sunny side up

sealed, with a kiss

Around here Bell and I celebrate several anniversaries connected to our union. Most couples celebrate their wedding anniversary, but I tend to think of the date one marries as governed by things like when the wedding site or priest was available, when the couple could take time off for a honeymoon, when Aunt Martha would recover enough from her surgery to fly in from Pennsylvania.  I assume that by the time a couple gets married, the commitment to live as a married person (whatever that means to people) has been made, and the wedding is just a way of tying up loose ends.  Usually there isn't much meaning in the date itself.  That's not to say that we don't celebrate our wedding anniversary (the 14th of which is fast approaching.  Hint. Hint.), but we refer to it as The Anniversary of the Time We Had That Really Big Party.  When people ask how long we've been married, sometimes I have to pause to do the math.  It's not because I don't care; it's just that I consider how long we've been together a more important marker in our relationship.

Friday we celebrated the 19th anniversary of our First Kiss, a day (well, night) that will go down in the history of our little family.  The kids got into the celebration by helping Bell make a giant meringue for me. They covered it in chocolate and wrapped it in foil to look like a giant Hershey Kiss, complete with a long strip of white paper sticking out that said, "19 Years of Great Kisses."  I think it's great that the kids got so involved because someday they will be totally grossed out at the thought of their parents playing tonsil hockey.

But that first kiss--I still remember it well.  It all started at a week-long IHS Seminar, where we had just met.  As is the tradition at these things, students and faculty stayed up till the early morn imbibing and talking and laughing.  It was well after midnight, which meant it was time to eat again, so I pitched in some money for pizza.  Then I walked out to the pool where Bell had been swimming, and we walked back to the conference room together.  We had been outside talking for a long time when the historic liplock occurred.

The next day one of my fellow students said he heard that I had been kissing one of the IHS faculty, a married man whom I respect greatly but in whom I had zero romantic interest.*  Apparently on the night in question, one of the other students came to the conference room to tell me the pizza had arrived when he saw me in the arms of a dark-haired guy with glasses.  He assumed it was one of our esteemed faculty and then told a bunch of people.  Um, no. From the moment I arrived at the seminar, I only had eyes for that Bell guy.  So of course I took pains to clear my good name with my peers.  Besides, I thought Bell rightly deserved the credit for reeling me in.  After all, I was one of only a few women in a group of free market types.  If nothing else, they understood the value of a scarce supply. (Ha!)

And, while I never even got my share of the pizza, I'm happy to say that the first kiss cemented the relationship of a lifetime.
=TLF

___

*Probably this man, now a prominent law professor and blogger, would have wanted to clear his good name had he been aware of the rumors swirling about.

in the city of angels

Even though we only live about an hour from L.A., we rarely go up there.  It's the same distance to San Diego, and that drive is so much more pleasant (although traffic sucks in both directions).  The funny thing is, when traveling between L.A. and OC, I can just feel the change between those places right there on the freeway. I don't know whether it is because the roads suddenly turn crappy and the air goes dirty when I head north, but I always feel a little bit of dread and claustrophobia when I enter L.A..  I don't, however, experience the same transitional shock when traveling between OC and San Diego counties.

But I don't want to bash L.A. The City of (Anaheim) Angels has its charms, not least because Bell and I have a shared history there. Ah yes, back then when we were first romancin' he was a young, bright-eyed grad student at USC. "L.A. Law" was all the rage.  I was a first-year summer associate at a big law firm in Century City, where the paralegals and support staff secretly yearned to be screenwriters or actors.  Sometimes Bell and I ate Sunday brunch downtown at the commie-themed Gorky's Cafe and Brewery; we found tranquility in flotation tanks somewhere near Melrose; we watched Ella Fitzgerald perform at the Hollywood Bowl. Heady days, they were.

Bell still keeps a picture of me in his wallet from those days, which I think is really sweet.  Except that it looks like this:

Now that is what I call a blank expression on my face.

I kid him that he scratched my face out so that he can fill it in in his mind with the face of some fantasy woman (and my hair!), but really I think the picture wore away from all that kissin' on it. 

I still keep this picture of Bell from the same era:

Of course I still kiss on it, but I have the sense to cover it with plastic so as to preserve it.  How cute is he?  Okay, the shadow around his head sorta makes it look like he's rockin a Gumby look, but if you knew him you'd know his head is pretty symmetrical.  This picture still sends my heart atwitter because look at those eyes--I've always thought Bell has the most eyes I've ever seen.

