Inessential Oil

To “jennymoore it” means to attempt to fix or improve something but with shortcuts and missing steps, thereby making matters...worse. 

I have a history:  of trying to pry the security dye capsule off a pair of pants I LEGITIMATELY bought (but was too lazy to take back to the store)...of using Sharpies to cover bleach spots, and then needing another something that erases Sharpie marks...of supergluing stuff that requires spackle or caulk, or, caulking things that require spackle...or using whatever happens to be around to patch holes (homemade papier-mache, for example).  I've even jennymoored my hair.  Have you tried hair dye on your eyebrows--haphazardly? That's JENNYMOOREING IT to the next level.  

So tonight I jennymoored my sinuses.

I fall prey to a sinus infection every year or so.  And nothing makes me fantasize about strange remedies—like shower nozzles and vacuum cleaners focused up my nostrils—than a sinus infection.  My entire face/nose/head region has been driving me bonkers for a few weeks now and I KNOW!  I should see a doctor at this point!  But who has time for that because:  HOLIDAYS.  And anyway, I can totally handle this myself, DUH...which (spoiler alert) is the basis for all epic jennymooreisms.

Enter oregano oil!  A home remedy with only anecdotal evidence of efficacy.  But hey, desperate times.  I bought myself a vial while I was at the grocery store and was so excited to use it that despite nothing but the satisfaction that "oregano oil" and "sinuses" have Google searches in common, and no other preparation than to confirm that the oil in my vial was in fact diluted, I went ahead and hopefully droppered some right into each nostril.  Boldly, during Middle Sis's piano lesson, like someone with nothing to lose.

And then the fire began. An intense burning sensation spread quickly up my nose and into my eyes and throat.  My nose felt suddenly swollen by two sizes.  My heart started pounding.  I sneezed and both my nose and eyes watered profusely, so I wiped my nose on my sleeve and then used the SAME sleeve to dab at my eyes, thereby spreading the offending cousin-of-stinging-nettle oil to EVEN MORE MUCOUS MEMBRANES.  I tried to remain calm and quiet and NOT PANICKY! while marveling at how crazy my face and head were feeling and wondering if I would be scarred or disfigured from this self-inflicted horror.  A strange numbness then took over and my nostrils throbbed along with each beat of my heart. I silently wallowed in regret.  

When the piano lesson ended minutes later and our beloved piano teacher turned to talk to me, I was visibly weeping and ruefully attempted to explain my sinus remedy mishap.  She offered me a lifeline in the form of tissues and we wished her happy holidays. We walked to the car; I, smelling like pizza and hoping I could drive home, muttering recriminations about my impulsive purchase and how I would soon be offering oil up for free on the "buy nothing" Facebook group of which I'm a member.  I recalled that growing up, there was banter about substituting oregano for marijuana or mistaking one herb for the other.  Back in the day, you know.  When the prospect of ODing on oregano was a FUNNY JOKE.    

Meanwhile, the spectrum of sensations wrought by said oil did serve to momentarily distract me from sinus pain.  

So as I write this I predict that if I am cured of my maladies by tomorrow, I will dip into the oregano again, maybe in another year when my sinuses have me banging futilely on my temples and the memories of searing sinus flames have dimmed.  

Otherwise, free oregano oil to the next hapless victim!  Or, expect to be served some richly oregano-infused pasta sauces at my house.  To be eaten, not snorted.

Commencement Speech 2018

Yesterday was likely the last time I'll deliver a high school graduation speech for a while! I am making elementary school my new professional home.

It was my honor to deliver the keynote address for the Class of 2018 last night:

Dear Class of 2018, thank you for inviting me to speak with you and our guests tonight.

We are going to start with a little experiment. I am going to say some words, and you are going to listen and pay attention to what you hear.  

Yanny.

Laurel.

Jenny.  

Laurel.

Maybe you heard me say Laurel.  Maybe you heard Yanny.  I sneaked a Jenny in there too, in deference to the fact that many of you will start calling me that at about 9:00 tonight if you haven’t already.  

Recently, the internet introduced us to this Yanny/Laurel sound file, and mysteriously, most of us could only hear one of those words when it played.  This prompted an online debate reminiscent of the photo of the famous dress that circulated in 2015, which people declared to be either blue and black, or white and gold.  We now know that hearing Yanny or Laurel depends on the frequencies your particular ears hear, and the color of the dress is related to how your brain processes ambient light.

When I was a teenager I copied quotes from song lyrics I thought were deep or relevant or really spoke to the devastating romantic moment I was going through, and I would share them with my best friend who was like, you listen to the lyrics?  I listen to the guitars.  My mind was kind of blown.  To me songs were mostly about their meaning.  To her, they were about music.  We were both listening to Oingo Boingo and hearing different parts.  

