Scenes from San Jose

Bard and Houdin spent six days in San Jose, California as part of their youth conference. Here are a couple of the photos they took along the way. It's good to have everyone back at home and I'm looking forward to a week-long stay-at-home vacation where the whole family can reconnect, relax, and pursue their creative endeavors.

I'm also looking forward to a return to blogging.

Thanks for sticking around. :-)

Pure, Lovely Milk

Cool summer days make me so nostalgic and sentimental. For some reason, when the weather warms up, I pop out of bed at 6:30 or 7:00, no alarm necessary, and set about keeping house. Most of what that entails is preparing food, beginning with the morning milking of our two well-trained Nubian milkers, Alice and Maggie.

For those who have never milked goats, let me tell you that it's a very connecting and organic experience, especially if you milk by hand on a homemade stanchion in the freshness of the outdoors on a summer morning. It's ritualistic and comforting to fill a bucket with warm, soapy water, pick up the stainless steel milk pail and amble to the milking station. I like routines, for the most part, so I enjoy hanging the bucket on the little red hook set into the side of the stanchion--just the way it looks to me, hanging there, is so reassuring and bucolic, like a still-life of good living.

And then it's time to open the tub of grain. To me, the smell of fresh goat grain is heavenly. It hearkens me back to something, though I don't know what, because we didn't keep goats as a child (I like to think I would have loved goats, but I also know I wasn't a very disciplined child, so I'm probably just waxing romantic). When I make a run for my grain supply, the combination of smells--warm molassass and fresh oats and cracked corn and sunflower seeds--I find myself breathing deeply for the whole ride, taking in the scent of something that I actually entertain scooping from the bag and savoring. After all, it's much healthier than most other things human beings put in their mouths every day.

But I save it for the goats, and they're so very thankful. Once I've filled an ice cream pail with grain, I turn to see three pairs of anxious goat eyes peering expectantly at me through the barnyard fence. They know what's coming. They know the routine, too.

Alice is first, because she's the oldest and most calm. I open the gate and she steps forth, making her way directly towards the stanchion, usually stopping to steel a mouthful of grain before I shoo her up onto the platform. I generally don't have to stockade them, unless there are some playful dogs or curious chickens galavanting near by. Alice is usually pretty happy to just stand there, munching quietly, as I go about my ritual.

I plunge my hands into the warm, soapy water and retrieve the washcloth, which I use to wash down Alice's udders and teats, reducing the chance of any foreign material falling into the milk pail and giving Alice a comforting start-up to the process which helps her milk release. Aiming away from the pail, I release eight streams of milk, four streams from each teat, into the grass nearby, clearing the opening of the teat of any bacteria that may be hiding there. I always think of this as some special gift to the grass and wonder if one day I'll see that the little patch of land where I send this milk will be greener or healthier in some way. But usually, it doesn't lie there long; a hungry cat or dog or chicken comes by and laps up every drop they can get, looking eagerly up at me with the hope of more. "Later, maybe," I say. It all depends on the bounty that day.

And then, the milking. This is the part of the day that forces me to be patient and still, to be right there in the moment and go no further. The hissing sound of the streams of milk sings in the bucket, and there is a country quiet. Not a silence, but a productive quiet. There's the ever-present crow from the barnyard's several roosters, the peep of the chicks obediently and instinctively following their mama hen, the quiet clucking of the mama as she points the way to forage through the garden, the rustling of the rabbits' water bottle as the coerce the drink from it, the rapping of a red-bellied woodpecker on the old wild cherry beyond the barn, and the gentle snorting of the neighbor's horses in the pasture next to my garden.

And the sights--well, there are so many, since I'm a deep aesthete. The filtered light of morning floats over the flower beds--through the delphinium and salvia and yellow-faced violas, fingers its way between the the blooms and stems of Bordeaux petunias in my porch's hanging baskets, scampering over the spent tips of the daylilies.

I see what needs doing, too, and my hands itch to pull the weed grasses that are sneaking about in my herb garden. They aren't overwhelming. On the contrary, I find it almost enjoyable to reach down and pull the sprawling grasses, roots and all, from the soft soil of the herb beds, tossing them into a bucket to give as an offering to my rabbits. The rabbits provide me with fresh, useable manure for my gardens, and I provide them with the growing things that I don't want, like these grasses, and some lamb's quarters, and the excess purslane, lettuces and nasturtiums that produce more abundantly than we can use.

But I force myself to be still and finish the milking, not to hurry through, empathizing with this mother goat, with her fullness and showing gratitude that she's allowing me to do this, to take this life-giving beverage from her every day.

