned that talking excessively to my players on the field raises the likelihood they're looking at me and not at the ball (a few key plays missed that way!).
So we've got to calm down, folks. We've got to save some of this outrage and passion for human rights abuses and miscarriages of justice more consequential than a 13-year-old ref's bad call at a U-10 game.
I can't help but wonder if we made the parents of the opposing teams' players get out and play one other for two five-minute halves, we'd humble our fans and quite possibly knock the hot air out of them before the kids play.
Save profanity and disgust and censures and tantrums for pro sports and the players and coaches paid to endure good and bad press. They've even got security guards at those games.
Spare the kids and volunteers, willya?
I have to remind myself that I am not judging Big Sis's soccer coach, and not just because I know him and he's my friend. I am truly just grateful that he is willing to take on the task (as well as 10 fourth graders), and impressed that, under his leadership, his players go out and understand positions and make and save some goals. And more importantly, have fun.
I imagine that the parents of my players feel similarly: Supremely thankful that I, and my BFF/assistant coach, are willing to run around for an hour every Thursday afternoon with goofy, sometimes completely wackadoo under-eight-year-olds and make stuff up, such as drills and games called "Coach Says," while parents watch from lawn chairs. An hour of soccer practice, by the way, is a Long Time, even with 15 minutes of stretching at the beginning and another 20 of scrimmaging at the end. And breaks for water and shoe-tieing and injuries.
Also, it's hard to reach back to one's own rec soccer days to remember cool and fun drills. So even though this is my third year "coaching" soccer, I attended a soccer coaching clinic in September because my insecurities hadn't abated. I learned a lot at the soccer clinic, but mostly I hurt my knee. An injured knee is one thing it's clear I will take away from this soccer season. While the soccer season appears to have taken running away from me.
And yet, I don't resent the coaching or the clinic or the practices. I continue to love them so much that I didn't even think before I responded to the email asking for coaches to volunteer for the all-star tournaments. I didn't even think about the fact that Neither of My Daughters Will Be Playing on This Team of All-Stars I Will Coach. This is because Big Sis plays Under-10, and Little Sis is...not so much an all-star.
But here's what I do resent: today we received the league "Bad Sideline Behavior" email. The Bad Sideline Behavior email must be an annual inevitability, because I have seen various versions of it over my five-year career as a Soccer Mom. The Bad Sideline Behavior email is directed toward the non-coaching, non-volunteering parents of soccer players under the age of 12, and it says, basically, Stop Acting Like an Asshole. Stop Acting Like an Asshole in Front of Your Children. Stop Yelling at Volunteer Coaches and Refs and even your own kids. The email actually does include a part about, if the system makes you so angry, go ahead and volunteer and fix it.
Haha! That part surely makes people angry, because people don't like to quit complaining and fix things. In general, they don't. Election Day tomorrow will prove that. I know some portion of my Facebook feed will be moving to Canada on Wednesday, which is not exactly fixing things.
But, just like the Facebook post I saw today which says, "'I changed my vote for President based on your Facebook post', said no person ever," emails exhorting people to stop being jerks are similarly futile. And I know this because That Email Does Not Apply to Me. If it doesn't apply to you, you feel guilty about it and write back and say I am so sorry did you mean me? If it does apply to you, I imagine that you get in your car and flip off the next Slow Driver you meet on the freeway. Or write a trollish comment in response to an online article.
But what scares me is that if it applies to you, you're quite possibly my neighbor, the parent of my kid's friend, a seemingly otherwise rational person who loses her shizzle when she approaches the soccer pitch. Something about the ubiquity of this youth sport makes everyone entitled to "coach" and "ref" and judge soccer, though only a portion of adults have played it. The fact that there is a reality show for Toddlers in Tiaras, which highlights outrageous stage parents, and not for "Kiddoes in Cleats," suggests that parental passion on the soccer sidelines is acceptably mainstream. Aggressive Yelling Dad and Screamy Mom seem to show up every Saturday. My BFF refers often to Oakland rec soccer, where they had to declare "Silent Sidelines" because of overly exuberant parents.
