My Work Here is Finished

We had a major rite-of-passage around here this week.  My firstborn started school.  Real, live, public school.  Kindergarten.

She’s ready.  I think I’m ready, but very nervous about having to be somewhere at 8:15 every morning.

After I had dropped her off and was walking away I was reminded “You’re pretty much done being responsible for her.  Anything else she does wrong you can blame on school.” 

Yeah.  I did my best and I think she’s pretty great.  School can take over from here.  My work here is finished. ;)

 

We walk or ride bikes to school every day on the trail.  It’s kind of idyllic.

The night before Mimi did a dress rehearsal and modeled her school outfits. 

This is all Mimi.  When it comes to school fashion she is not messing around.  She’s going to look great.

Of course, Jude and Silas wanted in on the action.

I have to wake all three of my kids up and drag them out of bed (they usually sleep til 8:30/9 and go to bed starting at 7:30pm).  It’s taking a lot of adjusting and I have to schedule 10 minutes extra tantrum time, just in case.  Waking up goes more smoothly if I go in their room to wake them up playing their favorite songs:  Mimi likes Katy Perry’s ‘Firework’ and Jude likes The Pirates of the Carribean theme song, ‘Yo-ho Yo-ho a Pirate’s life for me.’  I have to be extra cheery.  It’s hard.

The girls in front are our three-doors-down neighbor twin five year old girls.  They are a heaven send.  We bike-pool with them.

So far, Mimi is absolutely loving school.  Her teacher is mellow and soft spoken – exactly what Mimi needs after being raised in a sparkly fabulous household.  She knew no one in her class but she’s made friends already.  There have been no tears.  I feel so proud that I have raised an independent confident and gregarious child who can adjust easily to new situations fearlessly.  Ok, I didn’t have much to do with that.  My baby was born this way. 

SF MOMA: “Art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life.” -Picasso

Andy Warhol’s Liz Taylor.  My Mimi Cr@ven.

It was free day at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art.  I’ve always been on the fence about lots of modern art.  There were certainly lots of paintings of a solid canvas painted blue, or some dumb things like that, but there were also some pictures that really grabbed me and my kids.

Since it was free admission, the place was crowded and noisy: perfect to storm through there with the minions.  They bounded from room to room drawn to one piece, then fluttering to the next.  It was captivating to see them so captivated.

Mimi and Jude literally stood looking at this painting for about five minutes.  They were so into it.  I don’t know why it drew them in so much, perhaps the size?  The lack of pattern in the color?  The precision?  It was one of those awesome parenting moments for me – my kids connecting with art.

Not all of the paintings were completely abstract.  In each room I told the kids to pick the pictures that interested them most and then we’d go up and talk about them.  This one used the medium of elephant dung.  YES THAT’S RIGHT!  Here’s a big fat picture made with elephant poop.  Jude could not contain his amazement.  It blew his mind that right here in this fancy artsy joint was something he is very interested in.  Poop.

I love this piece.  It reminds me of Kandinsky, but I’m not quite sure who painted it.  I’d put it in my house (if I had a million dollars).

In one room there were explosions of rock walls playing on a video loop.  The kids LOVED it.  They would jump off the bench exploding with the dynamite and cheer for the destruction.

 

Another part they liked was the sequential photographs showing what happened frame by frame in the explosion.  It was so fun to see them so engaged and excited about something we adults just walk by or some kids don’t connect with and say “so what?”  I feel so lucky that they wanted to learn all about the exhibits.

Outside family picture, taken by Pam who helped me get through the museum (read, chased naughty Silas).  Mimi being Mimi.  Such a shy little violet, no?

When we got home Mimi declared she wanted her room to be an art museum.  I happened to have some really nice oil paintings I inherited that were just sitting in my garage.  Now they are on display in my five-year-old’s gallery.  She give you a docent guided tour for a small fee. ;)

Do I have enough Chutzpa to pull off this outfit?

I’m eccentric.  We all get that.  No big deal.

But when it comes to clothes, some times too much is really just too much. 

I take a lot of fashion risks.  I throw random things together from my closet and pretty much never wear the same outfit twice.  I don’t spend a ton of money on clothes – I’m all about knock offs and cheap finds, and even thrift stores when I can go without my kids.  When the rare event happens that I’m not on kid duty I often get so excited that I end up with an outfit vomit.

