peevish mama

I had to drive to St. Croix last night for Saint James’ final soccer game of the season, and oh sweet patron saint of traveling soccer players, it was FAR! I know I’m spoiled by the fact that I don’t typically have to drive more than five or ten minutes for anything, but getting to this soccer field felt like an odyssey. And like Odysseus, I saw many things in the waning glow of the mid-summer sun.

The wheels on my minivan turned so many times that I saw a billboard of Rush Limbaugh’s gigantic porcine face. I saw silos. I saw signs for towns that I know to be in another state. I saw truck stops with huge semis lined up like hulking, sighing beasts. I saw two motorcycle dealerships, side by side, one for Harleys one for Indians. I saw the soft green hills that mark the terrain where Minnesota and Wisconsin melt into one another, never ceasing to remind me of the first time I drove here in 1995 with my friend Dave K – clueless, nervous, about to start my first job in a law firm, ready or not.

I also saw a group of kids who didn’t know each other a few months ago, play like a team. Individually they have improved beyond measure; as a team they have gelled almost to the point of poetry.

They are eight and nine years old. Magically suspended in that blink-of-an-eye between little boy and big boy, their bodies are starting to respond to the commands of their ambitious minds. They have shed all traces of baby fat and with it, the clumsiness, the hesitation, the pudding-like confusion of those first years of sports. Their skinny legs and knobby knees bely their speed, their finesse, their sense of space, position, strategy and fair play. Yet every once in a while, the little boys bubble to the surface in tears, tumbles, inelegant hiccups in an otherwise smooth stride. 

I also saw boys who played their hearts out and still lost. But they lost like gentlemen, already absorbing one of the great unsung lessons of sports: you can’t win everything in life. It is the game itself, the boys seem to understand implicitly, that is so worth it.

And, so I drive.

Do you recognize this man? He is Hasidic Jew rapper reggae dancehall boy genius – Matisyahu. At the risk of sounding like a musical experience hyperbolizer, I will tell you that he put on a thoroughly soul satisfying, gut wrenching, sweaty crush of a show last night at First Ave.

I, for one, was on fire. I, for one, was ready to jump the fence. Good bye baby Jesus. Hello my sweet little juju bean.

We had thrown together a little light summer din and drinks on the patio for six or seven of our besty couples for a pre-show fest. I made Duddy’s (aka: Chief Big Voice) Latin Pork Pernil recipe and set out yummy fixins for tacos, including a little lime chipotle crema that is so delicious it could double as a nourishing facial mask should you wish to wake up as a bit of a Salma Hayek. And cilantro in everything of course – my favorite, coddled, golden child herb – cilantro can do no wrong in my eyes. The beers and vino blancos were going down cool and fast and, of course, there can be no patio revelry without the squat-bottled goodness of Señor Patrón. At nine thirty we piled into a couple cars and left in a flurry of rustling tickets and high spirited cackles (ok, maybe that was just me).

I must admit that for a long time, I poo-pooed Matisyahu. I thought the Hasidic Jew thing seemed gimmicky and I didn’t give him a shot until Tartare and her hubby Meester Panqueques put him on our iTunes before heading back to Seattle when they visited for Thanksgiving. I started listening. I started liking. A lot. Many a dinner has been prepared in the company of my silver tongued, honey toned, deeply soulful, peacefully bad-ass new friend.

I was jacked up for this show and Matisyahu did not disappoint. In fact, not in a million years did I consider that I would be swooning within the first minutes of watching him croon and beatbox in his hoodie. The guy’s got something. Aside from that angular, lankiness I’m drawn to like a moth to flame, he’s got a beautiful voice. A beautiful, pure voice, which actually matters more than you’d think in rap – to me, anyway. Like, I love Jay Z, he’s a great rapper and he’s got a good thing going with my girl Beyoncé and I love that they jet ski at Cannes in white bathing suits, but he just doesn’t have a pretty voice. No disrespect. Just iswhatitis.

