peevish mama

So today I pick up my phone after the hopeful ping! ping! of an incoming text and see the following message from my friend Creeper Bud. “Dear Transvestite Rollerblading Santa. I can’t get you outta my head.”

It was so unexpected and amusing to me that I actually snorted, sprayed my iPhone with saliva and had to wipe it off on my jeans.

A couple days ago we took our Edina-calendar preschoolers (translation: after Labor Day start date; further translation: torturous antsiness, and I’m not talking about the children) to the park in an attempt to let them run around, cancel each other out and leave us alone for two minutes. Being intrepid little shits, they were soon down in the creek near the park, picking up shards of glass and throwing sticks in the water. Creeper Bud and I meandered over and were just sort of chatting and hanging on the fence watching the kids when, like a vision from heaven, a tall, pasty, lanky, flat-assed, white bearded figure in a shiny melon-colored Olivia Newton Johnesque unitard careens past us on roller skates with a lightening-quick wooooooooosh.

The ensuing seconds were a confused and delighted jumble of what the hell? what in the hell was that? was that a man? was that a beard? was that a leotard? was that a SHINY BELTED LEOTARD? giggle, giggle. it was. What the fuuuck? Was it belted? no I think it was a fanny pack. a fanny pack! of course! a friggin’ fanny pack. oh my God! What the? giggle giggle. that was awesome! Come baaaaack! Creeper Bud saw him first and got a better look than I did, but I’m absolutely titillated by my fleeting glimpse. It was all so fast, so breathtakingly, heartbreakingly fast, and sooooo freaking freaky deaky. I mean, come on. Ladies don’t even wear that kind of get-up to loop the lakes, let alone seventy year old men. And why keep the beard? I mean, it works – it totally works – the juxtaposition of it all – it totally works, but WHAT IN THE HELL?

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. This is why I love Minneapolis (or any city, for that matter). You can be standing in the most boring place on earth (Lynhurst Park), minding your own business, when the City decides to cough up a little gift and hand it over on extended palm, sending Tranny Saint Nick zooming by to wake you up and make your day.

Creeper Bud and I are considering a stake out, with sandwiches and beer, to see if we can catch another glimpse.

*postscript: After going around and around, I just couldn’t come up with a better nickname for Creeper Bud. It suits her, but not because she exhibits any shady penchant that the name implies. It’s just that we met at preschool, chatted from time to time, saw each other once at a party and the next thing I knew, we were friends. Our friendship just sort of crept up on us. So, her moniker is literally, quite literal: Creeper Bud.

So, I’d say it took me until about mid-July to hit my stride this summer. It took that long to find a way to be at peace with the level of activity (high), to embrace the heat and sweatiness of summer (moderate), to figure out a way to carve out a wee bit of time on my own (low). I figured out a few things as I was racing around in the minivan or cooling my heels at the pool, just in time for hazy, lazy August.

First of all, I need to consolidate these kids next summer. Getting them each to their own separate activities is hair raising and severely taxing on my temporal and spacial reasoning skills. So next year, for one week, they’ll all be doing ONE camp in ONE place. Even if they all have to go to a My Little Pony camp at Southwest High, I will kill 3 birds with one stone if it’s the last thing I do.

I also realized I don’t always have to go somewhere. I’m an out-of-the-house kinda girl. I never ever ever ever manage to just hang at home (which, I think, goes a long way toward explaining why the syrup bottle is still on the dining room table at 5:00 in the evening.) Most of the time we’ve got somewhere to go, but just as often, the exodus, the springing forth into the world, it’s completely self imposed by the ants in the pants mother who pretends her kids have ants in their pants and that’s why she’s dragging them out of the house all the time when really, let’s be honest, she’s totally the one with the ants in her pants.

Rain is good. Rain forces us to stay put and catch our breath. It soothes our parched nerves and grass. I love rain in the summer – even if it does catch me with all my beach towels hanging out to dry (grrr).

Dinner can be bread and cheese. We have a strange air conditioning system that cools half the house – a Phantom of the Opera air conditioner, if you will (but hopefully you won’t because that is terrible. Apologies!) Fortunately the half with air includes Dash and my bedroom. Unfortunately, it doesn’t include the kitchen. And most of the time, we don’t even bother with it during the day since we’re not home, so hanging out in my steamy kitchen is not high on the list of things I like to do. I really haven’t been cooking as much as assembling meals this summer and you know what? That works just fine.