When the feed pail is empty and the milk pail is half full, I lead Alice back to the barnyard and give Maggie her turn. Maggie runs to the stanchion, jumps onto the platform without hesitation, and dives into the newly-filled feed pail as if she were starving. Maggie is young and skittish, and I have to accomodate her by dumping the grain into a shallow bin so that she can see all that's going on around her. I learned quickly that hoping she would quietly munch from the ice cream pail was right out. Maggie, in her alertness (and also her pickiness) would quickly nose into the pail and nudge it right off the stanchion, leaving a feast for the chickens. She prefers to see her whole meal laid out for her, and she pauses jerkily and often to take account of her surroundings. She'll mellow in time, this young girl. For now, we just make our accomodations.

When the grain is gone and the pail is full, I lead Maggie back to the barnyard, on the way pausing just once to let her get a taste of the greener grass that's on the other side. And then, there is still one more pair of eager eyes watching me expectantly. That's Johnny, our Nubian buck. A handful of grain and a scratch on the head is all Johnny wants, and he gets it. Later, when I'm weeding the vegetable bed, Johnny will get the budding tops of my basil plants and the bolting lettuce plants along with a few snippets of purslane and radish seedlings. He has forage in the barnyard, but the things on my side are so much tastier that he never fails to stand right beside me as I weed, separated from me and this cornucopia only by the barnyard fence.

What happens from here depends on what I've planned for the milk. Most days, I carry it into the kitchen, strain it through special filters into quart jars and plunge the jars into a sink full of ice water to cool it to below 40 degrees Farenheit as quickly as I can. Most people who have tasted and dislike goat milk have not had it prepared this way, carefully screened of foreign objects and bacteria, milked into very clean containers, and cooled quickly in ice water--not straight into the fridge or freezer--so that when it's time to enjoy it, it's cold and sweet and creamy, without even a hint of goatiness. I don't pasteurize my goat's milk--pasteurization reduces the calcium, removes the good bacteria, and makes the milk harder for a human body to digest, resulting in so many of the health problems we face today, from brittle bones to obesity to peanut allergies.

Some days, I forgo the cooling process and pour the milk straight into a saucepan once it's been filtered, warming it, adding some cream, maple syrup and a bit of yogurt and then incubating it for several hours, creating more yogurt. Other days, I warm it to room temperature and add a bit of buttermilk, set it on the windowsill to create more fresh buttermilk for rhubarb bread or pancakes.

Sometimes I follow a recipe from Ricki Carroll's book Home Cheesemaking and I make mozzarella or fromage blanc or lactic cheese. Sweetheart praises me to the ends of the earth when she sees that bag of cheesecloth hanging over a bowl from the pendant light above the butcher block. She loves fromage blanch with a few chives, shallots and garlic from the garden. A sleeve of rosemary crackers and a bit of fruit, and that's a meal for my little girl.

Today, I have warmed the milk over a water bath and added some mesophilic starter and rennet, and in an hour, I will cut the curds of the feta cheese, reserving the whey for baking, or pizza dough, or I'll give it to the dogs who are very, very grateful. I've read that whey can be mixed with KoolAid or lemonade mix for a refreshing drink, but I haven't tried it yet.

This is the pace I love. These are the things that bring me joy. If I could only earn a living doing them and not spoil the beauty of it, I would do it in a heartbeat.

"Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things."

~Philippians 4:8 (New International Version)

Photos of Bard's Germany Tour

Thank you to everyone who helped Bard get to Central Europe, whether through financial contributions or prayers. She had a wonderful time and will soon post about her adventures on her own blog, but for now, I'll share with you the photos she took while she was there.

You can see them by clicking the photo album below. If you go to the public albums, you'll see that there's a Part B as well. :-)

Bard's Germany Tour: Part A

She's in Germany...

What would you do if it were 1:30 in the morning and you couldn't sleep?

Me? I called my daughter who's spending her days in Central Europe.

And why not? It's been a long day, after finding myself wide awake at 6:30 AM (this has been happening lately--my bodies awakens at 6:30 every morning, like it or not) and with a whole free day in front of me--so I thought.

