sunny side up

i'll get to the bottom of this

I've had this annoying little dry patch of skin on my left eye.  I tried all manner of lotions (even Aquaphor) to heal it, but it remained dry, and that made eyeshadow look weird in that spot.  In a sudden burst of brilliance, I put some diaper rash cream on it and voila! It cleared up almost immediately.  Zinc is awesome for healing the skin. 

I have to admit, however, I was a little self-conscious about putting diaper rash cream on my face.  But then I remembered, hey, I used to put hemorrhoid cream on my eyes to eliminate that got-up-every-hour-to-feed-the-baby puffiness.

So I think this means I'm a butthead.

because he's a kid

One of the best things about having kids is being privy to their understanding of how the(ir) world works.  (I once posted some of my childhood misunderstandings here.)

Kai was recounting a story about a girl in his class named Brooke (or "Bwooke" as he prefers to call her).  One day Bwooke swiped her finger across the icing of a cupcake during someone's birthday celebration.  The teacher told her not to do that. And the next day Bwooke was not at school, and she wasn't there the day after that. 

"So, Bwooke's not at my school anymore," Kai said.  "Her mommy put her in another school."

Then he slowly moved his head back and forth like people do when they are tsk-tsking something, and he pressed his lips together and said, with a tone of regret, "And allllll because of a cupcake." 

sitting in judgment

This past Saturday I served as a judge at the county's History Day competition, helping to pick winners to go on to the state competition and, with hope, nationals.  This year's theme was Conflict and Compromise in History (of which there has been a lot).  I had no dog in this fight; I just thought it would be fun to see how fifth through twelfth graders interpreted some moment in history.  And that's what I kept reminding myself when I arose at 5:30 and had to skip my ritual Saturday morning run with friends because I had volunteered away half my day during a moment of weakness. 

Now, I know you're wondering to yourselves, didn't Mother Teresa caution us that "If you judge people, you have no time to love them"?  And the answer is, yes she did.  However, since I wasn't lookin' for lovin' by a bunch of teenagers, I thought it would be okay to judge them. 

And I had a grand time.  I've served as a moot court judge on many an occasion, just for jollies.  I always feel bad for the kids who are really nervous, so I make it a point to say something positive and smile a lot to get them comfortable and make them believe they are doing just fine.  I suggested to my History Day co-judges that we all start out with positive comments.  Whenever the dude next to me was about to ask a question he would preface it by saying to the students, "First I will say a positive comment," which made him sound like a programmed robot rather than someone moved by the presentation.  Then he'd offer something trite like, "I liked a lot your performance."  Then he'd say--and this part made me embarrassed for him and feel sorry for his victims--"but now I have some questions for you."  His tone and choice of words completely neutralized his "positive comment."  I just smiled at the kids and nodded encouragingly to make up for the ninny who was making them more nervous.

I was charged with the responsibility of judging middle schoolers in the Group Performance category.  This required of them a lot of work, from researching and analyzing their topic, to writing a script, creating a set with props, providing an annotated bibliography and "process paper" that described how they went about it all.  And finally, there was the ACTING!  I tip my hat to all them kids; they did a phenomenal job.

Early on there was a bit of a kerfuffle.  The students were allowed five minutes to set their stage while the judges read the process papers and bibliographies.  Then each group had ten minutes to perform, after which they were subjected to a five minute interview with the judges.  My understanding of the rules was that during the interview portion, there were to be no audience members in the room, only the students and judges.  This didn't happen with the first group because no one ushered away the audience.  Before the second group of students arrived to put up their set, but while some members of the audience were coming in, I asked one of the History Day volunteer assistants if she was supposed to clear the room between the performance and the interview.  She didn't know but said that she would go check.  Meanwhile, a man behind me grumbled as more audience members arrived.

When the assistant returned she said to me, "Okay, I will clear the audience after the performance but before the interview."   Just as I was about to thank her, the grumbling man took it to a roar. 

"WHAT?  THAT'S NOT FAIR!  WE GOT TO SIT IN LAST YEAR!! HALF THE FUN OF THE PERFORMANCE IS THE INTERVIEW!! THIS IS OUTRAGEOUS!!" blah blah blah as he beat on his chest and bared his canines.