So what I find fascinating about our reactions to these internet debates about words and dresses is our absolute certainty that what WE perceive is the THE RIGHT ANSWER:  “It’s Laurel, and the rest of you are crazy,” “the dress is blue.  There is no white.”  WHY is it  so shocking to be confronted with evidence that we see and hear things differently from one another?   After all, there are people who like pineapple on pizza and who enjoy the smell of gasoline, and who can even walk on burning rocks without flinching.  Some of us are warm tonight, and others are cold, and you cannot tell someone they’re not cold. We see, hear, taste, smell, and feel things differently.   We also find different things beautiful, and funny, and gross, and sad, as well as easy and difficult.  We believe differently too. 

Thank goodness, by the way.  I enjoy having friends with houses of different styles and colors and eating dishes other people cook and I’ve appreciated YOUR unique approaches to fashion and differing preferences and viewpoints and influences.   I’m urging us to move beyond it HAS to be Laurel, it’s ONLY EVER a white dress, Crocs are universally ugly, and peanut butter and pickle sandwiches can never be good.  How about a different approach, like OMG, you love crocs?  Please tell me more about this affection you have for wide plastic shoes!  And then, we listen intently instead of shaking our heads in an inability to understand and ACCEPT that some people enthusiastically rock crocs.  Last week my daughter asked me to put diced apples in her tuna sandwich and I was like ewww, okay.  And then I was hungry, and there was extra tuna, and I tried it.  You guys.  This could be a new thing, like chicken and waffles, or bacon with maple syrup.  

We could stop replaying the Yanny and Laurel loop in search of hidden syllables (or to prove ourselves so very right about what we hear), and instead seek to understand one another a little more--how others’ backgrounds, experiences, and influences affect THEIR RESPONSES to the world and how things makes them feel--so often differently from ourselves.  I believe that’s one of the valuable lessons from Anthony Bourdain, who found no cuisine, from a villager’s daily porridge to the most expensive dish at a high-end restaurant, unworthy of his exploration and our attention.  Similarly, he valued the stories of the people he met, both humble and famous, and championed the challenges and contributions of dishwashers and executive chefs alike--as all essential members of culinary teams who feed us.  

Ms. Bice and I talked recently about how critical it is for everyone, regardless of age and experience, to feel they have stories to tell worthy of others’ ears.  She and your teachers have obviously had the purpose of teaching you, but the essence of that purpose has been to prompt and elicit your OWN analyses and understandings of what you’ve heard, read, seen, and experienced.  Our jobs are made joyful by the fact that WE KNOW your stories already matter, and that they’re important and instructive.  

We have much to learn from generations before and after us, if we don’t condemn them for lack of relevance or experience.  We are watching the elders in our society grow in understanding that high school students can be the greatest experts on topics which affect them most acutely, and when they speak up and demand to be heard.  Millennials are teaching our parents and my generation that money is best spent on experiences vs. things.  It’s wise to to befriend and consult older folks, too, particularly as you cross thresholds of life--we elders can empathize and share our own experiences of self doubt, of loves lost, of career pivots, and generally make you feel like you can get through, too, as we have before you.  

Class of 2018, you’ve already demonstrated the depth of your awareness and ability to listen carefully and perceptively not only to each other, but to members of your community.  You’ve paid attention.  It’s  a quality of this class we admire and celebrate.  You’ve honored contributions of all types of people who’ve supported you through your recognitions and recent notes of gratitude to teachers, coaches, youth group leaders, tutors, office staff, security guards, administrators, and substitute teachers.  

And on this journey we’ve all shared together students, staff, and families, we’ve listened to one another debate, play, sing, shout, joke, lecture, present, recite, whine, plead, argue, laugh, cry, apologize, and congratulate.  These are all sounds of being human, recognizable no matter what frequencies our own ears hear.  I’m grateful you and I were human here at CHS together.  Graduates, keep your eyes and ears and minds and hearts open, seeking to understand more about this rich, diverse, and fascinating world you’ll help shape.  Thank you, and love you all. 

All About My Parents

Tootsie goes to a wonderful, loving, nurturing preschool, where relationships, responsibility, play, and imagination are emphasized--the same preschool her big sisters attended seemingly long ago.  

The teachers listen carefully to the little people and the important (hilarious) things they say, often recording them for posterity.  

We were treated to a Parents' Day celebration on Sunday, where we were presented with cards from our kiddos; here's Tootsie's take on her Mom and Dad:    

Some points of confirmation and clarification:

I do work with my friends.

Husband does work at da yacht club.

Husband does NOT enjoy letting the dog out to pee.

Husband and I did not meet at school, though we did attend the same high school.

Husband does like syrup, not usually on meatballs.

We do love our children when they go to school.  Apparently this is a likable trait.

2015: In Which Lice Appears to Be More Important Than Family News

Well, hello there 2015; I'm finally getting around to acknowledging your arrival.  We greeted you in the company of my parents with a champagne toast, fresh off the plane from a wonderful visit in the Caribbean with my brother’s family, where seven cousins, two extra aunties, as well as dogs, cats (both young and old and ailing*), guinea pigs, iguanas, geckos, and mosquitoes shared a house with a view of the sea.  We swam, ate, hiked, cooked, played football and baseball, talked, snuggled, and mostly just enjoyed being related and being together.  Tootsie soaked up love and attention twelve-fold. 