I started it with a trip to a benefit book sale in my city where I picked up a bit of Bill Bryson, a couple of Madeleine L'Engles and an Elizabeth Berg for a song--a song that went to a good cause, nonetheless--and then I drifted towards my car UNTIL I smelled doughnuts frying at the local bakery. I tucked Mr. Bryson under my arm and strolled into the doughnut shop. A cream stick, a cup of coffee and a chair later, I was chatting with Mr. Bryson about his little adventure on the Appalachian Trail (Appalachia seems to be following me. Appalachian Music at Shakin' Down the Acorns, two books about Appalachia by Barbara Kingsolver, and now this. Huh. What's up with that?. The doughnuts at the local bakery aren't as good as they used to be. Sigh. So I didn't finish eating them and eased on down the road toward the bulk food store where I bulked up (ha) on organic quick oats and organic rolled oats and brown sugar and freshly ground peanut butter and a roll of 2-lb baggies. I intend to begin making granola to sell. Want some?

That was all, really, aside from a trip to the nursery to buy five blueberry bushes and three raspberry bushes.

When I arrived home, I got the mail (bad news, again), and the garage phone was ringing. Seems my son couldn't find the tickets to the music fest that he'd received for his birthday. Silly me. I'd hidden them from him on one of his more challenging days. And then today, the day he was set to go, packed and prepared, I'd slipped out to the benefit book sale without telling him the location of the tickets. Not on purpose. Honestly. So when I got home, everyone was quite glad to see me since they'd spent the morning trying to track me down (I'm a simple girl with no cell phone) by driving all over the village. Hop back into the car for a trip to the music fest and a detour to the ice cream shop with the little girls, Sweetheart and The Baby. Then home again, home again, jiggety jog, for a phone call to the attorney's office about the tax situation (more bad news) and a bit of time filling out a job application (library position) that had to be turned in by 5 pm today. Off to the library then (probably a good idea to pay my fine, too, she thought), with a detour to the greenhouse to pick up some bull compost for the berry bushes.

What had I wanted to accomplish? Weeding my garden, planting all of my berry bushes, making strawberry ice cream, spending time in the garden with my girls, making tons of granola, reading aloud to the girls, baking some bread and maybe a pizza...

What did I accomplish from that list?

None of it.

And when I sat down to check my e-mail, I discovered that my world traveler is having trouble accessing her money because the PIN is a word; there are no letters on Central European ATMs, apparently. Time on the phone with VISA (no help), time on the internet searching (no help), and finally, a snapshot of an ATM keypad and I realize that it's the same setup as a phone. So, of course, I had to call my daughter who is touring Central Europe with six euros left to her name.

It was so good to hear her voice. I miss her greatly. I'm glad she's having fun, and I'm thrilled that, through her hard work and the generosity of others, she's able to go on this trip (thank you all of you who know who you are), but I do miss her.

Look, the truth is that life is tough right now. But it's also good. Go figure.

How's life with you?

(Photo of Bard in Germany by her Nice Choir Manager)

A Series of Unfortunate Events

Huff. Puff. Huff. Puff. Huff. Puff.

That's the sound of me trying to catch my breath. It's the sound of me coming up for air. It's the sound I make when climbing the stairs, too, because I have woefully set aside my running in favor of other important things, like working my butt off so I can pay my bills and feed my family. Unfortunately, my butt doesn't disappear as quickly with this kind of work as it does with running. That, I fear, will have to wait. While my running partner chugs along (have you registered for the 5K yet, Kim?), I'm left in the dust. In lieu of running, I dream about it. Literally. I've composed an essay in my head about my running dreams, but I haven't stopped my life long enough to write it.

The past month has been eventful. Every moment has been occupied. I've been rising with the sun, but it's been beating me to bed each night. If you've ever seen a candle burned at both ends, you'll know what I look like.

Each morning brings the urgency of getting to the garden. With our wet, cold early spring, not much happened after the initial tilling. Now the herb garden is planted and mulched, the veggie garden is filled with onions, swiss chard seeds (yet to come up), peppers, tomatoes, eggplants, more onions, marigolds, basil and cilantro. The asparagus on which I had given up poked its many heads from the cool earth, only to be snipped off by a gang of marauding goats. Still, it persists and I hope for a bountiful harvest next year.

This seems to fit in with the theme of the month--hope deferred. Seeds that don't want to germinate. Newly placed seedlings that fall to the fate of a hungry goat kid. Threatening letters from government agencies holding my precious world in its fists lest I cough up several months' pay for taxes I owe. A new birthday camera just in time for my computer to crash. The cultivator quits when gardening season begins. Life=challenge. Most days, I'm tired and grumpy and my family takes the brunt. A few moments, like waking up from this afternoon's nap to the sound of birds and little girls singing, looking out my window over the finally green hillsides, turning silvery in the breezes of this spring day, almost make me want to grab my camera and my journal, but I barely have the desire. This home and hillside, this desire of my heart, this fruit of my labor, is only tenuously mine. Any act of God, unavoidable tragedy or certified letter might pull it out from under my bare gardening feet, leaving me on my rump, disillusioned and desolate.