And if the face, the voice, the lightening-quick blast of words, and the warm reggae dipped in cool hip hop weren’t enough, it turns out they’re a bit of a jam band. They rock. Hard. His guitarist was a superstar and had a white knuckled grip on my entrails every time he went off on his wizardly solos. Seriously, people, someone hand me a fan because I think I may faint. 

And if all that weren’t enough, local boy Yoni, joined him for a few songs and he ripped it up. Watching him, I couldn’t shake the feeling that at last, the chubby Jewish kid who carried his debate team to the championships, was getting a whole new day in the sun. He was incredible. That wit and those words could have landed him in law school, but instead it landed him in a whole lot of First Ave love last night.

The vibe was the happiest and mellowest I’ve ever experienced. First Ave is always great, everyone’s always psyched to be there, but honestly, not to sound hokey, last night was different. I didn’t really get a chance to survey the crowd as I was too busy busting out my finest moves, but any time I tried to get a little closer to the stage, people parted like the Red Sea. Normally you get elbows and an unyielding wide legged stance, but last night the crowd was fluid and happy. Oh holy Moses, was I feeling the love! At one point, I turned around to Doctor Dash, my hand on my heart and yelled This is really moving me! Like really really!  He just nodded at me indulgently, as I tend to get carried away in these situations. But that’s what makes me so lovable, right Dash?

Having said that, I would be running for the hills at the first whiff of sappy spirituality. I take my religion and my music separately, thank you very much, and never the twain shall meet. But maybe I don’t reject the idea of music carrying a spiritual message so much as the idea of crap music that’s simply there to carry the message. And not for nothing, those Christians who sway with their eyes closed and their arms up at mega Christian rock concerts give me the total creeps. Matisyahu manages to be uplifting, inspiring and spiritual, yes, admittedly, he is – but his music stands on its own and it has enough hard edges and darkness to fully satisfy. 

And I am fully satisfied. The music, the dancing, the drinking and my friends filled up my canteen and I am feeling good today. Really really good. I’m telling you, that boy has got something. He goes far, he goes deep, and he couldn’t possibly be more lovely.

Since I became aware of the 350 Project, two local gems, which I have blogged about, have shuttered their storefronts. I am choosing to avoid the paranoid suspicion that I am a jinx, although I have proven myself to be a jinx in at least one boy girl matchmaking attempt gone terribly, terribly awry – but that is a story for another time.

Leuhmann, the tiny, quirky store at 50th and Bryant filled with antiques, shells, fossils, skulls, feathers, branches, vintage taxidermied creatures and all sorts of other intriguing natural curiosities has sadly closed.

Even more personally devastating to me, despite my blustery threats of becoming a vegetarian, is the loss of Galoony’s, home of Minneapolis’ most toothsome steak and cheese sub. I have been satisfying my cravings for these spicy, meaty babies at Galoony’s since 1995 when I first moved to Minneapolis and to my great joy, had most recently turned Supergirl on to the satisfying wonders of what she called “the meat sandwich.” I will never forget the moment I found out I would be losing my beloved steak and cheese spot – I was eating breakfast in the dining room when I read about it in the Southwest Pages and my shriek to the high heavens brought my family running from all corners of the house. Supergirl felt my pain and joined me in my sorry incantation: Nooooooo, noooooo, say it ain’t soooooo. ohhhhh. Galoooooony’s. ohhhhh nooooooo.

So the point of all this drama? This is for real, people. These are tough times and if we don’t make a deliberate effort to support our local businesses, they flounder and they fail. The last thing any of us wants, is to live in a land where big box national chains choke out the people who are creative enough, enterprising enough, brave enough, crazy enough to throw their hats into the ring of commerce and make a go of starting a small business.

Connectedness, conversation, depth of knowledge, passion, craftsmanship, authenticity, uniqueness, diversity – these are all things you find in your corner shop, whether it be a boutique, hardware store or butcher. Sad will be the day when the only person taking my cash is wearing a red shirt and asking if I want to save ten percent by opening a Target card. So with that, here are three more of mine. Please send me three of yours, even if, especially if, you live somewhere else. We all love a hot tip!