I get some of the passion, parents; I have had to temper my own "Go go go go gogogogogogogogo gooooooooooooooooo," which is white noise to our children who are either already gooooooooooing or not likely to get up and go at all despite all exhortations. As a coach, I've learned that talking excessively to my players on the field raises the likelihood they're looking at me and not at the ball (a few key plays missed that way!).
So we've got to calm down, folks. We've got to save some of this outrage and passion for human rights abuses and miscarriages of justice more consequential than a 13-year-old ref's bad call at a U-10 game.
I can't help but wonder if we made the parents of the opposing teams' players get out and play one other for two five-minute halves, we'd humble our fans and quite possibly knock the hot air out of them before the kids play.
Save profanity and disgust and censures and tantrums for pro sports and the players and coaches paid to endure good and bad press. They've even got security guards at those games.
Spare the kids and volunteers, willya?
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Snapshot: Sunday at the Park
Today was a hot November day in Southern California. Just when I think we're finally gaining reprieve from fans and dress code violations, unseasonably warm weather returns. We thought about swimming, but the allure weakened when the girls learned that the diving board was closed for fall and winter. Off we went to the park instead, with scooters and helmets in hand.
I love going to the park to people watch. And when I say people watch, I mainly mean parent watch. I mean, kids are fun to watch too--kids eating sand, kids flying off the spinny thingamajig, kids awkwardly approaching one another to play, kids sighing and rolling eyes at kids (okay, at my daughter) when they (she) doesn't wait her turn for the monkey bars--but I watch parents, in part, to watch various versions of myself.
I know a nanny who loves to post photos of moms at the park on Facebook: moms who sit on a bench to the side while their children play. She doesn't approve. I confess that I'm one of those moms, most of the time, until my children enlist my involvement: push me on the swing, please, Mama. Lift me so I can reach the monkey bars. Watch me! Watch me! Watch me! Once in a while I want to climb the rock wall, or prove to myself that I can't do monkey bars. Otherwise, like yesterday, I prefer to lie in the grass and in the cool breeze and enjoy my children enjoying themselves. And watch and listen to parents.
I eavesdropped on a dad sitting with another mom, talking politics:
"I mean, you've got to vote based on your current circumstances. You can't vote on some unlikely possibility you're going to be some millionaire someday..."
"I just think it's kind of selfish to have that view..."
And, as they parted: "I think you're actually more conservative than you think you are..."
"Oh, no I'm not!"
I cringed at the Shrill Mom censuring her son from across the park. And then I realized all four of those boys seven years old and under were hers.
Over by the swings, I struck up a conversation with a mother of two, one of whom has Down Syndrome. We talked about school and teachers and classes for students with special needs.
"I just want both my kids to be happy," she sighed.
A sweet, teary little girl and her sister approached me when I flopped back onto the grass. "Where's my mom?" the eldest sniffled. I looked for a childless parent, and found my doppelganger, lying in the shade of a tree past the slide. She lifted her head and waved.
Meanwhile, in the burnished slanty sun marking the end of Daylight Savings Time, my girls and a friend made the most of the park, chasing each other, racing on scooters, sliding, climbing, swinging. Laughing. And doing the spider:
When we got in the car, I turned to the three girls with cherry-red cheeks in the backseat and said, "You know what it smells like in here? It smells like sweaty kid." And off we went for ice cream.
I love going to the park to people watch. And when I say people watch, I mainly mean parent watch. I mean, kids are fun to watch too--kids eating sand, kids flying off the spinny thingamajig, kids awkwardly approaching one another to play, kids sighing and rolling eyes at kids (okay, at my daughter) when they (she) doesn't wait her turn for the monkey bars--but I watch parents, in part, to watch various versions of myself.