These things have been occupying my mind, and more days than not, I find myself deep in depression. Work takes me from home, home greets me with more work, and never am I completely caught up. Even today, a day off from work outside the home, gives me an opportunity to pursue those things that have been niggling at me every day while I'm away, but my energy is zapped, and curled up in bed is where I'd like to be.

That's hardly anything inspiring to write about, though I do think about jotting down thoughts now and again. Life isn't all that poetic right now.

I need air. I need to resurface and take a deep breath. Something fresh and clean to purify my body and renew my energy.

A bit of hope would help, too.

::: a new friend :::

The Baby, Sweetheart and The Bookstore Lady.

::: mom and daughters :::

Sweetheart, me and The Baby at The Pink Cupcake, as taken by The Bookstore Lady.

::: "how can i pick just one? :::

The Baby ogles over the goods at The Pink Cupcake in Mt. Vernon, Ohio during Sweetheart's birthday weekend. Hooray for The Pink Cupcake!

Dear Friend

Here's a YouTube video of seventeen-year-old Bard sharing a song at Easter Sunrise Service. Enjoy!

How People Affect Me, Part Three

I had only been wandering around the bead shop for a half-hour or so when I heard a siren sounding, the kind of wail that emits from an ambulance and causes every mother to stop dead in her tracks. I tried to ignore it, but my mother-heart kept hurling itself into terrible fits of imagination. It had me convinced that my four-year-old was dead in the middle of town square, that she'd slipped from her older brother's clutches and had darted out into traffic.

Or that the eleven-year-old had been too exuberant with his new Heelies and ended up on the sidewalk in some unnatural position, his head cracked open, calling my name with his last few breaths.

I tried to fight these thoughts. I tried to tell myself that I was being ridiculous. I tried to concentrate on the beads before me, to focus on the beautiful hummingbird earrings I was attempting to create. But I couldn't do it. All of the "what-ifs" piled on top of my head and I just had to find out if my children were okay.

Setting my tin full of beads aside, I nonchalantly announced, "I have to go check on my children. I'll be right back." And then I stepped out the door onto the sidewalk and strolled ever-so-quickly towards the bookstore. Bard told me later how priceless was the expression of the bead shoppe woman.

I didn't see a crowd gathered along the sides of the road, so I felt a bit reassured, but then my mother-heart was nagging me with other, more probable scenarios. The bookstore was being torn apart, shelf-by-shelf, but my littlest darling while the boys fought over a comic book. Or the uptight bookstore clerk was timing my absense, prepared to call children's services any moment. Or the children hadn't gone into the bookstore at all. They were instead doing a standup routine on the corner with their hats out for tips. My busking boys.

I couldn't believe how long of a walk it was to the bookstore. It hadn't seemed that long before, and now I was questioning my sanity at letting my children walk so far away from me. Anything could happen in the time it takes a person to walk two blocks!

And then I was at the door of the bookstore, holding the handle in my hand, swinging it open, casting my eyes about the intimate bookshelf-lined room. I heard no shrieking. I saw no glaring employee. This was almost more eerie than my nightmarish thoughts.

When I rounded the corner, I found fifteen-year-old Houdin curled up on a chair with a big, thick book. A few feet away, The Baby was cuddled up on a couch next to a neatly-dressed woman who couldn't have looked more like the kind of lady who would work in a bookstore. Beside them stood a stack of books, and it was clear that had read or were intending to read every one of them. Dramatically.

The Baby barely noticed my entrance, and I'm not sure the bookstore lady gave much pause, either. They just read merrily along so that I almost wondered if I were having an Ebeneezer Scrooge moment.

But when the book was finished and the covers snapped shut, I was acknowledged ever-so-slightly. And then another book was begun.

A second bookstore lady stood in a little island in the middle of the store, near the register, and called to me that they'd been happily enjoying the children's company, and I knew then that I was in love. At that moment, I would have handed them my entire life's savings, I was so grateful. I took my time browsing the books until a nagging feeling overcame me. My beads were waiting. I had to return to finish my bead transactions.

So I let The Baby choose her favorite book from the pile they'd read, laughed as she and the bookstore ladies fought noisily over The Baby's purple shearling coat, and made a mental promise that I'd be back soon.

Those ladies were a balm to my soul. I want to be like them. I want to take life like they do, happily drinking it up and being right where they are, loving what they do. What could be more important than being kind to little girls and teenaged boys and tired mamas?