2015 opened with Middle Sis’s 3^rd grade teacher’s resolution that There Shall Be No More Lice in her classroom (even she contracted the critters, poor lady).  I’ll be discreet and share that we were intimately involved in a lice intervention the day before school resumed, and it was only a week later that we received the teacher’s email of surrender:  “Lice Is Back.”  If one can conjure humor while managing the specter or reality of lice, there’s a certain comedy to be recognized in its effects on otherwise sane-appearing and level-headed mothers.  Creatures so tiny with such magnitude of power to bring successful, confident, resourceful women to their knees!  We join a sisterhood around the trauma of lice, a sorority of horror and sharing of remedies, with crying and raw-scalped children who are victims of and audience to the drama of slathering, combing, shampooing, laundering, drying, spending, rinsing and repeating. 

Lice is prehistoric.  Lice doesn’t discriminate.  Lice will never be vanquished.  It’s kind of awesome, and I mean that literally, how the little buggers maintain their hegemony over us, no matter how rich, educated, clean, willful, and powerful we think we are.  It’s only our Type-A vigilance, our determination, that keeps the villains from rising up in whole new civilizations, complete with hierarchies and alphabets.

[And here's where Big Sis points out with disdain that I've devoted more of this blog post on lice than I have on our trip to the USVI--Ed.]

Big Sis wants No Part of Lice, so while I was out of the house for a few hours one day, she helpfully stripped our couches, beds, and pillows and generated a mountain of (quite possibly) unnecessary laundry.  It wasn’t long after I recovered from my own grousing and folding of sheets and towels that our elderly dog’s bladder control surrendered.  Into the washer and dryer went multiple loads of dog bedding and towels.  And it wasn’t long after I committed myself to the cycle of dog clean-ups that our washing machine surrendered.  And it wasn’t long before the washing machine broke that Husband conveniently left town.  Right after that I recognized that Tootsie had Hand, Foot, and Mouth Disease.  Right after that our babysitter fell ill with a horrible flu.  Right after that Tootsie spent some time in my office at school.  Right after that I had my own cry right there in my office.  And my mother’s help and proximity became valuable AGAIN.  Not to mention her washing machine.

Meanwhile, Husband and Middle Sis were in Arlington, where his father was interred at the National Cemetery.  The special ceremony was on Husband’s birthday, and he was surrounded by a crowd of family members.  He and Middle Sis visited sites in Washington D.C., and bonded with cousins Middle Sis had never met.  The three of us who remained at home sent our hearts, and Big Sis worked through her disappointment over not attending and experiencing all the family bonding back East.    

And Middle Sis returned home last night with an eye infection* and was excluded from school today.  SIGH. 

Some weeks just bring more gifts than others.  I'm feeling gratitude that Husband is back, Middle Sis's eye is healing, Tootsie seems healthy, dog has puppy pads to pee on, we don't appear to have lice, and we've got a three-day weekend to purchase a new washer.  

Onward!

Ten Months, and Tootsie's Tips

Tootsie turned ten months amid a very busy time at home and at school...soccer tournaments, preparations for 5th grade promotion (Big Sis's outfit and event planning...), sister and brother-in-law and baby cousin coming to town, end-of-year awards, campaigning and bond election, and graduation.  Meanwhile, she was busy tackling more developmental stages, as well as remaining her cute and smiley self.  I found myself having a good old cry at the passage of time (my baby growing less babyish inspiring tears on one hand; my spending time elsewhere as she keeps growing on the other).  But I did some healthy reflecting on the nostalgia around our children's inevitable development, and allude to epiphanies below in my graduation speech.

Here's the big "step" Tootsie took last month:

And, of course, such strides result in frequent bangs into furniture and bonkings of her head.  She otherwise crawls at warp speed toward the dog food, giggling mischievously en route, or finds tiny objects to put in her mouth to scare the bejeezus out of us.

Instead of the 'ooo' face of wonder she adopted as a tiny baby, she now makes a serious "ohhhhhh" sound and expression when she's truly captivated or curious about something--dogs, animals, and other babies in particular.  She loves her cousins.

Her favorite song is Pharrell's "Happy," which Big Sis sang at her choir concert last month.  Her favorite books are Hug, Hush Little Baby, and On the Night You Were Born (though she was born in the AM).  She likes the Hairy Maclary book, but only until the page with the scary cat, Scarface Claw.  Then she cries.  She doesn't like the Elmo character at Sea World either.

When her sisters ask her questions like, "Do you want to help me with my homework?" she shakes her head vigorously with big grins.  Her vocabulary includes "blah blah blah blah."

She loves to swim and take baths, and we've spent some good times with the cousins in Mammom's swimming pool.

As far as nursing goes, it's like breastfeeding an octopus or wrestler.  And she uses her free hand to pound me on the chest.

But she made an apt subject for my first commencement address as a high school principal.  Here are Tootsie's Tips:

Last summer I was a pregnant new principal who planned to start the school year and then take a little time off when our baby was born in September.  But next thing I knew, I was having my baby early, in the wrong state across the country, and we were in the hospital on your first day of school.  I wound up missing the fall semester of your senior year, and you can go ahead and blame it on the baby, Faera, or as she became known to many, Tootsie.  As school has come to a close, I’ve been thinking about some of the lessons Tootsie taught me this year, and I want to pass them along to you. 