Last night I was just meeting a lovely dear friend in WC, the mid-range urbanish town nearby.  They have a Nordstrom and a Tiffany’s, so I guess they qualify as not 100% suburban.  But still, it’s not SF or LA so conservative is usually a good bet.  People wear baseball hats out and stuff.

So I had these new pants.  They’re, ummmm, bold. They needed some toning down, especially with the pink hair.  Typed it into Pinterest and they gave me some ideas for how to wear them and I did my best.  It felt pretty cute leaving the house, but then I started to lose my outfit nerve.

We’ve all done this, yes?  Gotten all dressed up and then realized you had completely made an outfit fail and now you feel conspicuously humiliated? 

Until I got out of my car in WC.  Annnnnnddd I felt like a FREAK.  I’m fine with people observing me bc of my weird hair, but this was soliciting way more attention than I’m comfortable with.  I panicked.

But don’t worry, I have a fashion life line.  Bronwyn of  The Lion The Witch and My Wardrobe! 

This is me texting B while walking and trying to hide my discomfort with my crazy outfit.

Then she demanded a picture and I took the one above, of course I look bleh.  I gots garments lumps and too tight tank top and nothing was flowing correctly.  To tight on tight.

Thankfully stupid Forever 21 had a cheap shirt that could cover a multitude of sins for $14.  Sold, switched outfits in the store and viola, confidence returned.

Some times it’s just a simple tweak that will get you back on manageable track.  Sure, there were still the ever present mid-thigh g’s line, but can we all pretend that’s the lining of the pants?

Finished product, thanks to my textual consultation:

It aint perfect but it’ll do.

Asymmetrical t – Forever 21

Lace motorcycle cropped jacket – H&M

Tote comfy pink pants with pocket zippers – H&M kid section for $15 (I bought the black too and now I pretend to look like Sandy from Grease when she goes bad)

Brown woven Jeffrey Campbell knock-offs -- $30.  www.gojane.com  or Santee Alley in LA.

Purse -- $5 Santee Alley, downtown LA

Writer Jealousy.

Sometimes I read a section of a text and am overcome by writing jealousy.  AJ Jacobs, I wanna be as funny as you. Above is from his book 'The Know It All' in which he reads and reviews the entire Encyclopedia Brittanica. He's my new writer idol.

Jail Mail

We moved into our new house about three months ago.  Last week I received a letter addressed to one whom I assume is a previous tenant.  No big deal, right?  Happens all the time.

Yeah, this time was different.  The return address said C.S.P.S.Q, San Quentin.  That’s Federal Prison.

It was late at night and I was home alone when I saw this. 

Welcome to the onset of late night paranoia, not unlike that familiar poem “The Raven” by Edgar Allen Poe:

Once upon a midnight dreary

While I pondered weak and weary

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,

While I nodded nearly napping, suddenly . . .

THERE CAME THIS LETTER TO HAUNT ME!!

These are the facts: 

1) Someone who is an inmate of San Quentin believes that someone he knows still lives here. 

2) Someone who is an inmate of San Quentin needs to tell someone who he thinks lives here something warranting a letter.

3) Charles Manson is an inmate of San Quentin.

4) I am a sitting duck.  Quack.

My mind was reeling. 

Here are what I came up with as the possibilities of recipients of the Letter:

1)  Friend or relative.  Distant friend because he obviously didn’t know they moved.  Obviously they have lost contact.  Why?  Probably because he’s in prison.  Why would he be writing then?  Maybe to make restitution?  How will he feel if they don’t write him back?  Probably angry.  Maybe really angry.  Maybe angry enough to come to visit them. Result: I end up face to face with a felon.

2)  Girlfriend.  Pining love letter.  She doesn’t live here so she can’t write back.  That’s going to make the inmate mad.  Inmate might be mad enough to come try to find her.  Result:  I end up face to face with a felon.

3)  Compatriot.  Partner in crime.  Maybe the letter is telling his partner where he hid the money, or the body, or the drugs.  If the partner doesn’t respond, that might concern and agitate the inmate just enough for the inmate to come see his buddy at his last known residence.  Result:  I end up face to face with a felon.

Ok, so whomever lived at this house before me hung out with someone who is bad to the bone enough to land in Federal Prison.  And he wants to be in contact with the tenant. 

I am now the tenant.

What to do?