***

Lately I've been thinking of my time in L.A. because this summer we've made three trips up there (Pictures to follow.)  Most of my L.A. memories are happy ones.  However, as many of you know, L.A. has its other side, one awash in depravity and corruption.  I wish I could erase the memories that once exposed me to this dark side.  Like the summer I lived in Brentwood with a couple of stupid girls I didn't know but who needed a roommate when I needed a room.  They attended a local bible college and appeared nice enough upon our initial meeting.  In truth, however, they were spoiled brats who rifled through my belongings and used my stuff when I wasn't home.  (I am one of those people who just knows when someone has been in my space. If an item has been picked up and placed back down, or if a new fiber or hair quietly drops on the carpet and I subsequently walk into the room, I know something is different.)

So these gals, they were not so subtle: sometimes I'd come home to find an ashtray or beer cans  or lighters at the foot of my bed.  They ate my food and drank my Diet Coke without asking or replacing. Once, after I had been away with Bell for a few days I returned to discover that my jewelry box had been breached and my favorite earrings were missing.

By the middle of the summer I was so fed up that I decided a confrontation was in order.  Rather than accuse them individually, I approached them while they were watching TV together one night.  I thought this dynamic would make the big fat thieving liar who stole my earrings crack, and I wanted to make sure that the other one know that her roommate was not just a big fat thieving liar but one who was willing to throw her best friend under the train by making her look like the big fat thieving liar.

I started out by asking if they had ever gone in my room.  I figured such a general question would bring denials all around because it lacked a definitive accusation.  And indeed, both affected a wide-eyed innocent, "Nooooo.  Oh, no. I wouldn't do that."  That's when I whipped out the ash tray.  ("That's weird.  I wonder how this got there.  Hunh.") Then they denied ownership of the lighter and the beer cans--actually acted as if they had never before seen anything resembling those objects, all the while they grew increasingly uncomfortable about it.  My inquisition continued calmly and methodically; I looked each of them square in the eye.  (Statistics have shown, you know, that the browned-eyed death stare is much more effective at forcing confessions than the meek blue-eyed stare.)

Finally, I asked about my missing earrings. I told them how I was really bummed that they were gone because they had been my favorites, and they were expensive. Both feigned ignorance about the fact that I even owned jewelry.  I watched and tried to figure out who had stolen my stuff, but they both squirmed and denied.  They didn't look at each other, and I could tell it took all effort for them to keep eye contact with me.  Perhaps each had been in my room at some point and taken my earrings.  Perhaps they weren't sure which incident they would be indicted for.

I stood in silence for a long time, but no one cracked.  I walked away to let them stew.  When I got up the next morning at 5:00, the red-head, Lisa, was already gone.  Apparently she had left under dark of night, but not before leaving a note on the dining room table confessing her crime.  She also apologized for stealing my earrings, which she had subsequently "lost."  She offered restitution in the form of a blank check.  Blank!  Foolish girl. I cashed it for a goodly amount (and still it didn't bounce). 

For the rest of the summer Lisa came back to the apartment for a change of clothes every day when she knew I wasn't there.  I don't know where she slept during those weeks, but I'm pretty sure she was relieved when I finally moved out and she could move back in.

Sigh. I never even got to say a proper "goodbye."

how to pitch woo

There's this boy, and he's really really smart and cute, and he plays volleyball and surfs and stuff.  He and Jade spend hours on end bodyboarding together. They interact like two BFFs, completely comfortable with each other.

The other evening after swim club, which this boy is also a member of, our family was to go to dinner with the boy and his family.  In the car on the way to the restaurant Jade tells me to hurry up driving because she and this boy had been talking about "scientific things" and she couldn't wait to continue the conversation. 

We arrive in the parking lot not a minute later, parking next to the boy's car.   We all get out and say hi to the boy and his family, but he only seems to notice one of us because he says only, "Hi Jade!"

She responds with a hello, then says sweetly as they stroll next to one another, "So [boy], tell me more about the microchip." 

the end of my eMpire?