Kingfield Farmers Market. I love all farmers markets, but I was particularly smitten by this one because it’s the one I most often forget about. Open on Sundays from nine to one thirty at 43rd and Nicollet Ave., it’s teeny tiny but it has one or two of everything your heart desires: almonds, tomato plants, fresh eggs, cheese, fancy jerky, homemade cookies, tacos, organic meats, fresh squeezed fruit juice, and a cornucopia of fresh organic local fruits and veggies. There are always musicians and artisans for the kids to ogle and all in all, it’s a quick and easy little jaunt whether you want to bang it out in under an hour or while away the morning, noshing on yummies and chit chatting with people. 

                                                       Photo by David J. Turner.

Ladyslipper Boutique. Do yourself a favor and slip into Ladyslipper at 4940 France Ave. S. in Edina. Owned by the Bluebird Boutique ladies (Sasha Martin and Allison Mowery) plus my super stylish pool friend Amanda Rose, it feels like you’ve slipped into the tip of a genie’s lamp, were said genie an accessories maven with an eye for pieces that bellydance between edgy and lady-like, chunky and dainty, modern and vintage. Guilted mirrors, chandeliers, zebra rugs, and plushy rose ottomans, it feels decadent and lovely, yet casual and lively. I was not surprised to find that I loved everything, and I mean everything in the store from the killer boots, to the tremendous bags to the one of a kind jewelry. (Doctor Dash: take note, lover!) These girls have managed to pull together an exquisitely edited collection of goodies at a range price points (some startlingly reasonable). I went in looking for a statement necklace for my brother’s wedding and after a bit of oohing and aahing, chatting, and fondling of merchandize, Amanda pointed out some necklaces made by a local sistah named Tracy Bennett under the name Scout (which I love). Each necklace is unique, made of vintage necklaces, bracelets and brooches, strung together in a way that I can only describe as quirky genius. The necklaces are asymnetrical, chunky, and modern, but derive a drapey, sweetness from the vintage pieces of which they’re made. The one I finally chose has two pretty brooches anchoring a riot of silver and gold chains and simply makes me happy. If you are a girlie girl with a bit of an attitude, duck into Ladyslipper and take a little browse. You’ll find your three wishes in a heartbeat!

Rice Paper. Tucked into leafy Linden Hills, this quiet little spot never fails to hit the spot. With a simple menu of fresh and lively Vietnamese/Thai fusion cuisine, it’s the perfect place for vegetarians or those who want major flavor, without having to roll themselves out the door. While the dishes are light and healthy, your taste buds will be shaking their booties from all the cilantro, lime, chili, and coconut love. The peanut sauce that comes with the spring rolls is to die for and they sell it to go, should you ever want to bathe in it, which, I can assure you, you will.

Thump thump thump. Be still my beating heart.

It’s as if she’s never seen such a peculiar thing. Maybe if she stares at it long enough, she’ll agree to eat it someday.

I never fail to underestimate the joy of an ice cold sprinkler on a hot summer night.

Our friend, Duddy, got the ball rolling on this Jersey Shore extravaganza after his visit to our house last October. Our kids pretty much line up and his short stay in our chaotic house somehow led him to believe that our families could spend a few days together in relative harmony. He and Dash planned it all out and before I knew it, we were en route to Saucy-licious’ parents’ beautiful beach house in Avalon, New Jersey. I had a teensy bit of trepidation descending on poor Saucy-licious, seeing as we really didn’t actually know each other very well. She and I had met but thrice: at our wedding, their wedding and our friend Philo’s wedding. I’d say she was very brave indeed to agree to this. She’s obviously a girl whose willing to take a gamble based on her hubby’s whim and you gotta love that.