We finished our bead transaction and returned to the bookstore, where the second bookstore lady plopped herself right back down on the couch and read more books to The Baby and Sweetheart. Not lightweight books, either. These were long, wordy, time-consuming books. And the girls listened to every drop.

And I shopped.

As a thank-you for being such wonderful people, I made a large purchase at the bookstore. Large for me, that is.

Considering the service, I think it was the best deal I ever got.

Houdin

How People Affect Me, Part Two

I wasn't all that interested in letting a grumpy hotel clerk deter me from having a splendid birthday mini-vacation with my five loverly children, so on Thursday morning, we gussied up and headed into town.

I knew a bit about downtown because we were once accidental tourists to Mt. Vernon, stranded there several years ago when our radiator blew enroute to Cincinnati. Since all of the repair shops were closed for the evening, we'd bummed a ride with a couple of women in a huge passenger van who took us into town to find a place to stay. Only after they drove us around for about forty five minutes to find a hotel that wasn't full of college-aged soccer-tournament guys did we find that they were headed to the hospital because the quiet boy in the back seat was bleeding from his ear.

The whole thing had been an adventure, and we'd made the best of it, with a visit to the cafe and a funky museum and an architectural salvage warehouse and a little independent bookstore and a bead shoppe. The bead shoppe alone could have distracted me for days.

So it was that very bead shoppe that I was seeking on our sojourn to downtown. On our first drive through, I saw that the cafe had moved, that there were a few more antique stores, that the funky museum was gone, and that the bead shoppe did, indeed, remain. I parked the car, extracted the five children from it, and down the block we walked, three months worth of stashed-away mad money jingling in a little black drawstring bag in my pocket.

When we stepped inside the bead shoppe, it was just as I remembered it. Table after table after table of colorful, sparkling beads carefully separated into their own compartments. The shopkeeper slid her eyes our way, and I saw a look of nervousness that immediately soaked into my skin and saturated me from head to tow. Thousands and thousands and thousands of tiny beads. Hundreds of organized compartments. And me, with two teenagers. And two young children. And one toddler. A whole slew of accidents waiting to happen.

I felt it upon impact. The nervousness became me, and I couldn't shake it. I suddenly felt like I was the most irresponsible mother in the world, though I'd not been in the shoppe for more than three minutes. That nervousness must have oozed out of me and found its way directly into four-year-old The Baby. But with toddlers, a mother's oozed nervousness soaks in and morphs into something else, something insidious. When a mother becomes a frazzled mess, a toddler becomes...Demon Child.

I don't know why this happens, and I don't know how God thought it was at all funny to make things this way, but the more nervous I became, the more fingers The Baby grew; the faster she became; the more curious and hands-on. And when she found something sweet and quiet to do, the shopkeeper found a reason why she shouldn't be doing it. And she told me about it.

"She shouldn't be sitting near that window display..."

"Come on, Baby. Let's look at something else...

"But I like the butterflies! I want to look at those pretty butterflies!"

Hands and fingers and knees and elbows were everywhere. The shopkeeper's eyes were in one place. On me and my children. She hovered near me, and I began to feel as if she had mistaken me for the local bead shoplifter.

My long-awaited foray into beading was being thwarted.

Finally, I looked pleadingly at sixteen-year-old Houdin, a teenaged boy who really has no great interest in beads, and begged him, "Could you please take her down to that cute little bookstore and see if you can read her a book?" I scooped up The Baby, shifted her into Houdin's strong arms, and watched nervously as he bounded out the door with her on his hip. Eleven-year-old Monet followed, gliding on his Heelies out the door.

Now I had two things to worry about; recovering my reputation from this reluctant shopkeeper and the safety of my precious, precocious daughter in a strange town with my two young equally precocious boys.

I turned my gaze back to the hundreds of tiny compartments and tried to find beading inspiration.

But it's hard to make a delicate pair of dazzling earrings when your hands are shaking like you've just downed a double espresso, a Live Wire and a Red Bull.

Congratulations, Bard!

Second place speaker! Bard is the second from the left.



Congratulations Monica and Bard! Fourth place team! And they're NOVICES this year! You both RAWK! (Monica, left. Bard, right. If you look closely at the picture on the left, you see that they're holding hands. So adorable!)

How People Affect Me, Part One

It amazes me how deeply I'm affected by other people's attitudes.

I mean, when someone doesn't treat me warmly, my first and very immediate thought is to wonder why they don't like me. Generally, if I've not even opened my mouth, I tend to believe that a grumpy person dislikes the way I look. I'm no Andi McDowell, after all, so I suppose a real aesthete would be put off by my face. This makes me feel very self-conscious.