 First, accept life’s vicissitudes.

 There’s a tendency, a normal and natural and wise tendency, to plan out your life.  And I suggest you do.  But this year I’ve had to recognize what parts of life are in and out of my control.  Tootsie has helped me accept that life is messy, unpredictable, scary, and mysterious, but also beautiful and surprising and serendipitous.  You may invest time, work, and hope, only to experience a disappointing outcome.  Practice facing the circumstances before you and renouncing regret for what couldn’t or cannot be.  Tootsie would endorse what your classmate Ines Cruz wrote so aptly in her Identity Project in art:  “I want to fearlessly go, and see what unfolds before me.  If I mess up, I want to know it’s okay; it’s part of the journey, part of the design of my life.” 

 Second:  Embrace the new and unfamiliar

During babies’ first months, every experience, every place is brand new.  I watch Tootsie wake up sometimes and I know she’s thinking where the heck am I now?  Here you sit before us, about to depart the familiar—your daily routine at home and at CHS with the people you know—for an adventure of the unexplored.  You’re going to cry about it sometimes—Tootsie does—but we don’t bail her out every time she wants to eject from a seemingly scary place.  Recognize that this is your mission:  to explore the new, and to exploit the opportunities that adventure brings. From Ines Cruz:  “I need to walk on warm sand, not on hot concrete, under stars, not street lamps, over miles and miles of new places with new people, not standing stagnant in place.” 

Third:  Make the most of where you are:

Tootsie only recently started to crawl.  She has spent most of her short life stuck where we put her—in her carseat, stroller, crib, or front pack.  But from flat on her back or sitting up she finds the world an amazing place and the people around her fascinating.  Ever been stuck in a long line and noticed the adults looking anywhere but at each other?  Babies seek out and gaze right at fellow humans with wonder.  They grin, coo, and engage with anyone who catches their eye, no matter who they are.  You, too, can make the most of where you are, and even make someone’s day, on planes, in traffic, at jury duty, in your dorm with assigned roommates: entertain yourself, enjoy the view, bring your best attitude.  Get to know the person next to you. 

This one is for the parents too:  Accept your own and others’ evolutions

I always wanted a third baby.  I love babies (almost as much as I love teenagers). But a baby is a growing person, and however much we want our babies to stay small and cute and cuddly, they grow and change.  Every day my Tootsie is a newer version of herself.  And so are you.  You haven’t discovered all of your own strengths, skills, and vulnerabilities.  Future experiences and relationships will bring out new facets of your self.  You don’t have to be whom you have always been or expected to be.  By next summer you may have adopted different interests and aspirations, hobbies and habits.  Be prepared to find your high school friends and family members have, too.  Let yourself and others shed dead skin and emerge anew.  Graduates, parents, friends:  pledge to reacquaint yourself with your loved ones in their present. 

 Just a few more tidbits from Tootsie: 

Dance, sing, laugh, or act goofy. Every day.

When you perceive an injustice, holler about it.

And finally, Tootsie has this look she gets on her face when she’s particularly proud of herself.  It’s okay to think you’re hot stuff, especially when you’re making a huge developmental leap.  So, high five, graduates; swagger on down that carpet.  You did it.  Congratulations.

Behind the Photo Shoot

It was a long shot (ha!) from the start:  scheduling a family photo shoot the day after first soccer games and a sleepover at our house, during a heat wave and amidst our Adjustment Time.  Husband was all in, though:  he wanted a family photo to use for cards for the countless thank yous we will write to our dear friends who have been feeding us, gifting us, cheering us.  Meanwhile the girls scowled at the long-sleeved black shirts and jeans I set aside for them.  They scowled in general.  It had been a rough morning of sibling rivalry and poor attitudes.

Except not really that rough, unless you acknowledge that sleepovers turn children into ugly, whiny, irrational shells of their former selves.  Big Sis was in full throes of Sleepover Detox:  Crying,  bemoaning her pitiful self.  I had little sympathy, having endorsed her sleepover and next-morning pedicures and endured little sleep, myself.

We adopted the Get With the Program approach:  You will go, and you will smile and you will Do This because we are asking you to and it's about Family and Knock It Off, for the love of all things holy.  She and her red-rimmed eyes trudged into the car, and we apologetically showed up on our photographer/friend's doorstep.  She was glad to see we were not perfect, after all, as our marketing director suggests.  The girls commenced having trouble sharing the same space right away, what with one of them touching the other accidentally.  I could tell by Husband's frozen jawline it would be a long afternoon.

Tootsie took stage first, though, and was marginally cooperative herself, squirming and hiding her eyes behind her little hands, versus curling up in sweet sleep like the babies in the pictures adorning the walls of the studio.  She paused for one bottle and a breastfeeding top-off as well as some gnawings on her binky before our photographer could cajole her into some relaxed positions.