I could tell from first read that 1) this guy was one of the parents and, worse yet, he was one of those parents, and 2) he considered himself the Silverback of the group, an a-hole who tries to use intimidation to get his way.  So I completely ignored him and thanked the assistant for her help.  I think this pissed him off because he yelled some more to the back of my head, pretty much repeating what he had yelled the first time.  The assistant, a sweet middle-aged woman who, I could tell from first read, was one of those people who is uncomfortable with conflict, just kept saying, "I'm sorry, sir."  They went back and forth in this manner, he yelling, she apologizing, while people in the audience sat quietly waiting to see how things would go down. Then the assistant walked over to me, leaned down, and whispered, "What am I supposed to do in this situation?"

In full voice I said, "Well, I don't want to--"

"Start a controversy?" she interrupted, looking at the Silverback.

"No, I have no problem with that," I said, never once looking at the Silverback.  "I don't want to have a student disqualified if the rule is that there is not supposed to be an audience for the interview portion.  I don't care what the parent says, I want to know what the rules say."  And with that, I sent her off again to find out exactly what the rule was. 

And now, a question.  You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar: True or False?

Yeah, I thought so.

The assistant returned once again with the announcement that it was totally up to me, and that she would do whatever I asked.  That was her answer from On High.  Geez--what about the rules, people?  You need rules to guide you in this situation, else you have lunatic parents suing the department of education for all manner of injustices done to their children.  And so it was that I decided to let the Silverback stay, knowing full well he was taping everything with his little digital camera.  No doubt he will use his documentary evidence when he appeals our decision not to pronounce his Princess' performance a winner.*  But I'll be long gone by then.

_______

*Which had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the fact that some of the groups kicked History Day ass.

irish eyes, smiling

Just for you on St. Patrick's Day:

1) Why I'm proud to be Irish

2) Remember our trip to Ireland?

3) What I wish for you, my Internets friends:

*May you be in heaven 1/2 hour before the devil knows you're dead.

*May the saddest day of your future be no worse than the happiest day of your past.

*May you get all your wishes but one, so you always have something to strive for.

*May your troubles be as few and as far apart as my Grandmothers teeth.

*May the wind at your back always be your own.

*May you live as long as you want, and never want as long as you live.

*May the enemies of Ireland never eat bread nor drink whiskey, but be afflicted with itching without the benefit of scratching [Kidding, Brits! Kidding!]

Erin Go Bragh!

Don't drink and drive!

44 more years! 44 more years!

Last week Bell was enjoying Spring Break, which could also be characterized as a week-long celebration of his birthday. 

We kicked it off with a childless overnight at a resort spa in La Jolla.  Yes, childless!  Doesn't that sound heavenly? It's not that our children are difficult or unfun to be around; in fact, they mostly are a delight to be around.  It's just that. . . well, it seems they're always around, everywhere I turn.  Why can't they just run free and play in the neighborhood until the streetlights come on, like we used to do for my parents? 

We sent them to our friends' house, an arrangement that worked out nicely since these friends are also our neighbors and one of the daughters is Jade's best friend. Bell and I set off on a romantic retreat at a hotel spa called Estancia La Jolla. Originally the plan was to drive to Laguna Beach, but when I discovered that for the same price we would pay for a room in LB we could stay in a gorgeous Spanish-style ranch retreat that welcomed us with champagne and chocolate covered strawberries the size of my fist; we'd also get a "couple's massage" in the Secret Garden and breakfast for two the next day.  All for the price of a room alone at the Surf and Sand.  WTF?  It's not like La Jolla is a dump people with hobos* and other transients.  I think Laguna Beach is just overpriced.  And why?  Both are charming and beautiful coastal towns with high cliffs and dramatic views and pricey boutiques, nice restaurants, and art galleries.  Laguna Beach have Wyland, but La Jolla has Dr. Seuss.  So La Jolla it was.