If I have my children with me, I immediately assume that my progeny are piglets and the person has determined that I'm a terrible mother/they're terrible children/both. This also makes me feel very self-conscious. And much like a failure.

If I've asked a question and the person is short-tempered or unkind, I just know it's because I've asked the stupidest question on the face of all existing planets and the person is merely tolerating my existence. This makes me feel like an idiot.

It takes several encounters with a grumpy person before I begin to realize that I'm not the problem. This makes me feel dense. But better.

One of the adventures of our recent mini-vacation began with the phone call I made to our hotel the day before our departure.

"Would it be possible for us to store an ice cream cake somewhere at the hotel?"

A high-pitched elderly voice that sounded very much like Minnie Mouse responded, "No. That won't be possible. Our freezer is full."

H-okay. "Um...I have another question. We will be having pizzas delivered to the hotel on Friday night. Our forensics group will be arriving back at the hotel at around 9:00. Would it be possible to use a breakfast area or common room to eat?"

"No, I don't think so. You can call back tomorrow and ask to reserve a meeting room, but it will cost extra."

This one suprised me. We've always been welcomed to every hotel we've gone to for speech tournaments. Sometimes our name is on the marquee. Sometimes the hotel actually foots the bill for the pizza. I shrugged, thanked the Minnie Mouse voice and figured I'd ask someone else when I arrived the next day.

But when I arrived the next day, I had the opportunity to put a face to the voice. A woman with very stiff, teased hair and a stiff-looking face to match stood behind the counter.

"I'm here to check in," I said. "I have a reservation for today through Friday night."

A few keystrokes, and a response, "I don't have a reservation for you for tonight. I have one for tomorrow and one for Friday, but not for tonight."

I was struck dumb. How could this be? I'd driven over and hour and had five tired kids in the car. I had definitely made this reservation, and I had definitely been told that my room would be ready when I arrived. I had also definitely failed to bring my confirmation number.

"There's nothing I can do." This, even though the parking lot was practically empty.

I didn't want to have to strangle this woman, so I took a deep, deep breath, wondering what I'd done to deserve this treatment. I'd been nice. I had showered. I hadn't even brought my kids into the foyer with me. What had I done that would cause her to be so mean and unaccomodating?

"Can you cancel my other reservation and just make a new one including tonight?"

"I could, but I'd have to charge you $14 per night more," she squeaked, glaring at me over her bifocals.

I stood for a moment looking at her, then I put my head in my hands. "I'm kind of at your mercy here. I have five kids in the car, and I'm tired. Is there anything you can do?" Having already gathered that this woman was the type to flaunt her lack of authority, I totally expected her to say, "My hands are tied," but she surprised me.

"Well, I can put you in a vacant room for the night..." (Thank goodness. A vacant room, I thought. I certainly wouldn't want an occupied one. What a favor she's doing me!) "But you'll have to check out of it and check into a different one in the morning."

I sighed.

"Isn't there any way you can put me in a room that will be vacant tonight and Thursday and Friday? Is there a way you can check to see what rooms won't be filled this weekend?"

She shook her head.

But then, with the push of a few buttons, she did just that.

"You'll have to stop down here at the desk at 7:00 tomorrow morning or your card will expire."

Let it expire, I thought. I'm not coming down her in my jammies at 7:00 during my vacation.

And I hauled my children to the third floor.

For the remainder of our stay, this woman was a thorn in my side. When taking our microwave popcorn to the front desk for my son, my friend Marcella was told that there was no microwave in the hotel (came to find out later that it wasn't true). It was then that I started to realize that it wasn't I who was the problem. If this woman could be difficult with Marcella, it had to be that she was quite simply a difficult woman.

We were able to get a room for our pizza party by asking a reasonable human being for help. We were able to get permission to store our cake by talking to a sane human being. And when Minnie Mouse approached a couple of the quietest kids in the club and I in the lobby telling us that we were being too loud, that guests were complaining and that one guest had already left because of us, I was able to look her straight in the eye, ask her to repeat what she'd just said, and then boldly respond to her by saying,

"Oh. Okay. I'm sorry."

Okay, so I wasn't so bold.

But at least I had realized that it wasn't just me. In my heart, I knew that this woman would be short-tempered and unaccomodating with anyone with whom she interacted.

But it still bothers me how deeply her attitude affected me.

::: happy birthday, sweetheart! :::

Sweetheart's Eighth Birthday

Sweetheart turned 8 this week. Visit my picasa web album to see my little sweetie growing up.