I know a nanny who loves to post photos of moms at the park on Facebook: moms who sit on a bench to the side while their children play. She doesn't approve. I confess that I'm one of those moms, most of the time, until my children enlist my involvement: push me on the swing, please, Mama. Lift me so I can reach the monkey bars. Watch me! Watch me! Watch me! Once in a while I want to climb the rock wall, or prove to myself that I can't do monkey bars. Otherwise, like yesterday, I prefer to lie in the grass and in the cool breeze and enjoy my children enjoying themselves. And watch and listen to parents.
I eavesdropped on a dad sitting with another mom, talking politics:
"I mean, you've got to vote based on your current circumstances. You can't vote on some unlikely possibility you're going to be some millionaire someday..."
"I just think it's kind of selfish to have that view..."
And, as they parted: "I think you're actually more conservative than you think you are..."
"Oh, no I'm not!"
I cringed at the Shrill Mom censuring her son from across the park. And then I realized all four of those boys seven years old and under were hers.
Over by the swings, I struck up a conversation with a mother of two, one of whom has Down Syndrome. We talked about school and teachers and classes for students with special needs.
"I just want both my kids to be happy," she sighed.
A sweet, teary little girl and her sister approached me when I flopped back onto the grass. "Where's my mom?" the eldest sniffled. I looked for a childless parent, and found my doppelganger, lying in the shade of a tree past the slide. She lifted her head and waved.
Meanwhile, in the burnished slanty sun marking the end of Daylight Savings Time, my girls and a friend made the most of the park, chasing each other, racing on scooters, sliding, climbing, swinging. Laughing. And doing the spider:
When we got in the car, I turned to the three girls with cherry-red cheeks in the backseat and said, "You know what it smells like in here? It smells like sweaty kid." And off we went for ice cream.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
The Night of the Dudus
A recent conversation about "domestic" iguanas escaping into the trees of Santa Barbara and geckos living on the walls reminded me of a night in Kenya I will never forget: The Night the Termites Came to Town.
It's only fair to directly quote the journal I kept during my year living and teaching in Kenya:
Friday 8th November (1996)
Monday was "Attack of the African Rain Dudu" night--the little-known sequel to Hitchcock's The Birds. During an afternoon conversation, Bharti [my tough Indian landlady] offhandedly joked and said we'd all eat at my house tonight, and I said, "Fine!" (but there's a Murphy's Law in play whenever Bharti, consummate Indian wife and mother, is around: that I will look stupid and do things wrong). I tried making focaccia [Kenya-style], and didn't follow directions [duh]. My spaghetti sauce was blah. I even almost ruined the noodles.
In the midst of preparation for my guests, it began raining hard, and big flying bugs materialized near the kitchen window. Soon, there were multitudes coming through a crack at the side of the window. I wisely thought, I will open it, and let them fly out.
Yikes! So many flying, flapping buggies were in my face and hitting the wall and then crawling around as I shrieked and hit them with a curtain and avoided squishing them underfoot,. I found even more in the living room and hallway, pouring into my porous house. It was an insect invasion like no other I had experienced.
In a flash of inspiration, I figured out they were attracted to light, and I turned on the outside bulb and extinguished all lights inside. I opened the front door, and many flew out.
The ones remaining appeared to lose their wings, crawl around, hump each other, and inexplicably disappear. Their wings, however, were ubiquitous. I joked with my fourth-grade students the next day that I could have stuffed pillows with dudu wings.
"You should have fried them up and eaten them, Miss," a student offered. "They taste like peanut butter."
Which might have been better than the spaghetti I served my guests that night.
That they were "dudus" and tasted like sandwich spread were the only details offered by my students about these winged invaders. [I learned later that these were your garden-variety termites, the ones who build admirable mounds above ground. Here is a similar account of Termite Horror from a San Diego Zoo conservation program specialist].
It's not unusual for me to find an errant dudu wing tucked in an journal or bag I used during my time in Kenya...