Hanging out with Duddy, Saucy-licious, her sister (Little J), Little J’s boyfriend Shrimp-Boy and their friends Sweet Scissors, Little A, and a bevy of Mikes, was nothing short of revelatory. Suddenly, in the midst of this big Italian family, I felt like I fit in. Hey people! It’s not me, it’s Minnesota! No wonder! This explains everything! Elbow to elbow with this colorful and sweet group of gourmets, bon vivants and foxy chicks, I’m suddenly not the one with the loudest laugh or the most Italian looking or the one with the tightest jeans or the biggest cocktail ring! (I was actually regretting not having packed some of my big rings, but who knew I would be needing them at the beach?!) I felt like I’d come home! Maybe it’s because a big Argentine family is nothing but a short ship’s voyage away from a big Italian family. Maybe it’s because Detroit really has a more East coast vibe than Minneapolis, especially when you creep into the tony suburbs from where I hearken. Or maybe Duddy is just a genius and knew it was going to work. 

And little did I know that I was going to be getting my dancin’ fix on this trip. My new found best peeps took me to my new found fave bar in the world: The Princeton. What a trip! It’s basically a huge house with five distinct bars chocked to the rafters with revelry and mayhem. And the people watching is PHENOMENAL! It’s like a giant, labrynthian roller rink – you cruise in a huge circle, dancing and shimmying as you go, stopping to bust a few cool moves in a whatever spot you happen to catch your favorite song. One of the rooms always has a live band and Saucy-licious expertly manoevered us to the front, center stage, right up at the bar and hoooooooooo mama, did we have a good time! Great cover band, mucho dancing, ringing ears, base in the ribcage, the works. Ridiculously fun. 

The kids got along swimmingly and came and went as a little pack – a cute and chatty amoeba. They hunted for tadpoles, threw their tiny bodies up against the crushing surf, ventured out at night with head lamps and flashlights in search of crabs, giggled in their bunks late into the night and generally had the run of this little piece of kid-heaven.  Supergirl, Mini-Saucy, and Hello Kitty braved the cold waters of the Atlantic and body surfed their faces off – tough chickies. Duddy and Saucy-licious’ son, Huggy Bear, had an endearing habit of throwing his arms around Saint James and pulling him around by the shoulders. Saint James might have shrugged him off a couple times, but he was pleased as punch to be pampered by his new protector, guide and all around awesome friend. The two of them even went on an adventure to an arcade! Ten blocks, on bikes, cash in their pockets and freedom, sweet sweet freedom trailing behind them like streamers in the wind. 

As for us, we feasted, drank and laughed like kings. I would happily hang out in the kitchen with these folks all damn day and night, gabbing and drinking and watching them cook. (Saucy-licious had a gigantic pot of the most beautiful red sauce bubbling away on the stove when we walked in and my mission in life is to recreate it when I get home – meatballs, pork ribs and all). The Duddys are masters of the concoctions (solid, liquid and in-between) and they are forever puttering around the kitchen mixing together some sort of tasty libation or tender vittle. Almost nothing goes untouched by them. Whether it’s Seltzer water amped up with a little sour cherry syrup, or homemade chocolate made with coconut oil, or virgin Piña Coladas, or Cioppino, or pancakes, or meatball sandwiches, or Latin pork pernil, or Saucy-licious’ red sauce. There is always a way to make something more tasty by throwing a little love at it and this is what they do best. I picked up many a trick, tip and recipe in the tornado of deliciousness that seems to hover around the kitchen at all times. I even have some seeds for these beautiful peppers called Ancient Sweets that Saucy-licious slowly sauteed in olive oil until they turned into sweet summer goodness in a pan. (Apropos of the whole seed thing, I remember my mother smuggling parsley seeds from Argentina because the parsley available in Michigan in the seventies was not up to snuff).

If food equals love, then I feel like I just got dipped and breaded and lightly sauteed in a whole heckuvalotta love. In fact, I’m bringing a little five pound paunch home with me as a souvenir to prove how much they love me.

Thank you, dear friends, for your warm and easy hospitality. And thank you for more belly laughs and tasty bites than we could ever begin to count. What a blast!