We're undergoing some remodeling here at the estate, much of which involves cosmetic changes to the exterior of the house.  Ever since we moved into this place oh-so-many years ago, Bell has always particularly detested the faux-Tudor accessories on the facade.  I thought it presented a pretty dorky and out-of-place aesthetic for a southern California beach town; I assumed that this was Bell's objection as well.  But then one day a few years back when he was harping about how ugly it looked, Jade asked if it was because the nonfunctional brown planks formed the shape of an "M," which so happened to be the first letter of my last name.  (Faithful readers will recall that I don't share a surname with my husband; I'm one of them Lucy Stoners.) I had never noticed that before, but once Jade pointed it out, I couldn't help but look at the detailing any other way.  In  fact, I became rather fond of it.  It was as if the house was saying, "Welcome to the House of M!" That had a nice ring to it. Had I the time, I would have erected a family crest to hang out front as well.

Alas, all good things must come to an end.  In preparation for new windows and a whole new facade, this week the workers removed the M.  I'm sure Bell thought he'd never have to look at that damn thing again, which is why I made sure to take a picture of it and post it for posterity:

Let it serve as a reminder of what I like to think of as the Glorious Years During the Reign of M. 

I expect he'll be installing a gigantic neon "B" in its stead next week.

advice, unsolicited

To the New Zealander who found this blog (twice) via the Google search, "thank you for saving my kid in a burning house note": I think you should also send flowers, a casserole, and your first born.

And I hope your kid is okay.

i get by with little help from my friends

I recently had to undergo a little biopsy,* after which my health practitioner told me to "take it easy" for the day.  I understood this to mean that I should skip my run.  I was okay with that, especially because I had so very many errands to complete that day.  For one, I had to purchase a birthday gift for the Red Headed Surfer, as well as a  delectable cheesecake for a surf party celebration honoring the lady's birth. This was to be held the day following the Little Procedure, after I had dropped Kai at school but before I had to attend an awards ceremony for Jade. So I would have no time to shop the next day.

It turns out the Little Procedure caused a huge amount of bleeding, you know, down there, for hours on end.  [Squeamish men: skip to next paragraph.]  I had been told to expect amounts akin to "a regular period," but it was actually more like the amount necessary for a "regular blood transfusion" for a small village felled by an earthquake.  If that amount is considered "regular" for any of you gals out there then I must say you are a stronger woman than I. Looking back, I think the three ibuprofen I was told to take before the procedure probably thinned my blood something fierce. 

Within a few hours of the procedure, I was "taking it easy" by doing some shopping.   Just as I had picked out a gift for Red and found some cute t-shirts for Kai, I began to feel cold (although it was 80 degrees) and rather lightheaded.  Not good, I thought.  I dragged Kai to the store bathroom with me.  I sat down for a few minutes while be blabbed on and on, completely unaware that I wasn't really paying attention.  All kindsa thoughts went through my head about how I really didn't want to faint and leave Kai with strangers in a big public place.  If he's been paying attention to us these last few years, he would not go willingly with any strangers anywhere, least of all in a car. 

After sitting down I began to feel better.  I decided I would get up, make my purchases, and get the hell home to bed.  I ended up waiting in a very slow line for the cash register.  All that standing made me feel faint again, so I crouched down and tried to engage Kai in small talk, like I was deliberately just down there to converse with him.  When my turn at the register came, I placed the clothes on the counter, handed the cashier my credit card and said, "I'm feeling a little faint right now so could you please ring these up quickly?  I'll be squatting down here [pointing to the floor on my side of the counter] so when you need for me to sign, just let me know." Then I bent down.

"Vaht?" the cashier asked.

I stood up again.  "I'm going to faint.  I'll be down here when you need me. Just tell me and I'll stand up to sign," I said as I crouched down.  I'm pretty sure she didn't grasp what my squat and deep breathing was all about because several times she said, "Ma'am? Vaht iss wrong?"  Yeesh.  Can't a woman grow faint in peace?

At last, with purchases in hand, I got in my car and sat down.   I felt a little better again; well, I felt weak but not too faint.  All I could think of was how much I didn't want to pass out because then Kai would be left abandoned.  If I could just get home, I told myself, everything would be fine. So,  because I once began blacking out while driving on the freeway--it was in my last month of pregnancy, and the baby must have positioned himself just so on a nerve--I was very cautious.  I stayed in the right lane the whole time and drove slowly, like one of those old Filipino men up in the Bay Area (sorry Dad!)