Thank you to Melissa of Just Hatched Photography!

Next came the photos with the girls.  There were some dorky grins and fake smiles, but the magic came when Tootsie was in the arms of a sister and they were directed to look at her.  No more fighting and dirty looks, just pure love and adoration.  Thankfully caught on film.  Husband and I joined them and we pulled off some Wholesome Family Togetherness too.

It's the whole Facebook thing, right?  The images we project can be deceiving.  Our photos are lovely and capture our love for one another and our closeness.  But in any family, and certainly in ours lately, there's exhaustion, frustrations, emotions across the spectrum burbling underneath.  So I'm capturing the outtakes.

We survived intact, and Big Sis was even inching toward her cheerier self by the time we left.  Until she bonked her head on the car door...

Couched in Innuendo

One of the awesome parts of our new house is the family room downstairs that opens onto the deck, a large open space with great windows and afternoon light.  I'd dreamed of having a house with a separate living area for the TV and kid movie time--you know, a place for the family to hang out when I'm hosting book club in the living room.  But I'd also dreamed of having a third bedroom and more than one bathroom.  I didn't think we'd wind up with a family room and everything else this house comes with too, so I'm pinching myself.  We moved in five days ago, and it's still exciting to come home from work everyday. 

A bigger house means we could use more furniture, but I'm resisting filling the place in the manner of our former home (you recognize you may be on furnishings overload when you can't find a space to do a wall-sit and your house resembles a thrift store showroom).  Nevertheless, our new family room demanded a couch, and a stain-resistant sectional seemed like the perfect choice.  A new sofa was a budget priority, so I researched seating options while we waited to move in. 

I explained to my skeptical mother that I was looking for a new couch online.  It had to be within certain width specifications to fit the space, I elaborated, and I felt confident I didn't need to sit on it to find the right one. 

"We are looking for a sectional with a chaise." 

"A sexual?"  my mom answered.

"I think that option is more expensive," I laughed.  "A sectional, Mom.  A sectional."  And then I wasted no time transcribing our conversation into a text to my siblings. 

I continued searching for the perfect couch online.  I wanted a spill-proof sofa that cost less than a compact car.  High-quality leather sectionals were ruled out. 

I consulted my father.

"Dad, have you heard of bonded leather?"

"Bondage leather?"

"Bonded leather, goodness."

Folks, allow me to introduce you to our Sexual Couch with Bondage Leather.  It did not come with chaps or a bullwhip, but we think it's pretty perfect (and G-rated, thus far):

Gag Me (with your salmon, Mom)

Our approach to expectations for daughters' dinner eating comprises two thresholds:  eat most and you can be excused from the table; eat all and you can have something to eat later (usually fruit, sometimes "dessert").  Our daughters have a choice, then:  If they're hungry enough for something later, they can probably pack away the extra bites now.  If they don't feel like finishing a meal they consider less than spectacular, they're done eating for the evening (and they won't starve before tomorrow, we remind them).  Most nights they eat dinner with little fuss, despite various misadventures of yesteryear (here and the ultimate, here).  Last night, not so much.

The girls love my mom's salmon, which she marinates in a vidalia onion dressing and prepares often. For a dinner party on Saturday night, I used her protocol for cooking salmon (encased in a foil packet and baked 20 minutes at 375 degrees) but used a soy-ginger glaze instead.  Daughters didn't dig it.

So I warned them last night that dinner would be leftover salmon, and endured their moans.  At the table, they ate rice and kale chips and poked at their fish.  We languished at dinner, finally drawing exit lines on their plates.  Big Sis drenched her salmon in peanut sauce and mixed it with rice.  Little Sis gagged on a bite, her eyes bugging out so it made us laugh at loud.  They remained relatively cheery despite the torture.  There were no tears, thankfully; the tears generally reserved for insidious onions (Little Sis) and egregious green peppers (Big Sis). 

"Tell them about the time you guys threw food out the window," I urged Husband.  He related the legendary tale of Sauerkraut Night, when he and his four siblings tried everything including pouring sugar on their cabbage to choke it down.  But a more sinister plot unfolded, and when Grandpa Bob left the room, someone led the charge to throw the sauerkraut out the window, where it lay on the ground beside the trashcans, exactly where Grandpa Bob found it the next morning, and...well, consequences.

I had a boyfriend whose mom outed him for surreptitiously hiding food in the drawers built into their dining room table.  It wasn't until a mysterious foul odor permeated the dining room that an investigation was launched and his grisly stash discovered. 

As for me, my most inocuous strategy was hiding food (mainly mushrooms, universally detested by me and my siblings) in my napkin, and then offering to clear the table so that I could safely discard the evidence.  I also didn't see the point of water chestnuts, a featured ingredient in my mother's stir fry, so one time when assisting her in putting away groceries, I took the opportunity to hide the can of water chestnuts waaaaaaaaaaaaay in the back of a cupboard less traveled by. 

I still find water chestnuts pointless and yucky.