Especially when you are lucky enough to be under the care of Duddy and his super foxy and hilarious wife, Saucy-licious. I have much to report, but for now nothing says it better than this:

So on Saturday, I surprised Supergirl after her muddy soccer game and took her to Hair Police in Uptown for some colored extensions. She’s been begging since last summer when one of her swim coaches showed up with purple and green streaks and I promised her she could get them for her kindergarten graduation. (I was pretty sure they wouldn’t be considered kosher uniform policy). As we scurried through the rain, up the stairs to the destroyed, warehousy salon, I had to chuckle at Supergirl for being so excited about doing something that she perceives to be edgy and subversive. But I was also chuckling at myself, for taking my camera, and for so predictably playing the part of the quote unquote cool mom, who is so hip that she honors her girl’s wishes for colored hair and surprises her with an appointment the day after school ends. As I watched Supergirl chat with the beautiful, dread-locked Satya, I rifled through a magazine and put it down, sighing to myself: I am a walking cliché.

I am a grup. I am a grown up who is pretending she is not grown up. I am in love with youth culture because that’s where all the color and emotion and good seem to live. My take away from the state of the world right now: at best, adults are boring; at worst, they are corrupt or inept. I don’t dress my age. I don’t act my age. But somehow, I feel like I can get away with it because I am aware of my little charade, my little schtick. I’m totally on to myself. Self-awareness excuses anything, right?

Obviously, per the article on grups linked above, clinging to the stuff of youth – music, cool clothes, cool toys – is a bit of an epidemic among thirty and forty somethings. But maybe this is the new age appropriate way to act. Forty is the new thirty and so on. Maybe we stay current with music and fashion because, in and of themselves, they are beautiful things. Why would we give up our claim to the things we have always loved just because we may be getting a bit long in the tooth? Whoever says we should is just bullshit. And if you’re going to look oldish, isn’t it better to look good oldish than simply old oldish? That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. I may be a walking cliché, but my daughter looks kick-ass. And judging from the bevy of girls and mamas crowding around her at the pool today, I think we may just have started something. Satya’s not going to know what hit her when they all start showing up for their little piece of cool summer color. Makes me smile just thinking about it.

Santigold tore it up at First Ave last night! She TORE! IT! UP! This girl is blazing hot hot hot! She’s a chica who slinks and jumps and pumps and thrashes her way through genres, yet manages to make it all hang together and groove and swell until she rips the roof OFF the place!

She’s this totally beautiful black woman with a giant voice and I found my mind racing to pin her somehow. A creature of musical mythology, she defies classification, definition, description, even. I feel like I can talk circles all around her, wrapping her in a web of useless strings, without really being able to convey the IT - the her.  

If you took Tina Turner and Blondie and Patty Smyth with a smidge of Gwen Stefani and Venus Williams and M.I.A., you might be able to approach the righteous show-womanship that is Santigold. I love her when she’s eighties rock and synthesizer voice, I love her when she’s pumping out a little hip hop, I love her when she looks like she’s doing aerobics – ONJ style, I love her when she’s thrashing her silky black shag and then pulling out a little Flash Dance-fast-run-in-place and then flips to deep, dark, African beats – chanting like a medicine woman and then all of a sudden you freeze and think: punk – of course. She’s a punk, hiphop, ska, electronica princess who had Minneapolis eating out of the palm of her hand last night. She was sweet and gracious and loved us up bigtime. An earthy diva she reads as retro and futuristic both – but street and glam too. I am smitten. Totally gone.

She was wearing a white leather jump suit that had a drapey, animal print cloth pelt over it which was cut in a vaguely eighties leotard sillouette. Amazing. And of course, the huge ghetto fabulous gold hoops. If her earlobes are intact, I would consider it a miracle. 

As a testament to how bad-ass she is, how sure she is that we won’t take our eyes off her, she’s flanked by two phenomenal, beautiful and freaky deaky dancer/back-up singers. These chicks go from being mimes to marionettes, to humpin’ flygirls, their faces blank behind white glasses. Ultra cool and totally mesmerizing.

Opening acts, Amanda Blank and Trouble Andrew, both reentered the scene at different points and I’m glad they did, since we had missed them. Amanda is a skinny white chick with a Demi Moore scratchy voice who can rap like a mean mad mo’ fo’ – her lungs are ridiculous and as she flailed around, all pale and skinny in her sexy black romper, I thought to myself: I”m not quite sure what to make of this chick, but it’s working! And Trouble Andrew, I wish we hadn’t missed him, because he slipped on stage, swooped around and sang in his beautiful guy voice and then he vanished on me. Put him on your radars.