Options:

1)  Mail the letter back, stating not at this address.  Good idea.  Except if the letter was telling the recipient that he was getting out of jail this week and on his way to my house to meet his buddy.  And how will I ever know if it reaches it’s destination cellblock?  Should I include a self-addressed stamped envelope indicating receipt of letter?  Then I’d get more Jail Mail

2)  Open the letter.  That’s a felony.  Then I’d end up in jail with the inmate and he would probably shive me for opening his mail.

3)  Do nothing and let it haunt me. 

As of now I’ve gone with option 3. 

“And the [letter], never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!”

Great.  I’m cursed to be haunted by this stupid letter forevermore.

 

XOXO

Lenore.

Strawumpet

I have picked up a new musical instrument.  I recommend it for ages 3-40, younger than three has trouble with the mechanics and over 40 generally doesn’t appreciate it’s tones. 

The Strawumpet can be made at home.  All you need is a plastic drinking straw like so:

Here is an instructional video so that you can learn the highly refined art of Strawumpet playing.

 

(Please excuse the immodesty, but it is helpful in artistic Strawumpeting.)

My children Mimi and Jude demo Strawumpeting:

 

Can you believe you’ve gone this long without knowing how to play the Strawumpet?  Mothers of Boys, you are welcome.  Fun for all ages.  Move your arm back and forth in a rowing movement to change the sound.

Warning, do not suck in.

“Put the Star in Starting Over”

Ellie introduced me to TED today.  I’d pretended for quite some time that I knew what TED talks were because people talk about them and I didn’t want to sound dumb.  Who’s dumb now, eh?  From hence forth when I write TED I want you to add “thanks to Ellie” so that she gets her due credit for mavening me in on this one.

For those of you not yet in the know (I’m a whole six hours more informed than you) TED talks are speeches by people who are experts in their fields.  There are TED conferences all over the world where smarty pants people speak to groups of other smarty pants people.  Listening to them makes you feel like you are surrounded by the good ideas you used to entertain when your brain was alive in college (or high school, if you went to Athenian.) 

TED stands for Technology Entertainment Design.  There are talks of all lengths and each one is amazing in their own special ways.  There’s an app for Iphones. 

Anyway, E took me on a tour of some good ones. 

Below is Sarah Kay.  I thought that spoken word poetry died in the late 90’s when I stopped going to SLAM poetry readings.  Apparently I just died at following it and it kept going.  Who knew?  When a tree falls in the forest it still makes sounds, even if I quit listening.  The world DOESN’T revolve around me. 

This piece is catnip.  Enjoy.  Text below.

 

Sarah Kay If I Should Have a Daughter

“If I should have a daughter…“Instead of “Mom”, she’s gonna call me “Point B.” Because that way, she knows that no matter what happens, at least she can always find her way to me. And I’m going to paint the solar system on the back of her hands so that she has to learn the entire universe before she can say “Oh, I know that like the back of my hand.”

She’s gonna learn that this life will hit you, hard, in the face, wait for you to get back up so it can kick you in the stomach. But getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air. There is hurt, here, that cannot be fixed by band-aids or poetry, so the first time she realizes that Wonder-woman isn’t coming, I’ll make sure she knows she doesn’t have to wear the cape all by herself. Because no matter how wide you stretch your fingers, your hands will always be too small to catch all the pain you want to heal. Believe me, I’ve tried.

And “Baby,” I’ll tell her “don’t keep your nose up in the air like that, I know that trick, you’re just smelling for smoke so you can follow the trail back to a burning house so you can find the boy who lost everything in the fire to see if you can save him. Or else, find the boy who lit the fire in the first place to see if you can change him.”

But I know that she will anyway, so instead I’ll always keep an extra supply of chocolate and rain boats nearby, ‘cause there is no heartbreak that chocolate can’t fix. Okay, there’s a few heartbreaks chocolate can’t fix. But that’s what the rain boots are for, because rain will wash away everything if you let it.

I want her to see the world through the underside of a glass bottom boat, to look through a magnifying glass at the galaxies that exist on the pin point of a human mind. Because that’s how my mom taught me. That there’ll be days like this, “There’ll be days like this my momma said” when you open your hands to catch and wind up with only blisters and bruises. When you step out of the phone booth and try to fly and the very people you wanna save are the ones standing on your cape. When your boots will fill with rain and you’ll be up to your knees in disappointment and those are the very days you have all the more reason to say “thank you,” ‘cause there is nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline no matter how many times it’s sent away.

You will put the “wind” in win some lose some, you will put the “star” in starting over and over, and no matter how many land mines erupt in a minute be sure your mind lands on the beauty of this funny place called life.