I can’t write for shit in the summer. I just have to accept it. It’s as if my words are stuck in a big pot of warm honey and pulling them out is too messy and laborious an endeavor to attempt. I’m busy, yes, but also, I may be getting my fill of words out in the world. Catching up with our families in Michigan and Massachusetts, talking, talking, chatting with neighbors at a block party, friends at the farmers market, bored ladies at the pool, people standing with their bikes waiting for the light to change, talking, talking, talking. We are out of hibernation for a few shimmering months and there is much doing to be done. Our heavy humid air is thick with words, more than usual, and that’s enough for me right now.

Summer is flying, just like I knew it would, just as it always does. Every day, I will notice something, really notice something, in an  effort to slow it down. This morning. Devil Baby. Tousled swimming pool bed hair, eyes still puffy from a heavy summer sleep, puts on her rainboots and contemplates saving her forgotten stuffed dog and blankie from the rain. I watch her realize and accept. It’s too late.

Look what happens when you actually let your minivan sit idle in the driveway for an afternoon. All of a sudden, Supergirl has time to invite Big E, her best buddy, over to play. After some deep popsicle conversation on the swing set they set off for an adventure down at the creek with Saint James. They come back soaking wet. I suppress the urge to warn them about giardia. They leave again, brown shoulder butting brown shoulder as they scamper down the hill. After a spell Devil Baby and I decide to join them. I sit on a park bench. A park bench! When is the last time I sat, just sat, on a park bench? Saint James comes out of the water and folds his cool wet body into the side of mine. I watch Supergirl and Big E slither down a big rock into the water, floating on their backs as the current carries them gently downstream. I watch mallards swim by, giving them suspicious looks and wide berth. I watch Devil Baby rip leaves into teeny tiny chlorophyl confetti and throw them into the water, fingers spread wide in a celebratory flourish. I watch Big E give Supergirl a boost into a tree that is entirely too tall for them to climb and then her reach down to hoist him up – like traveling acrobats – gypsies – feral children. All of this because I stayed put. For one afternoon.

It’s as if the universe is mocking me for yesterday’s post because it seems that every where I look today, I just see a whole lotta stupid. Today I was cruising along on my bike when I came upon a short freaky guy dressed in one of those paper space suits from the early eighties, blocking the ENTIRE path with what at first glance appeared to be a giant tricycle, but in fact was one of those three wheeled scooters that you stand on with legs astride and sort of swerve into motion. He was showing it off to a black guy standing at the side of the path. My knee jerk reaction was to think: get the fuck off the path – a menacing hiss in my brain which I suppress and release as a bitchy pfft, or ugh, or Jesus. But in the split second it took me to register the space suit, the ride and the interested nods of the guy on the side of the path, I remembered that darling note I got yesterday.

We can choose how to look at things and in that moment I realized: Hey, wait a second, this is exactly why I love living in a city – this city. I love that I can hop on my bike and ride through pretty wooded trails and around sparkly lakes and still see peculiar, quirky, original or down right freaky characters. Today I saw a fat lady in a colorful mumu huffing and puffing her way back to fitness. I saw dear old ladies walking arm in arm, their permed little heads bent towards each other conspiratorially. I saw a man in waders using a metal detector in the lake, pairs of women running and venting, and more beautiful pregnant watermelon bellies than I could count.  I also saw a super hot rollerblading blond with VOLLE  YBALL written across the back of her shorts. Had the guy at Speedy T’s been so anxious to retain the sanctity of the crack that he chose to move the Y over to the other buttock? And why was she wearing them? Maybe she works at Speedy T’s and wearing the shorts was the equivalent of a pastry chef eating a crooked cupcake. All of this on one ride. And Paper Spacesuit guy.

Good for Paper Spacesuit Guy that someone was curious about his toy and took a second to ask about it. His blocking the path was a good thing, not a bad thing – perfect strangers sharing a moment in our common space. A good thing. I swerved off the path with nary a sound of annoyance escaping my lips. See? You can teach an old bitch new tricks.

And not for nothing, who am I to be annoyed? I am preposterous. I am riding around on a giant cruiser called the Red Betty with a leopard print seat and black leather tassles on the handle bars in a halter top, giant sunglasses and cushy headphones. Not exactly working on shaving any time off my rides, right?