Then there was the one time my mother was making me a sandwich, and I (rudely, she recalls) exhorted, "No sprouts on my sandwich!"  She responded by adding a clump.  I sulkily took my sandwich outside and tried ditching the sprouts, which our dog hopefully picked up and then, thinking better, deposited in the side yard, where my suspicious mom found them.  She helpfully rinsed them off and made me eat them.  I'm so polite about my sandwich orders now, and I like me some sprouts. 

But my favorite fable of family food follies (and foibles) features my little brother, who passionately hated black olives.  We were either having taco salad or enchilada casserole--something customarily including the pitted perpetrators--and he was served the family's traditional "no thank you" portion. He refused to eat those olives, and there was a subsequent standoff.  He couldn't leave the table unless he shoveled them down. 

"I'll throw up if I eat them," he threatened my parents. The sibling crew rolled eyes.  We'd tried that tactic before.

"Eat your olives," Dad answered.

We watched as he gagged down the black offenders.  And then, he vomited.  All over his plate and the table.  His siblings stared with wide eyes and dropped jaws and a new profound respect for the littlest bro.  Our parents were vanquished.  Brother: 1; Olives and Parents:  0.  It was a momentous event, never to be repeated. 

What's your best family food fight story?

Buckle Up: Minivan & Mini Cooper

There are so many joys to a nice long winter break; topping the list is time with family and friends. 

On Friday night I spent A LOT of time with some high-school buddies, whom I met for a drink after our high school girls' soccer game.  Spoiler alert:  I got home after 2 AM.  And what's even more perfect:  Husband and I and the kids were staying at my parents' house while our kitchen cabinets were being painted.  So I not only stayed out WAY LATE, but I had that weird guilty feeling of coming home to mom and dad's in the wee hours of the morning, sneaking in quietly-ish and trying not to wake anyone. 

Another spoiler alert:  it was more a night of hilarity than a night of debauchery.  But it felt really great to crack up with old friends and even shut down a few bars in our sleepy, touristy home town. 

We occupied ourselves for much of the time with a game of Who's in Your Minivan?  A colleague introduced me to this mental exercise back in 2008, which involves populating your vehicle with well-known folks you wouldn't mind sharing a long road trip with, based on your own criteria:  crush-worthiness, entertainment value, navigational abilities, snack provisions, etc. 

Note:  you and your friends can spend a long time debating and discussing criteria alone, and whether or not your passengers have to be currently living, and if you're driving a Honda van with eight seats or mini-er version with seven...

I had Lenny Kravitz in my 2008 Minivan, which led us to an analysis of his maintenance of the "It Factor," and the recounting of the time one of my friends inadvertently crashed a party he was hosting. 

Salma Hayek and Stephen Colbert emerged as popular choices.  I was talked into dropping off Matthew Fox, Brad Pitt, and Hilary Swank at the next rest stop, but I'm keeping Jon Stewart in shotgun and Brandi Carlile at an audible distance in my van.  I'd have to add Eddie Redmayne from Les Mis and Dax Shepard from Parenthood, as I am charmed by the passion of the former and goofiness of the latter, and the earnestness of both in their respective roles.  Robert Redford will round out my crew for obvious reasons, including his dedication to environmental issues and the possibility I'd get a discount for the Sundance Catalog. 

Let's face it; I could probably fill two minivans (Hey!  Who's in Your Caravan!), particularly if I expanded criteria beyond more superficial rationale and included the many figures I admire.  Okay, not that kind of figure--I meant people.  Sheesh.

Our discussion grew more serious when a friend challenged us to name "the one that got away," or the "what if" or "sliding door" people with whom we'd had brief encounters or missed opportunities.  We dubbed these revelations as "Who's in Your Mini Cooper?" acknowledging that most of us were unlikely to rattle off a long list of fish that got away.  There were high school sweethearts, college buddies and post-college people to consider as we pondered the might-have-beens. 

Spoiler alert:  there will be no great revelation of the occupants of my Mini Cooper.  Ha!

But who's in your minivan?

List: Not-So-Serious Stresses

1.  Stall Stress:  When there's no toilet paper...and it's too late.

2.  Dress Stress:  When you're trying something on that is too tight, and you can't easily get it off.  You start sweating and wriggling and doubling over in the dressing room.  By the time you're safely out of the article of apparel, you're genuinely afraid of it. 

3.  Store Stress:  When you get to the cash register and:

a) realize you don't have your wallet, or
b) your credit card is rejected, or
c) you have to write a check and hold up the line.

Another version:  When you have a full cart of groceries and a tantrumming child you've threatened to carry out of the store.  It's so hard to abandon those groceries; it's so hard to endure the stares and sighs. 

4.  Stylist Stress:  When your haircut starts looking bad, but it's too late to say something, so you struggle to maintain small talk with your hairdresser whilst cringing inwardly. 

5.  Sent-Message Stress:  When you're pretty sure you just sent that email/text to the wrong person. 

6.  Steering-Wheel Stress: When you're lost, and your navigator's directions to "turn west" so don't help because you've made 13 turns in 10 minutes (and it's dark or high noon).