And yes, on a scale from one to over-trusting I am pretty damn naive but I want her to know that this world is made out of sugar. It can crumble so easily but don’t be afraid to stick your tongue out and taste it.

“Baby,” I’ll tell her “remember your mama is a worrier but your papa is a warrior and you are the girl with small hands and big eyes who never stops asking for more.”

Remember that good things come in threes and so do bad things and always apologize when you’ve done something wrong but don’t you ever apologize for the way your eyes refuse to stop shining.

Your voice is small but don’t ever stop singing and when they finally hand you heartbreak, slip hatred and war under your doorstep and hand you hand-outs on street corners of cynicism and defeat, you tell them that they really ought to meet your mother.”

 

 

And because I’m on the spoken word kick tonight, here’s my favorite Ani DiFranco:

“I am a work in progress
dressed in the fabric of a world unfolding
offering me intricate patterns of questions
rhythms that never come clean
and strengths that you still haven't seen”

“See, my body is borrowed
Yeah, I got it on loan
For the time in between my mom and some maggots
I don't need anyone to hold me
I can hold my own
I got highways for stretchmarks
See where I've grown”

Mermaidia

Pretty much all girls love mermaids.  I am not sure what the fascination is, but I'm definitely down with mermaid culture. Perhaps it's the seashell bra, perhaps its the possibility of falling asleep in the tub and not drowning, whatever the interests mermaids hold it seems to be etched into the female psyche. Ariel is the best Disney Princess. Everybody knows that.

I like mermaids because of their flowyness and hair and the fact that they live in bikini tops.  They seem like graceful dancers, without legs.  I worry a bit that they might go bad and smell fishy. Yes, I have devoted a decent amount of time thinking about that.  The Peter Pan mermaids are the best because they're kind of bitchy, so are Ariel's sisters: Arista, Adela, Atina, Alana, Aquata. Perhaps there's something about being a sea princess that makes you a bit bratty.  

Here is a little story for you.  One time when I was living in Los Angeles we had an excellent, superb Gospel Doctrine teacher.  He occasionally held ward parties at his mansion near the Hollywood Hills. I attended one such event.
Whilst there I was treated to a memorable tour: The Mermaid Tour.  Around this chap's house there were, I'd estimate, 300+ mermaids of every variety.  Barbie mermaids, mermaid pictures and dolls, a mermaid coffee table made of glass, you identify the do-dad and he had it, in mermaid form.  His mirrored canopy bed was surrounded by his vast mermaid collection.  
I'd tell you this guy was weird, but he kind of wasn't.  He just had a mermaid collection and I'll admit I am still a little bit jealous of it.
We all collect things, I guess. For me it's bikinis and high heels, which I also display near my bed because I like to look at them.  I try to stop buying them but I just can't.  Would that I could find mermaid heels or bikinis.  Then my life would be complete.

Our Places on the Path

Religion is a many splendored thing.  The LDS religion and the culture of being LDS are impossible to tease apart.  A primary song we all learned goes “There’s a right way to live and be happy, it is choosing the right every day”.  Nice in theory.  But what about the rest of us?  Or, all of us?  Not all of us choose the right every day.  That’s an unbelievably high expectation.  It is a pathway to awesomeness and also a one way ticket to the hell that is expecting perfection of one’s life.  It’s not many paths, it’s one path.
Every week I go to church I feel exposed.  My family isn’t the normal LDS family and my life hasn’t been the normal life – Young Women’s medallions, get married at BYU, scoffed at offers of booze, laughed in the face of morality temptations, can answer all five temple questions without a shred of doubt, never had any issues with leadership, swallowed it all hook-line-and-sinker.  At times I hate my meandering road. I hate that I have to fight to show up on Sunday and look around the room at a group of people I feel is so unlike me.  Not wrong or right, just different.

A missionary once said to me “If everyone at church wore their sins on the outside the room would be a very ugly place.”  But we don’t see much below the surface there, do we?  I see couples married for decades sitting peacefully together.  I see young families with two parents wrangling children together.  I see the same people, true and faithful, coming every week like it’s just a given for them and they’ve never been tempted to go on a drive instead. 
Everybody has struggles.  We don’t see them.  We go to church and we smile and act like we are the reigning Queens of Christianity who occasionally have to repent for eating too many cookies.  How disgraceful.
Of course, none of these feelings ever happen to me.  I’m just saying.  Hypothetically.
I’m one of the normal ones – happy nuclear family, no crazy people accusing me of crazy things, never a doubt, never a temptation, no bad things ever.    Right?  Right.  Ha.