I kept turning back to Doctor Dash- ear to ear grin – and shrieking “It’s a SPECTACLE!” And it was! A rockin’, thumpin’, spectacular spectacle of gold – Santigold.

                           Princess Kurt 1995 – by Elizabeth Peyton

I’m in the home stretch. Twelve more days. I think I’m going to make it. I’m coasting on the fumes of wishful thinking and the kindness of others. In no particular order, these are things I have promised my children, promised myself and to which I am clinging, tooth and nail, for Twelve. More. Days.

1. Tie dye t-shirts with my monkeys.

2. Find a recipe for egg drop soup and make it with Supergirl.

3. Go see the Elizabeth Peyton Exhibit at the Walker.

4. Go shopping and buy something freaking fabulous.

5. Farmers markets every weekend.

6. Take the Red Betty and the Bony Finger out on a bike date with Doctor Dash.

7. Go to Shoe Zoo and buy my kids some decent shoes. We will undoubtedly walk out of there with three pairs of Crocs, but also, hopefully, some cute sandals.

8. Go to Cooks of Crocus Hill and buy a juicer (preferably not electric), buy a ton of limes, and make margaritas with all the delicious tequila my sweet friends left on the front porch that scary, sleety Sunday before my knee surgery.

9. Put on a pair of heels and go see New Congress with my betties and anyone else who loves me and who’s up for a ripper on a Thursday night.

10. Put on a pair of Chucks and go to a show at First Ave. (Tickets for Santogold May 28 and Matisyahu July 1 are in hand).

11. Cook a feast, possibly in connection with no. 8.

12. Design and plant a shade garden in Melancholy Corner (it’s a spot of the back yard that gets no sun and just plain gives me and Dash the heeby jeebies).

13. Plant my window boxes. 

14. Walk around my lovely Harriet.

15. Unplug.

Photographer Kevin Trageser features these haunting photographs found in an album near a flooded home in the Ninth Ward. I imagine he took pictures of the pictures, stepping in to preserve something that is visibly vanishing by virtue of moisture, heat, chemical processes. Looking at these photos, it’s as if the reverse of developing is happening. The images are receding, reverting to the primordial ooze from which we came. The members of this family, who once stood proud and still for the camera, are slowly being swallowed up by the same water that inevitably soaked and ruined life as they knew it. I am struck by the quirk in the decomposition process that rendered the couple above ironically festive in a yellow party hat and flirty teal hair ribbon. And the couple below – were they cutting their wedding cake? If you look carefully, you can see a glass of white wine at the edge of the table. Did she ever remember to pick it up after she set it down in that vanishing moment?

Disquieting. Beautiful. And so very sad. Check out the rest here. 

                                                       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.

Indulgent? Ambitious? Definitely. Maybe. But it’s six weeks. Just looking at this pile is sure to heal.

This morning Supergirl awoke glassy-eyed, groggy, and harboring a hacking cough. I could tell the cloud would lift and she would be fine if I sent her to school, but I thought I’d give the kid a break. Everyone deserves a mental health day from time to time and plus, if she stayed home, we’d have a little time to ourselves while Angel Baby was at pre-school. I stood over her at breakfast and decided to feel her out. Do you think you need to stay home from school today? Do you feel that sick? She nodded as she arranged her features into her best impersonation of a baleful street urchin and coughed feebly but incessantly into the crook of her elbow. Oh she’s good. Not over played. Nothing cartoonish about her portrayal of a sick girl. Workin’ those enormous eyes. Yep, she nailed it.

I felt her forehead for show, as I already had a plan for her little day of rest. If Supergirl stayed home, we could go to Galoony’s for steak and cheese subs before picking up Angel Baby from school. Hurrah for me – I love a partner in crime. My only stipulation was no TV for her – no computer for me. She nodded solemnly.