When I got home, I called Bell at his office.  He was on campus to teach a bar review course (zzzzzzzzzz), and then he was going to stay until the evening to pick up Jade at the airport.  I wasn't sure what time his class ended, so I left him a voicemail saying something like, "Hi, I'm feeling a little faint so I might need for you to come home because I don't want Kai wandering around the house if I pass out."  About eight minutes later I left another message saying I definitely needed for him to come home because I was about to pass out.

You may find this remarkable, but I was at a loss about what to do.  Call 911? That's only for real emergencies. I could have called a neighbor, but it was the middle of the day and no one except the car-less widow was likely to be home.  I figured that if I could pass out in the comfort of my own home I 'd be safe.  Also, I needed Bell to look after Kai.  I waited about ten minutes for Bell to call back and then I finally said to Kai, "Mommy's not feeling well right now.  I need to take a nap and then I'll feel better. You can take your nap, we'll nap together.  If you wake up, I want you to wake me up and if you can't do that, I will need your help."

"Sure!"  he volunteered.

"Remember how we talked about calling 911? If you can't wake me up after trying really hard, I want you to call 911 on my cell phone."  I showed him how to do that on my cell, which was on the shelf next to his bed. 

"The person on the other line will ask you for your address. That means where you live."

"Oh, I know where I live!"  He shouted out two cross streets. 

"Yes, but your address is the number on your house, with our street name.  Do you know the number?"

"No?"

I told him the number and he repeated it several times.  Then he asked, "Mommy? Can you please write that on a Post-It note in case I forget? And can you write 911? I want those two numbers on a Post-It note." 

He ran and got the Post-Its and I wrote the numbers down for him. He looked at them and kept repeating them over and over.  We lay there on his little bed.  He placed the Post-It on his head board above his head and looked up at it.  I could see him mouthing "9-1-1."  I thought about how, if I actually did pass out and he had to call 911, he would save my life and make the evening news.  I was perfectly confident that he would do the right thing.  As I closed my eyes and started to doze off he said, several times, "Mommy? I love you Mommy.  I love you very much." He didn't seem scared so much as just, well, sweet and courageous.

"Shhhhhhh. Okay. I love you too buddy.  Let's take a nap. Shhhhhh... " And with that I drifted off to a deeeeeep sleep. He dozed off too, at some point.  I woke up three and a half hours later, around 5:00, when one of my friends called me on my cell.  (Kai was still sleeping.)  I still felt faint, but better than when I had first conked out.  Still, my legs were too shaky to get out of bed.  I lay there talking with my friend on the phone for about an hour. Kai woke up and played around in his room. Finally he asked for something to eat so I permitted him to go forage for his own dinner.

All that laying about seemed to do me good, as I was able to finally get up before it was time to go to bed.  The next day I called my midwife, who had performed the procedure, and told her what had happened.  "Yeah," she said, "that can really knock your socks off, eh?"

Annnyway, I was able to make it to Red's beach party.  I was recounting this story to my friends there, and they couldn't believe I didn't have the presence of mind to call someone for help.  One of them even asked, half-jokingly (but I could see her point), "Don't you have any friends?"

"Well, yes but... I don't like to bother them."  And, in fact, when I was at the store I had considered calling My New Friend because I knew she was at a nearby mall.  I knew she would come to my rescue and that Kai would be thrilled to hang out with her.  But she was lunching with her friend and I didn't want to pull her away. 

I feel like I don't have many opportunities to ask for help because when problems do arise, I can handle them myself or with Bell's assistance.**  I've never really cultivated this asking-for-help skill.  I don't like to bother my friends for such things, even though I myself try to be a friend who helps. 

Isn't that stupid?

_________

*Don't worry! I'm fine! Really.

**Incidentally, Bell was so busy at school that day and then had to prepare for a trip he was taking early the next morning that he never checked his voicemail. When I called him around 8:00 p.m. to say I didn't need for him to come home, he had no idea what I was talking about. 

shaving points

Most of you probably don't [want to] know this about me, but I only have approximately eight very soft hairs on each leg, and they all eight seem to want to huddle together near my ankle, with a few straying upward on my shin.  I have never ever had to shave the back of my legs. (Then there's my facial hair, which presents an entirely different story, perhaps for another day.  Suffice it for now to say that I can grow a better mustache than Bell, and that's not to indict his manly manliness in any way.)  I think Jade and Kai, individually, have more hair on their legs than I do.  And so, about every six weeks or so I think to myself, "I better check the sixteen hairs to see how they're coming along."  Two seconds later my legs are smooth and hairless once again.  Do you know what that means?  It means I buy a new disposable razor, oh, once a year, and the only reason I replace it is that it tends to rust sitting around in the shower for so long.