It’s all how you choose to look at it.

I wrote an article over at Simple Good and Tasty about local legend and veggie queen, Jenny Breen. It was my first interview and I got to do stuff like smack a tape recorder on the table with an arch MAY I? No, I didn’t really do that. But I did say, Relax, honey, we’re off the record. Actually, I didn’t say that either. But I did bang away on a type writer, squinting through the smoke roiling off the cigarette dangling from my mouth. OK, not that either. I didn’t get to protect my sources, wear a trench coat, meet anyone in a dark bar, or flirt with a handsome weathered detective who’s seen it all, yet maintains a heart of gold. I didn’t even get to roll up my shirt sleeves. I guess I’ve seen too many movies.

One of my all time favorite things about this city is the May Day parade and festival at Powderhorn park. Even though the weather is usually cold, gusty, rainy and generally nasty, Minneapolitans give the final word to the date on the calendar and turn out in droves to frolic on the newly greened hills of the park. The Heart of the Beast puppet theater shows up with their giant freaky puppets and all the fringey, unwashed, dreadlocked, young, old, and in-betweens don their most sparkly, tattered, peculiar get-ups and come out to mill around, eat fair food, and watch the epic Tree of Life Ceremony from a riotous patchwork of quilts thrown up on the hills. It’s like a big roving carnival, with jugglers, stilt walkers, plumed ladies, fire breathers and musicians. As drumbeats, clapping and yelling grow in intensity, the Sun Flotilla gets paddled across the pond until it reaches the shore to wake the Tree of Life. It’s awesome. It’s colorful, pagean, freaky, and optimistic. It’s an excuse to collect in one spot with people from all walks of life. It’s a celebration. It’s a collective sigh of relief. It’s SPRING!

Only a fool, or a three year old, would believe that spring is around the corner. Yes, the snow may be melting, slowly exposing street grime that can be carbon tested back to November. Yes, we can see patches of sodden grass and all manner of balls and toys that have been buried for months. But it’s only March 9, which means that we, my Minnesota friends, are far from finished. But if you’re like me, you are finished. You’re ding-a-ling-a-DONE. I’ve exhausted all my love for stews, reading, and cozy fires. I want crocuses, sunshine and pollen. STAT. Christmas, Valentines Day, Tiny Dancing and the Olympics are gone, leaving nothing to look forward to. The worst is over, yes. But as far as I’m concerned, the hard part starts now. The thaw in Minnesota is a long, drawn out, dramatic affair – it is Mother Nature being the biggest, most flamboyant tease she knows how to be. One step forward. Two steps back. Lubricated by a whole hell of a lot of mud. My kids have forsaken their winter coats for weeks now and I can hardly blame them. I feel the same way about my matronly puffer. But dare I wash them and put them away? Only if I want to bring about a giant blizzard followed by a freezing clipper. Sigh. At least our thick winter blood is coming in handy. Dash and I spent most of Sunday sitting on our stoop, reading the paper, watching the kids play, tilting our faces to the watery sun. My kids alternated between snow boots, rain boots and bare feet all day long. Some people might think we’re crazy. But we know we’re not crazy. We’re just desperate.

I am absolutely besotted with this concept. Coined by French philosopher, Gaston Bachelard, it loosely translates to pathways of desire. It’s the worn paths of hard packed dirt that naturally occur when people repeatedly find the most compelling (or shortest) way to get from point A to point B.

Do you remember? Do you remember all the paths of desire on your old schoolyard? The well loved artery from the merry-go-round, where you’d spin and spin until you felt sick, to the small clearing at the edge of the woods where you could lie in the leaves and squint through your lashes at sky and an impossible tangle of black branches? It’s the path a child is likely to take, or a dog.

Sometimes, the shortest, most logical route is stamped in concrete and we know nothing of a path of desire. And sometimes, the concrete does not suffice and our feet are impelled to cut through, veer off, bisect swaths of land, following an intangible rationale not accessible to city planners and engineers. It’s just so romantic. It’s the intersection of geometry and emotion – like frown lines, laugh lines.

Right now, with the snow covering all the sidewalks and paths, there are chemins du désir everywhere. Down by the creek in front of our house, the snow is padded down in patterns that don’t match up to the cement walks I know to be underneath. Come spring, we well-behaved Minnesotans will take to the pavement and forget all about the blanket of snow that innocently gave us the freedom to follow our heart’s desire.