A New Look for Time to Cook

My cooking blog, Time to Cook, has a bit of a facelift. Head on over and see how you like it!

Time to Vacate

We're not the kind of family who takes vacations.

I've never been to Disney World. I've never taken my children to see the Grand Canyon or Niagara Falls. We've never flown to Europe. Heck, we barely ever leave our state!

Even when my husband I and married, young and poor, our honeymoon was spent twenty minutes away from home in a hotel that was once an oats silo. For one night. And then we hit the ground running.

I don't believe we've stopped since.

Our vacations have always been more familycentric, consisting of visits to parents' and grandparents' houses, graduation parties, weddings, funerals. Our immediate family spends Bo's vacation days on service projects or home improvement projects. If we travel overnight, it's generally for our children's activities--particularly speech and debate tournaments.

If the tournament is less than 3 hours away, Bo does his best to convince us to just commute. If we can camp during one of these outings, we'll borrow a friend's pop-up and rough-it. If it's far, far away, we'll get one hotel room for the seven of us and pray there's a cot available when we get there.

This weekend, we had a tournament in Mt. Vernon, Ohio, which doesn't qualify as far, far away from us. We're not in camping weather, so roughing-it was out of the question.

But we didn't commute.

We stayed in a hotel. For THREE WHOLE NIGHTS. And celebrated!

Because this week, Sweetheart and I both turned a bit older. I am now a woman of thirty-eight and Sweetheart is an adorable eight-years-old. To make our birthdays more special, I decided that I would save up my pennies and spend an extra day in Mt. Vernon, explore that cute little college town, laze around in a hotel room watching Fresh Prince of Bel Aire and eating pizza.

After working and cleaning house on Wednesday, the five kiddoes and I drove to Mt. Vernon to check into our hotel room and settle in. There, we met our grumpy hotel host (more about her later) and vegged out, stayed up late, and laughed a lot.

Thursday morning, the day before the tournament was to start, I took the boys to get haircuts and then we briefly explored the downtown Mt. Vernon area. Just as I remembered from a pass-through several years ago, there was a cute little store (more about that later, too), a hip cafe and a bead shoppe with all of the makings for a few saweet pairs of earrings. There was also an adorable little bakery called The Pink Cupcake. I promptly strolled in and ordered a birthday cake for Sweetheart and her girlfriend Lydia, who would be turning 7 the next day.

We hoofed it back to the hotel to pick up the girls and then we went exploring.

Bard and I made earrings at the bead shop. Sweetheart made an adorable necklace with her name on it. The boys took The Baby to the bookstore and cafe (more about that later, too) where we met up with them after our earring adventure was complete. I checked my e-mail at the cafe and bought two fabulous cookbooks at the fabulous bookstore that employed two fabulous women (more about them later, too) and then we popped in to The Pink Cupcake so the girls could all ooh and ahh over the displays. Of course we just had to take something along with us (I may have gained seven pounds this week, but it was worth it) so we all chose something--both of us birthday girls chose two things--and then we meandered back to the hotel room where Bo joined us after his drive from home.

Friday morning, early, brought the tournament (more about that later, too. Boy. I hope I remember all this), a late-night pizza party, and more from our grumpy hotel clerk. Saturday brought more tournament, cake for the girls from The Pink Cupcake, and a wonderful evening meal at the Southside Diner where all of our forensics team enjoyed food, fellowship and general silliness.

It was a full and wonderful weekend--and there's so much more to tell.

While we may not take vacations, I try to take advantage of every moment, turning as many into mini-vacations as I possibly can. Those are the moments that make life fun.

::: happy birthday to me! :::

I've been having a wonderful birthday, extended and quite doting. And, get this, it has JUST NOW STARTED! As of right this hour, I'm thirty-old and have been spoiled relentlessly.

Maybe when I'm done, I'll tell you all about it. :-)

::: guess what I got for my birthday??? :::

A NEW CAMERA!!! YIPEEE!

Well, it sounded like fun at the time...

More than you wanted to know about me. Hat tip to Sara.