The other day I made my big pilgrimage to the drugstore to purchase a new razor.  Usually I just pick up one of those cheap buy-one-get-one-free disposable razors by Gillette or whatever; then the next time I need a razor I forget that I have a second one sitting around somewhere, thus necessitating another trip to the drugstore a year earlier than I had previously planned.  (Are you following this?)  This time, however, I took the time to notice the overwhelming litany of choices in shaving equipment.  There were those that spurt soothing emollients, those with multiple blades, and still others with special pivot action.  God, I love America.

Even though I didn't really need anything fancy, much less in bulk, I decided to live a little this time.  I could not resist the pull of a four-pack of special She Razors, the Schick Xtreme3(R) Comfort Plus (TM).

Was it the "rubber grip for extreme control" that caught my eye?  Partly, yeah.  Was it that the Schick Xtreme3(R) Comfort Plus (TM) is "the only triple blade disposable razor with pre & post shave lubricants [shea butter and aloe] for a close, more comfortable [compared to original Xtreme3 Disposable] shave"?  Hell yeah. But more than anything?  It was the fact that these pivoting, moisturizing blades of glory came with free MP3 ear buds.  For free!

  X-TREEEEEEEEME!

I'm not sure what ear buds have to do with shaving, or why Schick's marketing people thought that bundling razors with audio devices would sell more than bundling them with, say, a four-pack of Guiness (At $6.99, the latter is clearly the more economical package for Schick since the ear buds are purportedly "a $9.99 value."  I for one would buy razors more frequently if they were bundled with beer.)  Still, I can't wait to shave again. It's gonna be so X-TREEEEEEEEEME!

*****

And speaking of X-TREEEEEEME! shaving, once when my friend Jackie was in the fourth grade, she decided she needed to shave her legs.  And she was right, for although she was blonde and the hair didn't show next to her skin, it was very, very coarse and prickly.  She took it upon herself to use a (man's) razor she found in the shower.

Apparently it belonged to her mother.  (There were so few choices in shaving she-gear back then; the Flicker razor was not yet on the market.)  Just as Jackie was showing me the two-inch gash covering her shin bone where her shaving experiment had gone bad, her mama came into the room.  She held up what appeared to be a two inch pink crinkly worm and said (rather accusingly), "Jackeh! Is this yo-ers? Ah found it in mah ray-zer."  She said this not so much out of concern for her daughter's wound as out of annoyance that her kid left her shit lying around without picking up after herself.  For a long time I could not think of Jackie's mom without visualizing her holding up the crinkled work, and it always made me simultaneously smile and shudder.  I still think of it every six weeks or so when I look down at the long white scar near my ankle, the result of my own little leg-shaving experiment gone awry.  But that was years after Jackie had blazed the trail for me.

***

And speaking of shaving incidents gone awry, when I was in about fifth grade I discovered my sister's Flicker razor in the shower and decided I might have to try it out.  I was too afraid to use it on my legs, although in retrospect it's unclear what I was afraid of (hair loss, perhaps?) Instead, I borrowed some of my dad's shaving cream and slathered it on my hands.  I took a few tentative swipes at some hairs on the back of my hand. I thought it amazing--first there was hair there, then it was gone.  And it didn't even hurt!  Next, I shaved the three hairs off of one forearm, then had to do the three on the other arm to balance things out.  At that point I decided that I had gone too far. It's all too easy to become addicted to hair removal, you know, and I didn't want things to get out of hand, like the time . . . [Here's where I could tell the story of the time my sister put Nair on her eyebrows in 7th grade in a fumbled attempt to achieve this look, which was the fashion at the time.  But I wouldn't want to embarrass her.]

You know, for years I thought that the reason I had so few hairs on my forearms was because of that Flicker Incident of 1975.  But now I realize that it's probably because my body hairs just don't care to take up residence on my limbs, instead preferfing to accumulate on and around my head.

But not in my ears, thank god. Those would be some kind of X-TREEEEEEME! ear buds.