It's only fair to directly quote the journal I kept during my year living and teaching in Kenya:
Friday 8th November (1996)
Monday was "Attack of the African Rain Dudu" night--the little-known sequel to Hitchcock's The Birds. During an afternoon conversation, Bharti [my tough Indian landlady] offhandedly joked and said we'd all eat at my house tonight, and I said, "Fine!" (but there's a Murphy's Law in play whenever Bharti, consummate Indian wife and mother, is around: that I will look stupid and do things wrong). I tried making focaccia [Kenya-style], and didn't follow directions [duh]. My spaghetti sauce was blah. I even almost ruined the noodles.
In the midst of preparation for my guests, it began raining hard, and big flying bugs materialized near the kitchen window. Soon, there were multitudes coming through a crack at the side of the window. I wisely thought, I will open it, and let them fly out.
Yikes! So many flying, flapping buggies were in my face and hitting the wall and then crawling around as I shrieked and hit them with a curtain and avoided squishing them underfoot,. I found even more in the living room and hallway, pouring into my porous house. It was an insect invasion like no other I had experienced.
In a flash of inspiration, I figured out they were attracted to light, and I turned on the outside bulb and extinguished all lights inside. I opened the front door, and many flew out.
The ones remaining appeared to lose their wings, crawl around, hump each other, and inexplicably disappear. Their wings, however, were ubiquitous. I joked with my fourth-grade students the next day that I could have stuffed pillows with dudu wings.
"You should have fried them up and eaten them, Miss," a student offered. "They taste like peanut butter."
Which might have been better than the spaghetti I served my guests that night.
That they were "dudus" and tasted like sandwich spread were the only details offered by my students about these winged invaders. [I learned later that these were your garden-variety termites, the ones who build admirable mounds above ground. Here is a similar account of Termite Horror from a San Diego Zoo conservation program specialist].
It's not unusual for me to find an errant dudu wing tucked in an journal or bag I used during my time in Kenya...
Friday, November 2, 2012
List: Ways I Increase the Likelihood I Will Exercise
Formerly, I was only a runner. I did a good amount of running, and that's all I did. But as I mentioned recently, last year I joined a P90X "club" at school, which has broadened my exercise repertoire. We meet at 5:45 AM in the gym on Mondays and Fridays, and as one can imagine, I've had to maximize the potential that I will actually leave my bed and my home to go make my body hurt in the wee hours.
List: Ways I Increase the Likelihood I Will Exercise (with an approximate 75% success rate):
1. Assign husband the role of preparing and setting coffee maker to auto-brew at 5:15 AM.
2. Set alarm for 4:45 and push "snooze" until 5:20.
3. Have gym bag packed COMPLETELY with work clothes (try not to forget undies, bra, towel, or dress shoes, or endure awkward results), ready to grab by the front door.
4. Go to bed dressed in workout clothes instead of pajamas: jog bra, tee shirt, shorts. Place socks and running shoes right next to bed.
5. Lie in bed between 4:45 and 5:20 thinking about the potential for chiseled arms, contoured legs, and ripped abs. Get up despite necessary reality check.
6. Lie in bed between 4:45 and 5:20 thinking about how lame it would be to skip the workout and have to change out of not-even-sweaty workout clothes.
7. Lie in bed thinking about the reward of an amazing meal.
8. Fear the reprisals of colleagues in the club who will be there without you.
9. Drive fifteen minutes to the gym with a to-go mug of hot coffee: just enough time to wake up and caffeinate.
10. Acknowledge, as the car engine ignites, that it's too late to turn back now--high-five self about inevitable workout! It's almost like it's already done.
Almost.
List: Ways I Increase the Likelihood I Will Exercise (with an approximate 75% success rate):
1. Assign husband the role of preparing and setting coffee maker to auto-brew at 5:15 AM.
2. Set alarm for 4:45 and push "snooze" until 5:20.
3. Have gym bag packed COMPLETELY with work clothes (try not to forget undies, bra, towel, or dress shoes, or endure awkward results), ready to grab by the front door.