Lunch – what can I say about lunch? It was the best. I can’t remember the last time Supergirl and I had a meal by ourselves. Sitting in a two person booth enjoying our sodas, our conversation meandered in unexpected fits and starts – like a kid dizzy after spinning around in circles. Galoony’s has huge grafitti-inspired wall murals and that got us talking about grafitti. Why it can be bad, why it can be beautiful.

We talked about grafitti artists having to work in the dark, on the fly, with eyes in the back of their heads, always on the look out for the cops. So if it turns out really pretty, it’s worth it, she said. Not a girl who needs to be fed lines in black and white, I stepped into the gray with her. Absolutely. I happen to think so, anyway.

Then we played a couple rounds of build-a-man (incidentally, they no longer call it hang-man. Also banished from the playground of political correctness are sitting Indian-style and giving Chinese-cuts).

Our subs came and we talked about our mutual love of meat sandwiches. There is totally no way you are happier eating this sandwich than me, she murmured. I will remind her of this meal when she goes through her vegetarian phase someday, God forbid.

And then, because Supergirl is obsessed with albinos we talked about albinism – which led to a creaky discussion of genetics as I stumbled around the dusty boxes of my mind trying to remember and explain how dominant and recessive genes work. There is a small colony of albino squirrels on our side of the creek and when we saw that one had been hit by a car last summer, our family let out a collective moan as we drove by the small white splotch on side of the road. She wanted to hear all about the albino boy I saw in Florida when I was a young girl. How his skin was as pale as paper. How he only came out at sunset and waded into the ocean, bending his lanky frame into a question mark to dip the tips of the his fingers into the water. How he wore sunglasses even at sunset because his eyes were so fragile, so susceptible to the light we take for granted. She wanted to know if he was scary. She wanted to know if he was friendly.

I don’t know, I said. He was older than me. I didn’t try to be his friend. 

Maybe you should have.

Maybe I should have.

Here’s a well kept secret. There is no better lunch partner than a kindergartner. They are as pure hearted, honorable, and wise as they will ever be – the kind of wisdom that comes from having no pre-conceived notions, no biases – only the ability to question, to reason, to see that next step in a logical sequence and jump to it with enviable agility. They are aware of gender differences, but as of yet completely unaffected and they inhabit their bodies with absolute joy and freedom. They are curious and unjaded. They are learning to read – to decode the ultimate mystery – the key to everything. They see beauty and humor in places we don’t even bother to look anymore. Kindergartners are magic. Pure magic.

I am so sad this year is almost over. I am so glad I let her stay home today.

I’m in the dog house for having stayed out too late last night celebrating Nanook of the North’s birthday. It was supposed to be a delicious celebratory feast at 112 Eatery with a dozen and change of her BFFs – a lovely evening dinner strategically timed for all of us to miss having to put our respective offspring to bed, but not meant to extend beyond what would otherwise be considered prudent or proper for a Sunday night.

If intention counts for anything, and I would argue that it should, it was not my intent when I got picked up at 5:30 in my new spring coat, to come rolling in the door at two thirty in the morning. Not at all. If it had been, I wouldn’t have taken my gigantic purse and no lipstick. And no cell phone.

Our dinner was delicious and loud and funny and when it was time to go, Nanook, Crackerjack, Pretty Young Thing and I looked at our watches and made a snip snap decision to stay downtown. It was only eight thirty, after all, the night but a fresh faced choir boy. Some of the other ladies were tempted, but begged off in an enviable display of good judgment. We four miscreants finished our drinks and traipsed to the elevator where Crackerjack did a standing splits for whatever reason sending us into peals of laughter and a trip to nowhere. When the doors opened we spilled out onto the same floor, giggling and completely befuddled by how our waiter had managed to beat us downstairs, that sneaky fleet-footed bastard. And so it began.

Downtown is pretty dead on a Sunday night, but it turns out there is plenty of mischief to be gotten into when all you need to be completely entertained is some drinks, some tunes, and some really funny lady friends. At about eleven I called Doctor Dash to let him know I would be staying out after dinner for a few drinks. I patted myself on the back. Responsible. Considerate. Later that phone message came back to haunt me.

But I called you – I left a message, she said.

You sounded like you were only going to stay out a little longer, he said.  