On his actual birthday, March 3, Bell got a little bee in his bonnet and decided to bring his guitar to a local Open Mic night.  The idea was to play a few of his songs, but it got too late and Kai got squirrelly before Bell's time came up so we ended up coming home.  Personally, I would not choose to spend my birthday showcasing my musical prowess at an open mic show, but that's because I would have nothing to show.  Why, I'd have no trouble getting up and talking to a crowd (and I'm even toying with the idea of starting a local Cringe-like series where I and other suckers read from their angst-laden teenage writings).  But singing or playing an instrument to an audience?  I'm producing nervious sweat just thinking about it.

One of the highlights of Bell's birthday week was the day he set out early for the slopes. He had been calling around looking for a friend to join him, but all those guys have jobs or something.  So he went alone.  Around elevenish, he took this picture from the lift (which he sent via Blackberry):

At 3:45 p.m., he sent me this:

It has long been his desire to snowboard and surf in the same day, just because he can, and he finally did.  When you hit 44, you come to the realization that you better cram as many experiences as possible into each and every day.  Because you never know.

____

*  I love the word "hobo".

blowing smoke

It seems I have a penchant for setting off the smoke alarm in the kitchen.  I'm not a bad cook in the sitcom kind-of-way, like I'm so lame that I put lamb under the broiler and then forget about it while 23 guests mingle in tuxedos in my living room and I fall asleep, drunk on the couch and then the smoke alarm goes off. My charring experiences aren't quite that interesting.

I like to roast things in the oven, like root vegetables and kale (mmmmmm, roasted kale . . .), and I do that by covering the victims in olive oil and salt and, sometimes with the roots, maple syrup.  Then I cook them between 375 and 410 degrees, which produces the tiniest bit of smoke as the oil (and sugar. And maybe roastbeef residue I've yet to clean off the oven) burn. There is not so much smoke that I can't see anything across the room, but enough to set off the smoke alarm.  (Okay, maybe a couple of times I was cooking peas or broccoli* on the stove and subsequently got distracted by bright shiny objects, and then I was all "P-U! It smells like something's burning . . ." and my brain got all confused because I didn't recall anyone else in the kitchen so I realize it must be my fault, and then my brain ran through the litany of things that might be burning and, it turns out, directed me to the stove. But none of this happened when a bunch of people were mingling with cocktails in the living room.)

The smoke alarm used to produce a startling, piercing "BEEEEEEP! BEEEEEEP! BEEEEEEEP!" followed by a computerized woman's voice declaring "Fire. Fire. Fire," in a not-very-alarming midwestern voice with an enunciated the hard "r."  Each time it went off I would have to pull up a bar stool to stand on and reach to the ceiling to remove the annoyance.  It always BEEEEEEEP!ed one last time for good measure even after I disconnected it.   

Lately, however, the old gal has lost her fire.  I'm referring to the smoke alarm, not myself in a BobDole kind of way.  The other day I was burning roasting kale and instead of totally freaking my shit out, the alarm went (in a calm British accent) "excuse me but, ... em... where was I? Ah yes, er, it seems there's some problem with . . . [yawn] My, I'm rather exhausted. Do you smell something?  It's quite warm in here.  Perhaps you should take note of the fact that . . . Oh bother, there's another alarm down the hall . . ." There was nothing at all alarming in her tone. Rather, as Bell noted, she was more a smoke commentator than a smoke alarm.

I think it's time to change the batteries.

___________

* I just realized that vegetables are frequently involved. Hmmmm.

walk a (twelfth of a) mile in my shoes

Sometimes I get so busy at my office that I work right on through lunch, and I don't really realize it until about an hour before I have to leave.  At that point I have to eat immediately, and it usually has to be the Protein Salad from Urbane Cafe.  As the crow flies, this establishment is approximately 1/12 of a mile from my office (based on a very generous estimation), i.e., easily walking distance.  And yet sometimes I get in my car and drive to Urbane Cafe! 

I'm not proud of this.

I continue to do it because I figure that by the time I walk alllll the way there after waiting at all those stop lights (okay, two, but they are irritatingly long because they are located at four-way signals with special left-turn lanes) and then waiting for the salad makers to whip up my order, and then walk back (again with the two stoplights) and then take the stairs up to my office (because I'm not lazy, for god's sake), my remaining hour will be frittered away before I can finish my salad.

Is that bad?