4. Go to bed dressed in workout clothes instead of pajamas: jog bra, tee shirt, shorts. Place socks and running shoes right next to bed.
5. Lie in bed between 4:45 and 5:20 thinking about the potential for chiseled arms, contoured legs, and ripped abs. Get up despite necessary reality check.
6. Lie in bed between 4:45 and 5:20 thinking about how lame it would be to skip the workout and have to change out of not-even-sweaty workout clothes.
7. Lie in bed thinking about the reward of an amazing meal.
8. Fear the reprisals of colleagues in the club who will be there without you.
9. Drive fifteen minutes to the gym with a to-go mug of hot coffee: just enough time to wake up and caffeinate.
10. Acknowledge, as the car engine ignites, that it's too late to turn back now--high-five self about inevitable workout! It's almost like it's already done.
Almost.
Thursday, November 1, 2012
Sugar Crashing
This morning, still woozy from sleep and high blood sugar, Little Sis grabbed her bag of candy and snuggled with it on the couch, brandishing a full-sized Kit Kat with wonder and anticipation. On my way out the door for work, and in the gentlest way possible, I let her know we'd be talking this evening about our plan for Hallo-wean-ing ourselves off an entire cache of candy.
Last night Little Sis was an adorable Dorothy as promised, with only a little concern about my braiding skills (she likes them tight; I confess that I am a loose plaiter). Big Sis, who planned to be a veterinarian, had an alter-identity crisis ("But, Mom! No one is going to be a job for Halloween!") and effected a late-in-game switcheroo to "Island Princess," which, despite my shallow experience with the genre, I believe she pulled off tropically and triumphantly (if not, at first, tearfully).
Note: one costume I won't ever try to make myself: Fourth Grader. It's far too shape-shifting.
I went as a bat. Or as a cat, or a witch, depending on your interpretation and commitment to scrutinizing my accessories. It was another year of raiding the children's costume crate, so my bat wings extended only to my elbows.
Grandparents and aunts and uncle joined the trick-or-treating entourage through our friendly neighborhood. We came home with only 45 minutes or so left of peak scavenging left, but threw ourselves wholeheartedly into giving the older trick-or-treaters a hard time while the girls sorted and sifted their bounty.
When a teenager wearing street clothes and a gratuitous mask approached the porch, my brother greeted him. "That's pretty weak, man," he nodded at the kid's mask.
The young man shrugged as he held out his candy bag. "Oh yeah, well, it's the recession."
P.S. We told the girls they could choose 10 pieces of candy to keep, and we'd give them $10 for the rest. How do you negotiate the gobs of gobstoppers and gummies?
Last night Little Sis was an adorable Dorothy as promised, with only a little concern about my braiding skills (she likes them tight; I confess that I am a loose plaiter). Big Sis, who planned to be a veterinarian, had an alter-identity crisis ("But, Mom! No one is going to be a job for Halloween!") and effected a late-in-game switcheroo to "Island Princess," which, despite my shallow experience with the genre, I believe she pulled off tropically and triumphantly (if not, at first, tearfully).
Note: one costume I won't ever try to make myself: Fourth Grader. It's far too shape-shifting.
I went as a bat. Or as a cat, or a witch, depending on your interpretation and commitment to scrutinizing my accessories. It was another year of raiding the children's costume crate, so my bat wings extended only to my elbows.
Grandparents and aunts and uncle joined the trick-or-treating entourage through our friendly neighborhood. We came home with only 45 minutes or so left of peak scavenging left, but threw ourselves wholeheartedly into giving the older trick-or-treaters a hard time while the girls sorted and sifted their bounty.
When a teenager wearing street clothes and a gratuitous mask approached the porch, my brother greeted him. "That's pretty weak, man," he nodded at the kid's mask.
The young man shrugged as he held out his candy bag. "Oh yeah, well, it's the recession."
P.S. We told the girls they could choose 10 pieces of candy to keep, and we'd give them $10 for the rest. How do you negotiate the gobs of gobstoppers and gummies?
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