For a poetic exploration of les chemins du désir in the beleaguered city of Detroit, check out this post over at Sweet Juniper.

For now, anyway. We’re in a bone deep freeze here in Minnesota, and have been for over a week now. It’s the kind of cold that seriously roughs you up when you dare step outside. It smacks your cheeks, takes a punch at your chest, and then frisks your entire body with icy fingers – a cheeky bully trying to find a way in, past the layers of goose down, fleece and wool. The only good thing I can say about this kind of sustained cold is that when it finally breaks, ten degrees, twenty degrees suddenly feels like open coat weather. As the days grow longer by barely perceptible increments, scarves will hang loosely around impervious necks, gloves will be stuffed into coat pockets, and jackets will litter the edges of outdoor ice rinks as we go about our business in the kind of weather that would keep most reasonable people inside clutching mugs of tea. We may cringe and scurry now, but our blood thickens, our flesh adjusts, we set our jaws until we’re able to take a swipe back at old man winter – beating the dirty bastard at his own game with the fire in our bellies. We are warriors and we know our time is nigh. Bam. Pow. Thwack. Aaarghhh. 

Of course the SIX gallons of WHOLE milk that I bought by accident (don’t ask) should help matters. Have you had whole milk on your cereal lately? It’s freakin’ delicioso. Bring on the winter blubber. KAPOW!

And Happy Birthday to my dad, Lelo, who today is 65 and fabulous! How many guys do you know who can do this – at any age?

is a walk around the lake. I was fed up. Bored. Antsy. Annoyed with myself for all of the above. So I took a walk. And on my walk I saw clouds the color of bruises and sherbet. I saw the sun set and the moon rise, innocent and optimistic, nearly full and dangling from fishing line. I saw an island of seagulls perched in the middle of the lake like origami flicking to life. I saw a girl pull out her ponytail holder and her beautiful hair tumble out in wave of auburn. I saw the city shimmering silver, a magical two-dimensional movie set. I saw a giant bald eagle in the same spot we saw him yesterday, perched on a lamppost, King of the Lake. He craned his neck to watch me beneath him. He looked massive against a darkening sky and I whispered, Hail King.

Today I stumbled upon this very cool grass roots movement to preserve independent local businesses and am feeling halleluia grateful that there are people out there who are thinking what I’m thinking, but actually get off their fat asses to do something about it. I think this is a beautiful, inspired idea and although it’s something a lot of us feel on an amorphous, gut level, it’s helpful to have it all boiled down to the nitty gritty.

In Minneapolis, we are blessed with countless galleries, clothing boutiques, restaurants, book stores, coffee shops, ice cream shops, hardware stores and garden stores tucked away into our neighborhoods like aces and queens in a deck of cards. That’s why we Minneapolitans are all still here – paying more money for less house and putting up with the airplane noise. We stay so we can see more blue signs than red during election season, for the privilege of having the lakes belong to all of us, not just the lucky few with houses around them, and because of our neighborhood businesses. We’re here because we have sidewalks, which means there’s a designated spot for chatting with neighbors and, um, walking and hey, we actually have somewhere to walk to!

Within walking distance of my house I could purchase a pair of antlers, a bat skeleton or a dried Manzanita branch at Leuhmann, a card, a Laguiole wine opener, a diary or a baby gift at Patina, a chocolate shake and a burger at the Malt Shop, a glass of Prosecco and a Walleye Po’Boy at Blackbird Cafe, or sauteed Australian sea bass, parsley puree, parsnips and creamy mussel foam with a side of pappardelle with black truffles at Heidi’s.  And that’s just one corner! Also at that intersection are an eco-luxe home design and furnishings store called Casa Verde, an upholstery shop, a bird supplies store, and the very sweet dry cleaner we go to. If I walk the other direction I can get to the library, my supermarket, a massage and acupuncture place called Praxis, and a cute new yoga place called Sigh.  

We’re all busy and trying like nobody’s business to multitask – to crank out those errands in the two and a half hours the kid is at preschool. If I’m at Target and I need thank you notes, I’ll probably save myself the trip to the neighborhood card shop and just pick them up. The 3/50 Project is a good reminder to stop and think about where else I could be spending my dollars. Where will they do more good, be more enriching for our community, and sustain the kind of diverse and colorful businesses I want within walking distance of my house? 