7.  Stain Stress:  When you spill coffee on your shirt and then blot it with a wet towel and now you have a coffee stain bordered by a water stain and the compulsion to explain it to everyone you encounter.

Similar:  Blemish Stress

8.  Lost Keys Stress:  Self-explanatory.

Similar, in needing no explanation:  Doctor's Appointment Stress.

9.  School Stress:  So many options!  Pick one.

10.  Sunday-Night Stress:  When you can't enjoy part of the weekend because it's Monday Eve. 

Add your own, friends!

Back in the Shark Tank

It was a nice run we had for a few years, fish free.  Since the arrival of Spot the Bunny, we haven't had any requests or yearnings for gills and fins.  Which is fine by me, since I'm still atoning for the death of Lily three years ago. 

A few days ago, a student shared that she had a present for me.  She couldn't bring it to school yet, she said, but it was coming. 

"Cookies," I suggested hopefully. 

"Nope," she grinned. 

"A gift certificate to Souplantation?" I joked, referring to the restaurant where the student in question had dinner with her volleyball team after their playoff loss, in the same room as the triumphant team.  Awkward. 

"Ha," she answered.  "You'll see." 

I was deep in conversation at lunch today when I spotted the student trying to catch my eye.  Her mom was right behind her, carefully holding a box. 

"We have your present!" she nodded at her mom excitedly.

"Wow..." my eyes widened at the box and her mom, who was clutching it gingerly.  "Does it...crawl?" 

For a minute there, I imagined a kitten, or a puppy.  It would be a bold gift!  But I'd take it. 

"It doesn't crawl!" Mom replied. 

I peered into the box, where a fish bowl was nestled in some bubble wrap. 

"A fish!" 

"We were in charge of the decorations for the volleyball banquet and we brought you one of the centerpieces--look at the Tiki in the fishbowl!  We knew you'd love it!  You can keep it on your desk!" 

I love the Tiki (our school's mascot) in the fishbowl.  I even love the Betta fish--a deep reddish purple.  Gorgeous. 

But I didn't love the realization that I'd have to take our fish home for break--he had to be fed over the next week, right?  And then I'd bring him back?  It was too much to think about, so I asked for feeding guidelines and thanked my sweet student/friend and her mom. 

Lucky for the fish, there was heavy traffic on the way home, so sloshing was kept at a minimum.  He/she made it home safely with me, and I don't know that he'll return to my desk during the period between Thanksgiving and Winter Break.  That's too many dangerous round trips.

As for names, I'm considering "Spike," "Setter" or "Side Out." 

Please, no "Shank."  Gonna try to keep this little digger alive.

List: Ten Spelling Sentences

It's a weekly tradition, now, in this fourth grade school year thus far:  child sits at computer and sighs in exasperation over the task of writing ten sentences, using her spelling words, of at least ten words each.  It takes a Long Time, people, to pull the requisite 100 words from Big Sis's brain before bedtime.

Which drives a former creative writing teacher bonkers.  C'mon!  I say.  Entertain your teacher and yourself!  Write some wacky clauses, kiddo!

Rolling eyes, deep sighs.  Counting words on fingers.

So, tonight I suggested a new strategy.  For each of her spelling words, I would offer an unrelated word, and she'd have to write sentences connecting the two words.  A new level of intrigue and hilarity potential.  For me, at least.  For me.

So here is my homework:

1.  Spelling word:  Ghost.  My word:  Capsize.  When my schooner capsized, I blamed the Ghost of Cruising Past.

2.  Thumb.  Pickle.  Last week, I ate a pickle that was the size of my thumb.

3.  Known.  Meatloaf.  There are the known knowns in meatloaf, and then there are the known unknowns.  Beware the unknown unknowns.

4.  Often.  Eggplant.  It is not often that my children do not stage major nuclear meltdowns over eggplant.

5.  Folks.  Squirrel.  Folks, don't let the squirrels eat your dogs.  Or, Most folks don't like it when their dogs eat squirrels.

6.  Wrist.  Rainbow.  I can spurt rainbows from my wrist when I push this nifty button on my arm.

7.  Halfway.  Gallop.  I gallop halfway to Grandma's house, and then I take the bus.

8.  Listen.  Chicken tostadas.  If you listen to your inner voice, it tells you to eat more chicken tostadas.

9.  Knuckle.  Salsa.  In the South, people like their pig knuckles with salsa.

10.  Comb.  Chocolate.  When I use the chocolate comb, I have to wash my hair again.

Bonus (wherein I use all the spelling words in one sentence, which I what I always wanted to do instead of write ten):  Listen, folks, while it often hurts your wrist and knuckles and even your thumb
to write ten sentences, don't give up halfway or use a ghostwriter; comb through the cobwebs of your creative mind and let your imagination be known.

Promoting Pantsuits, One Palazzo Pantleg at a Time

Last summer when we were in the Virgin Islands, my sister-in-law took me to the St. Thomas Kmart. Besides housing a stunning array of swimsuits, the store was featuring a Sofia Vergara line of apparel, including black and olive-green polyester pantsuits.  I tried the green one on, and it wasn't even outrageous.  The width of the pants?  Almost.  But the length was just right for petite me, and it felt like destiny.  I had to have the jumper, on sale for $19.99.  As I carried it out of the store, I began imagining all the places I might wear it.