And you believed me? she did not say.

Here’s the thing. Asking me to peel myself away from the forcefield of hilarity that we manage to conjure up any time we go out is like asking Pepe Le Pew to keep his stinky paws off the cute petite fille skunk. I simply cannot tear myself away because there has not been nearly enough crazy laughing and unfettered shenanigans in my life since college. And I miss it terribly. Back then my college girlfriends set the baseline for female friendship and good times – there was no recapturing that once we scattered around the country after graduation. Then came many years of babies and young children and the attendant exhaustion and general inability to take on anything else. But now I’ve made some new girlfriends and we’re all coming out of that bleary-eyed time, trying to figure out who we are again, what we’re going to do with our lives. In many ways, it feels like we are revisiting those uncertain times of our youth. There’s a lot to talk about and break down, there’s a lot laugh about and now, more than ever, we need to laugh. Age-appropriateness, situation-appropriateness be damned. What kind of a person can tap her watch and say, ok, that’s enough fun for me. I am powerless. Utterly powerless to walk away from a good time. And these girls are nothing, if not a good time.

Doctor Dash totally knows this about me. He knows I can’t say when. He knows I always want just a few more minutes, one more song, one more drink, one more laugh, one more long goodbye.

But just because he knows he married a party barnacle, it fails to mitigate how annoying it must be for him to be woken up as I try to eat girl scout cookies and balance a flashlight in bed so I can read myself to sleep at three o’clock in the morning. Crinkle crinkle. Or having to get up to let me in because I forgot my key. Or being blanketed by a vague sense of worry until he hears me clunking around the kitchen scavenging for food. He can go through all the motions of going to sleep, but poor Doctor Dash can’t really sleep until I’m back home safe. When I was sixteen I wouldn’t have understood. Now I understand. And I am deeply thankful that I happen to matter this much to someone. 

Chastened and hungover, so much of this little scenario sent me shooting right back to my youth – I stayed out too late, I was unreachable by phone, I screwed up, my dad er husband was mad because he couldn’t go to sleep and he had a tough day at work ahead of him. When you’re young and you mess up, you skulk around trying to avoid your parents. You suffer the consequences. Maybe there’s a shouting match. But in the end, what can you do? When you screw up at this age, you fix it. There is no other choice. And the beauty of it is, you have the wisdom to acknowledge when you need to apologize, when you need to own up. And now, unlike then, you’ve got a few tricks up your sleeve.

So what did I do? I started cooking like a motherfucker. I decided I’d do an asian-style pulled pork and with coffee and Advil in one hand and ginger, soy, fish sauce, onion, garlic, and thai chilis in the other, I concocted a beautiful bath for a succulent pork shoulder to spend the day slow cooking. The smell that filled the house by ten a.m. was amazing, and if that didn’t say I’m sorry – then at least my text message would. Actually, I get a bit of the clam hands when I try to text and after the third try, the best I could do was spqqxy. I pressed send, hoping Dash would know what I meant.

I am really really spqqxy.

Old men with metal detectors.

Googly eyes. They instantly take any art project right over the top.

Spinach – raw, cooked, wilted, creamed – any way you got it, that’s the way I like it.

This video. I think it’s hilarious and just a tiny bit creepy. If I were a female chanteuse, this would totally be my video, only I would add a few wipe-outs.

The birthday card Supergirl made for her friend, Ethan. This is the back, the part that usually says Hallmark $1.99. For those of you not fluent in kinder-speak, I’ll translate: Cool, Awesome, Wicked, Sweet. Supergirl’s motivating force is coolness. I so get that.

The fact that in this city at this time a teenage lesbian couple feels comfortable enough to walk around the lake hand in hand – just like any other high schoolers in like/love. (Seriously, is it me? Is it spring? Because the last three times I’ve been around the lake, I have seen cutie pie lesbian handholders). Now if only it could be that easy for the boys. Someday.

Spring, baby!My Irish friends – whether you be all or just a wee bit – Happy St. Patty’s Day – I sure do wish I could crack a beer with you, you fun bunch of fuckers!