It’s not about spending more money – it’s about being smart about where we spend our money. It’s about not taking our little businesses for granted.

Here are the three businesses where I plan to show a little love this month. And please, oh please, tell me yours. We all love a hot tip.

Grand Cafe – my friend Lady Doctah K swept me and my knee away for a little lunchy on Friday and I have been kicking myself ever since that I don’t go Grand Cafe every single damn day. It’s been far too long and how, but how could I have forgotten how charming and perfect this little place is? Here is an example of a place that I love which could die for lack of attention – like a plant – and then I would spend the rest of my days moaning about how much I miss Grand Cafe while secretly (and rightfully) feeling wretchedly guilty. But it’s not too late! It’s still cool and unfussy inside, in that Parisian, worn wood, tiny booth, big kitchen stuffed in the back that turns out miracles on white plates kind of way. I had the polenta with a spinach, caramelized onion and artichoke sauté in a beautiful pool of Romesco sauce and it was heavenly. The polenta looked like two huge scallops and was light, nutty and the perfect sponge for the sweet, peppery, almond-crunchy Romesco. Lady Doctah K had a beautiful potato parsnip soup with a swirl of smoked almond picata and a delicious looking Caesar salad which came with a crispy piece of pancetta sitting on top of it like a jaunty hat. I tried the pancetta and it was like a succulent pig and a crispy potato chip shattered all taboos, defied their families, fell in love and had a beautiful saltydelicious baby.

Cliché - my friend Lady Canada (I’ve decided everyone from book club will be a lady), who also happens to be a personal style consultant, told me about Cliché and although I hate to give away my secret gems, I must and will for the greater good. I love this store. It’s totally quirky, hip and edgy yet lady-like. Husband and wife team Joshua and Delayna Sundberg feature lots of local talent and manage to make the store seem casual and almost homey. Cliché’s selection perfectly dovetails with my mix it up, high low, frilly butch, fashion ethos. Doctor Dash bought me a really cool bag there for Christmas by a local designer named NIKI – it was reasonably priced, beautifully made and cooler than any IT bag out there for quadruple the price. Lovey. Love. Love.

Uncommon Gardens - There are a number of lovely garden stores around here, so it’s hard to pick one, but I like Uncommon Gardens because the owner, Peggy Poore, and all of her staff are very nice women who know their stuff. They’re willing to help but equally good at backing off when you need a little space to screw up your face trying to get a mental image of your side yard. There are a couple of cats roaming around, which amuse Devil Baby, and it’s compact enough that I can let the kids wander while I shop. She specializes in hard to find plant varietals and cool, out-of-the-ordinary garden decor, so you could go nuts if you were a real garden geek. I am not, but I’ve always found everything I need and more. I happen to love this garden maven’s beautiful space and I would like her business to thrive like a robust (insert appropriate geeky plant simile here).

Share the love. For more info on the 3/50 Project.

                                                       Photo by Helmut Newton

My friend, Red Vogue, saved me today. She spirited me away to June, a beautiful vintage clothing store she recently discovered. I didn’t take much convincing. You’ll love it, you can just sit in the big chairs and I’ll bring you things to try on. It’s totally you. Beautiful store, beautifully edited, something something something . . . bustier with feathers . . .  

Feathers? Feathers. Now you’ve got my attention, lady. 

I’ve said it before, but normally, the change of seasons gets me all a dither about clothes. Not this spring. Right now it’s thermal tees and yoga pants every day. Totally boring. Completely utilitarian. No beauty. No creativity. No edge. No frilly. No feminine. No flirty. No nothing.

It felt so good to be out, to try on beautiful clothes, to finger dainty evening bags and chunky cocktail rings. I got to sink into a cushy chair and page through fashion photography books while Red Vogue emerged through red velvet curtains from time to time in different pieces. Why haven’t I shopped with her before? She used to be a model for Christ’s sake! Her legs are impossibly long and she carries herself with the insouciance and languid grace of a crane. Clothes look amazing on her. Not to mention scarves – she rocks scarves like a second skin – like the French.

We both scored. She got a gorgeous pencil skirt and black kitten heels. I got a sweet teal dress and a sexy 70’s inspired cover up for the pool this summer. I think my Visa might have squealed when it saw the light of day after all this time.