Tonight was our big annual schools' foundation auction, and people wear everything from tuxes to Hawaiian shirts, sequins to sweater sets, to the event.  My pantsuit would work.  I even tried to curl my hair back in Farrah Fawcett feathers, but I needed a few more layers to pull it off.  I donned metallic wedge sandals and pale shimmery lipstick, and felt almost fabulous in my all-at-once clingy and flowy outfit.

But when I paused to go to the bathroom before my ride arrived, I recalled the drawback to the one-piece pantsuit.  It's a hassle to pee.  And then I also remembered the last time I wore such an ensemble:  August 1989.  On the cross-country airplane ride to college.

I don't know why I chose the black rayon tank-top jumper-deal with buttons from top to waist to wear for my college debut, but there are more than a few choices I made in that era which puzzle me now. All I know is, it was a stupid, stupid choice for travel, and it's taken more than twenty years for me to recover enough to consider one-piece apparel not designed for swimming.

It was an emotional day and departure; I was the firstborn, first to leave the nest, flying from California to Connecticut, leaving my parents and four siblings--one as young as five years old--behind.  My dad would make a video montage of the trip to the airport and my boarding, later, complete with my and my family members' crying, and my little brothers and sisters peering out the window at my plane as it departed, set to "Leaving on a Jet Plane. "

I was a puddle on that plane, trying to pull myself together, wiping my eyes and pretending I was just fine, thank you very much, as I hiccup-sobbed.  I waited for my first opportunity to escape to the loo, grateful for a moment of privacy.  Sniffling, I unbuttoned my jumpsuit, which gathered around my ankles on the floor, and sat on the toilet.

Amidst the pathos and passion of the moment, I forgot to lock the bathroom door.  And soon enough, someone opened it wide.  Wide enough for not only that person but a few rows of passengers opposite that head to get a glimpse as I shrieked and attempted to fold up my very bare-looking body.

Apologies ensued, door closing and locking, more crying, and the realization I would have to eventually come out of that bathroom and face those people and be in their company for the next four hours.

And then go to college.

I buttoned up and braved the cabin, hoping they would all notice the pantsuit as an explanation for why I appeared so undressed in the restroom. 

It all worked out, somehow.

But I will tell you this:  I always lock a public restroom door.  Always.

And sometimes wear pantsuits.

Braised Pork Paired with Peach Pilsener

Once upon a time, a dear, dear friend brought some Sam Adams Cherry Wheat beer over to my house. First, I'm kind of an omnivore with a willingness to try stuff, and second, the cherry beer was also known as "Free Beer," so it tasted exceptionally good to me that evening.  I'm sure I expressed appreciation for the beer, and for my friend, whom I love. 

Somehow, though, fruity beers made their way into a conversation at a neighborhood gathering some time later, and I was outed for loving them.  It was that little awkward moment where I could have disavowed all enthusiasm, like a high schooler might loudly exclaim, red-faced, "What?  I am SO NOT a Justin Bieber Fan!" but truth is, though I prefer IPA, I won't deny an offer of Raspberry Hefeweisen. 

But here's the deal.  I've been to a party or two now where a helpful host has bought some fruit beer "just for you, Fer."  Another generous friend saved the bottles of fruit beer (someone else brought to their house) just in case I come over. 

It's time to come clean about fruit beers and Fer:  there's just too many other tasty beers to drink. 

I was in a teacher's classroom today admiring his socks (yep, that's how we evaluate teachers at our school), and then realized I've complimented his socks before.  He admitted to having a "socks thing."

"It all started one Christmas," he explained, "when I put socks on a few too many gift lists."  The socks keep coming.  And he rocks them. 

Another teacher mentioned that she's awash in rubber ducks since once offhandedly remarking on their cuteness.  Her dad now makes it a mission to find one for her every time he travels. 

The third colleague in the room has a problem with braised pork, and the problem is that too many people think it's his favorite food.  People push the pork at family dinner parties; they make extra Just For Him.  He doesn't have the heart to let them down, so he chokes it down. 

The climax of the conversation occurred when our extraordinary-sock-sporting friend admitted he also went through a Thomas Jefferson Phase.

"I think you already know that I can be obsessive.  I was really into Thomas Jefferson." He shrugged, "Now I have about five books about Thomas Jefferson, which other people gave me, on my shelf."

I've been to the homes of people who whisper  a little too loudly that they have a penchant for pigs, baskets, shot glasses, angels, or old license plates.  Sometimes we grow out of our interests (though I wish I still had some of my Miss Piggy paraphernalia), but the world won't let us forget them.

One of the teachers predicted better results by expressing great interest in things like expensive wine, or cash. 

"You know me!" he joked, "I really appreciate a pricey Pinot!  And I collect it, you know, in case you have any cases lying around." 

Socks, fruity beers, rubber ducks, braised pork, Thomas Jefferson:  from which fan club do you need to unsubscribe yourself?

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?