But for all YOU weirdos.  You single parents, you kinda-believers, you sometimes garment wearing, rarely temple attending, you doubting Peters and you whores of Babylon, you with the family falling apart, you who was out drinking last night, you one hour attending, you once a month going, all of you at different, maybe harder places on the path, this one is for you.  I respect your struggle as much as I respect the people for whom it comes slightly easier.  I need to know it’s damn hard for you too. 
And we can feel exposed together traveling the path at our own pace.

“Here's to Patti
And Tina
And Yoko
Aretha
And Nona
And Nico
And me
And all the strange rock and rollers
You know you're doing all right
So hold on to each other
You gotta hold on tonight”

I Have Nothing to Report

You know what I like?  Peace.  You wouldn’t know it for all the drama that finds it’s way to my doorstep.  My mother and I often marvel at the commotion that has followed me all my life.  It’s easy to think that I’m the proverbial sh!t stirrer, and I can be when it comes to my personal political views, but when it comes to interpersonal things I am both face-to-face non-confrontational and easily devastated. 

I think people expect me to be emotionally tougher, just because I look like I have a ton of confidence.  In reality, I’m a conflict avoider.  I don’t instigate, but I do stand up for myself if necessary and then distance myself from the drama.

But this week is the Week of Tranquility. This week I am thrilled to announce I have nothing to report.

 

I don’t know why but jellyfish are the most peaceful animals to me.  They just hang out all ruffled beneath the surging sea.

This summer has been, for me, all about  minimizing conflict and drama.  Somebody causing me to be afraid or uncomfortable?  I’m closing off all contact and awareness of that person’s existence.  Someone lashing out at me?  I’m defending myself and then asking them to go away and please leave me alone.  Someone posting thinly veiled facebook statuses about me?  Removed from my newsfeed.  Nasty texts?  I don’t read them.

 

Drama trails me like I have a target on my back.  My dad says it’s because of my hair, but it’s always been this way no matter what color.  It totally wears on me and gets me down, as though there was some glaring error that causes people to want to tear me down.

Playing Headbands with Mimi.  I am a Unicorn, of course.

That’s one of the reasons I am so committed to the gospel.  I like having an external barometer for my progress – a touchstone for when people say horrible things to or about me I am able to reassure myself that I’m making good life choices.  I figure if I maintain my church attendance and visit the temple often I can look back and say I am on the right path.

But this summer has been different because I’ve made a concerted effort to remove all problem people and to forget the offenses of the people who are permanent fixtures.  I just don’t want to associate with people who want me and my kids to fail.

And it’s been working!  Having dealt with the last few years of crazy my kids and I were due for a bit of peace.  Thank you to all who have prayed our little corner of halcyon into being. 

Now we wake up early (for me 8:30 is brutal!) , go to work or cousin camp, come back to take naps, and have a casual afternoon with swimming or errands and dinner.  We cuddle in the evenings and do our little bedtime routine. 

During the day I text my wonderful girlfriends and visit with people who make me laugh and encourage me in my zany pursuits.  We go to Michael’s, we eat sandwiches, I watch my little shows.  Sometimes I get sitters and go out with friends in SF.

It’s funny, but this tranquility is causing me a lot of writer’s block.  Usually I have so much to write on my blog and so much that I can’t say that it drives me a little nuts.  Now I have so much simplicity that I have nothing to write.  It may not be great for my dear readers, but I think I’m overdue for a little bit of peace.  Don’t you?

My Colorful Life Part 4: Professional Fun Haver

I have the best job ever.  On and off for the past ten years I’ve worked at my favorite school campus in the world.  For a few weeks this summer I’m teaching at Devil Mountain Summer Camp. 

I get to come up with fun activities and then help the kids do them.

I may become a professional tie-dyer.  Or maybe that’s exactly what I am.

Mimi gets to come to camp with me and the little boys are shuffled to babysitters.  In the afternoon I teach Shakespeare. 

It’s super fun. So far this session we’ve created a javelin throw out of pool noodles; I taught them how to shave and then we did shaving cream finger-painting; we played charades, we made bouncy balls (this actually worked! I was amazed!) and we tie-dyed.

I forgot how much I love the campers and the activities.  It’s such a well run camp with so many good staff members. 

Yay summer!