Then we went to Liberty for custard. And then home. A perfect afternoon. Jesusmaryjoseph, I needed that. I feel like I got to exhale for the first time in weeks.

And then, as if that wasn’t enough, Red Vogue emails me the Helmut Newton photo above. Slay me now. I will look at this every day until I’m off these wretched crutches. 

Merci mille fois, Red Vogue.

I don’t consider myself much of an innovator, although there have been things that I thought of that then ended up being invented by someone else. Like tampon boxes with tampons of different absorbancies. A few lites, a few mediums, some extra strength. Ooops. Sorry, male readership – that’s gross, I know. Shake it off.

Yesterday afternoon, however, I believe I invented something. Something good. Something really, really good. All you will need is your Ipod and a pair of those big ass cushy headphones. I’m sorry, but earbuds will simply not do. You need to be surrounded in music – lost in music – fully bombarded. This is key. Then you need to get yourself down to Lake Harriet and walk to the middle. Stand there, face the sun, blast your tunes, take a look around. 360˚. See all the people on the path? See how tiny they are? That’s how tiny you are. Not quite invisible, but definitely unrecognizable. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

Right about now you will begin to feel that itch, that bump de bump in your rump. You will feel like dancing and here’s the invention part. Do it. Just let it all hang out. And after a couple of songs, if you get to unzip your coat because it’s 40˚ warmer than it has been and your inside-out flannel shirt that you wear as pajamas is flapping in the wind, then so much the better. And if it’s so warm and sunny that you take off your big black gloves for the first time in weeks and stuff them in your back pockets, then so much the better. Hips down, arms up, shake it my babies. Get your groove on brothers and sisters. It feels amaaaaazing.

Yes, I was a tad hungover and yes, it was really really warm out, but I’m telling you – I’m telling you – this is a shot of joy on ice.

You know how every city has its roller-dancing kings and queens – leathery skin, shiny shorts, walkmans, knee highs, sinewy extremities, blissed out expressions. You see how happy they look as they bust out their best roller skating moves, smooth and sexy – in a world of their own. Well, that’s what I felt like. I felt like the Sun King at Lake Calhoun. He wears peachy pink shorts, no shirt, has a blond mane cascading down his back and every exposed inch of his skin is as nut brown tan as a well worn saddle. He’s Tarzan butter on those roller skates and anytime the kids and I catch a glimpse of him, it causes a happy ruckus in our family. He’s odd, he’s happy, he’s doing his thing and doesn’t give a shit what anyone thinks. What’s not to love about that? We all need to take a bite of that apple.

As I was shimmying and shammying and busting out my smoothest moves in the middle of the lake, I thought of an old boyfriend from college. We used to go to the soccer fields at night to mess around. It was huge and open, and we felt invisible. It was fun. We were exposed to everything, but not. Hiding in plain sight. We could have seen campus security approaching from a mile away. It was the perfect place for a little smoochin’ and a huggin’.

The beauty of this middle of the lake dancing is that it’s fleeting, seasonal – a uniquely winter pleasure. This summer, I’ll try to pick out my spot on the smooth water and it’ll be hard to believe that’s where I danced.

I’m also thinking this would be great at night. Twinkling lights. Blue black snow. Mmmm. Sexy. Take your lover and an extra pair of head phones.

Here’s what kept me groovin’ yesterday.

I Want to Take You Higher – Sly and the Family Stone
Honeybear – Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Mind Power – Tribe Called Quest (OHHHH, MY!)
Inspiration Information – Shuggie Otis
More Than This – Roxy Music (OHHHHHH – dreamy.)
Otherside – Chili Peppers (always, always. slay me now, I love this song.)
Save Room – John Legend (pant – don’t even get me started. This might be one to save for date night tiny dancing.)
Me, Myself and I – De La Soul.
This Is All I Came To Do – Dinosaur Jr.

And then I left. Now I’m all jacked up. If you see a tiny dancer out there, come say hi. But make a Y with your arms as you approach, so I know I know you and don’t dance away from you like I did to the chocolate lab people yesterday.

Do you trust me? You trust me, right? When have I led you astray? Never, right? Tiny dancing. Try it, you’ll love it.