Do you have any pets?	Oh, my. Yes, yes, yes.
What color shirt are you wearing?	Dark grey wool.
Name three things that are physically close to you:	A Polly Pocket, a fake canned ham and a red high top. Just one, though.
What is the last book you read?	I'm reading Gilead.
Are you or were you a good student?	From time to time.
What's your favorite sport?	Sleeping.
Do you enjoy sleeping late?	See above.
What's the weather like right now?	Too cold for my liking. Where's that other thing? What's it called? Ah, yes. Spring.
Who tells the best jokes?	My daughter Bard is hilarious. She doesn't tell jokes--she's just funny.
What was the last thing you dreamed about?	My daughter's choir manager hating me. Who knows?
Do you drive? If so, have you ever crashed?	Yes. Yes. Let's move on, shall we?
Do you believe in karma?	If I don't believe in it, will it go away? No, actually, I don't.
Do you believe in luck?	Nope.
Do you like your eggs scrambled or sunny side up?	Scrambled, with sour cream and chives.
Do you collect anything? If so, what?	Dust. Stories. White dishes and servingware. Pottery. Embroidered things. Animals. Kids.
Are you proud of yourself?	Not at the moment, no.
Are you reliable?	Not really.
Have you ever given money to a bum?	Absolutely. I give him a dollar for a cup of coffee every morning. Oh, wait. Did you mean one I'm not married to? Then, yes.
What's your favorite food?	Very, very good food. I don't have a particular favorite.
Have you ever had a secret admirer?	Doubtful
Do you like the smell of gasoline?	Ack.
Do like to draw?	Yes. But you might not like to look at what I draw. It may hurt your eyes.
What's your favorite invention?	Running water and indoor plumbing.
Is your room messy?	Medium.
What do you like better: oranges or apples?	Apples. Especially nice crisp ones, like Fuji or Pink Lady. But not cooked ones. Ick.
Do you give in easily?	Depends on who's asking.
Are you a good guesser?	Not really.
Can you read other people's expressions?	Depends on who's expressing. Some people, yes. Others, I don't think anyone can.
Are you a bully?	Can be.
Do you have a job?	Several.
What time did you wake up this morning?	Which time? Ultimately, I woke up at 8.
What did you eat for breakfast this morning?	Almonds, an Asian pear and a Clif bar.
When was the last time you showered?	This morning.
What do you plan on doing tomorrow?	Working and preparing for the weekend. I get to have a birthday this week!
What's your favorite day of the week and why?	Saturday, usually. It's the day I get to spend with my husband and do fun stuff. It's also the day we usually have our houseconcerts.
Do you have any nicknames?	Several. What? Do you think I'd write them here?
Have you ever been scuba diving?	No, but I'd love to.
What's your least favorite color?	Probably hot pink.
Is there someone you have been constantly thinking about? If yes, who?	Today? Yes. But that's just because I'm feeling a bit angry.
Would you ever go skydiving?	If someone pushed me out of a plane, I guess I'd have to.
What toothpaste do you use?	Tom's of Maine.
Do you enjoy challenges?	Sometimes.
What's the worst injury you have had?	Childbirth.
What's the last movie you saw?	Babette's Feast at home, Reign Over Me in theaters.
What do you want to know about the future?	What my children will do for their professions.
What does your last text message say?	I don't have text messaging. Unless you count mail.
Who was the last person you spoke over the phone to?	Kim, I think.
What's your favorite school subject?	Literature
What's your least favorite school subject?	Math
Would you rather have money or love?	Love. Definitely love.
What is your dream vacation?	Duh. Traveling around the entire world at my leisure with endless amounts of money. And love, of course.
What is your favorite animal?	A dog. Especially my little Jack Russells.
Do you miss anyone right now?	Yes, I do. But what good does that do?
What's the last sporting event you watched?	The Ohio State championship game.
Do you need to do laundry?	I'm doing laundry. So there.
Do you listen to the radio?	NPR occasionally. Mostly iPod, though. And Rhapsody.
Where were you when 9/11 happened?	In bed.
What do you do when vending machines steal your money?	Go tattle.
Have you ever caught a butterfly?	Yep. And I raised some, too.
What color are your bed sheets?	White.
What's your ringtone?	I don't have a cell phone. ::GASP:: Can you believe it???
Who was the last person to make you laugh?	My kids.
Do you have any obsessions right now?	Worrying about my life.
Do you like things that glow in the dark?	This is an exceedingly odd question.
What's your favorite fruity scent?	Fruit, I guess.
Do you watch cartoons?	If you count Homestar Runner, I guess I do.
Have you ever sat on a roof?	Oh, yes.
Have you ever been to a different country?	Does Canada count?
Name three things in the world you dislike:	cowards, backstabbers and money
Name three people in the world you dislike:	I can't do that.
Has a rumor even been spread about you?	I'm sure.
Do you like sushi?	Never had it. Should I?
Do you believe in magic?	In a young girl's heart?
Do you hold grudges?	Yes, I do, unfortunately. I'm holding a couple right now. Would you like to hold them for me?
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