Yesterday I happened upon the Kite Festival at Lake Harriet. It was about four o’clock, blazingly sunny, bracingly cold, and the sight of an endless blue sky full of colorful kites took my breath away. Apparently, I am incapable of enjoying anything but vicariously, through the eyes of my family. Within seconds I was on my cell to Doctor Dash: Can you bundle up the kids and get down here? This is so cool! And bring the camera . . .

Instead of my customary loop around the lake, I made a beeline for the kites right across the middle. I crunched across the snow, digging the white desert-like expanse . . . I felt under the influence of something . . . beauty, chance, cold, sun, music, whimsy. Who flies kites in the middle of winter? En masse? Overcome, I busted out a few fierce warriors when I got to the middle, my face to the sun.

Fucking ya! I wanted to yell.

I kept walking, utterly transfixed by the kites. There was a huge dragon, a turquoise fish, an enormous striped parabola, an eagle, and countless little kites all with long streaming tails, undulating in the wind. I was listening to Lambchop, and if you’ve listened to Lambchop you’ll understand when I say the kites looked like elated spermatazoa, woozily swimming their way toward a golden shining egg . . . the sun.

Fucking ya! I wanted to yell.

And since apparently I also can’t enjoy anything without my crazy monkey mind plucking the experience right out of the air, tucking it under its hairy arm and running around in frenetic circles . . . I thought: What if one of these kites suddenly hit a rogue current that caused it to plummet and spear me in the cranium? I put my hood up. The headline in the Southwest Pages would read: Mother of Three Killed in Freak Accident at Lake Harriet Kite Festival. There would be all sorts of heartfelt testimony by kite enthusiasts, evincing their deepest sympathies . . . but affirming that kite flying is really one of the safest sports there is. Meager consolation for me, however. And my surviving brood.

I eventually hooked up with Doctor Dash and the kids, but by that time the kite flyers were all pulling down their kites with frostbitten fingers. I was only able to get one picture and it certainly doesn’t capture the magic of a mere twenty minutes prior. I was disappointed that they missed it. We tramped to the car to, me feeling cold, morose, plagued by death.

My first mistake was calling Dash. Why didn’t I just indulge in a little unexpected beauty on my own? Why didn’t I just let myself do that? My second mistake was letting myself get jostled out of the moment by my ridiculous mental peregrinations. Can’t I do anything . . . experience anything without thinking?

Why do I do this? This catastrophizing? This calamatizing? I know I have an active imagination, but this is such an incredible waste of mental energy. Even I, of the relentless inner chatter, realize that. Tomorrow I’m getting some wisdom teeth pulled. I have been putting this off for nine years. I know it has been nine years because I was pregnant with Saint James when I first heard that I needed my wisdom teeth pulled (which wisdom teeth are, incidentally, not bothering anyone, except, apparently every dentist that lays eyes on them). Enough different dentists have told me to get this done that I have finally been convinced that this isn’t just some evil plot to hoodwink me out of my pearlies and my benjamins. This is happening at ten a.m. tomorrow and I am certain I will choke on a piece of gauze and that will be it for me. (Not funny, this has happened . . . to a teenage boy, making it even more tragic, if that’s possible.) I am not looking forward to being sedated and having my mouth mutilated by a man with hairy arms holding medieval torture implements. I suppose I should forgive myself if my thoughts are awash in black right now . . . Just please, no . . . no . . . accidents . . .

Quite frankly, if I had to choose, I’d rather go by way of a well-placed kite to the skull.

Yesterday I walked around my lake, my love, the beautiful Harriet. I do my best thinking when I walk around the lake. Something about completing that circle makes me feel like I have accomplished something, closed a loop, tied a thread in this life of so many unraveling threads.

About a quarter of the way around, the sun was just starting to sink below the tops of the trees, puffing up its chest to let out one last roar – spilling breathtaking light of peaches and tangerines over the lake. The snow looked like sherbet. I needed a long cold spoon.

I will learn how to use my camera.

About half way around, the sky was streaked in purples and reds, oranges and blues. The clouds pulled in diaphanous swathes of pigment like the eye shadow of a drag queen after a long night – swollen iridescence, garish, hopeful, disappointed. Beautiful and sad.

I will stop swearing. Out loud.

Three quarters of the way around, the city shimmered beyond the lake, almost touchable, looking like something out of a magical pop-up book. Oz.

I will be more patient and present with my inner circle – with the little people who didn’t get to pick me – and with the one who actually did.

Full circle. I turned my back to the lake and headed home.