peevish mama

Supergirl has been begging, begging, to go to Circus Camp for two years. When she was four, I told her she was too young. When she was five, I told her she was too young. Now she’s six and she can go. Good Lord. Flying trapeze, balancing balls, bungee trapeze, high wire, clowning, German wheel – what the hell is a German wheel? I don’t like the sound of that – sounds sinister. As I read through the website, I feel a lump in my throat. It all sounds so . . . dangerous. It all sounds so . . . perfect for Supergirl. Sigh. What else can we do but try to follow our children’s bliss? So I’m signing her up and she’s jumping out of her skin. Her response when I told her? “Aw, sweetness!” uttered with the face and voice of a six year old girl, but the ‘tude of a fifteen year old skateboard rat.

“Circus Juventas, a performing arts circus school for youth, is dedicated to inspiring artistry and self-confidence through a multi-cultural circus arts experience.” We are lucky enough to have this place just over the river in St. Paul and on Saturday we went to their big open house celebration. I was curious and I figured, what the hell, let’s give Supergirl a little teaser of what’s to come this summer.

I can honestly say that there is nothing I did not love about it. They had all their equipment set up in the Big Top and after collecting a waiver, the kids were allowed to try their hand at the trapeze, the swinging rope, the trampoline, the high wire and all sorts of other cool things. We caught two performances while we were there and there was a moment when, I swear to God, I got choked up watching this beautiful girl soar through the air on a trapeze. We were practically underneath her and I could see every one her muscles working and straining to gain momentum before she draped herself into poses of breathtaking precariousness. It was poetry to watch a body performing so fluently and so beautifully. Later some contortionists crawled out in freaky green leotards, looking like really buff amphibians. These three girls were healthy, which is to say that they were by no means skinny, which is to say that they had big glutes and breasts and were a joy to watch as they bent their spines into almost unimaginable positions. I do yoga, I do back bends. Holy shit, these girls made my back bends look like paltry hillocks to their acute Mt. Kilmangaros. They were fantastic.

And as we clapped and watched with mouths agape, I was able to crack open why I was digging it so much. This was all about bodies – beautiful fantastic strong and limber bodies – but it was about what these bodies can do, not about how these bodies look. It was a celebration of physical prowess and artistry and it was gorgeous to watch. It was a really inspiring bookend of sorts to my recent, admittedly dour, body ruminations. 

There was also a real joyful looseness to the place in terms of what has become the overbearing strong arm of “safety”. Maybe because they are circus-types and there is a certain degree of physical peril implicit in the whole endeavor, but it was clear their focus was on set up and rigging and no one seemed to get that bent out of shape about all the kids climbing around like monkeys and perched on ladders and scaffolding watching the shows. Most of the kids were Circus Juventas kids, but of course, Supergirl shimmied her way up on to a platform for a better view and they let her be. I watched people who work there see her, expecting them to tell her to get down and they didn’t. I tell you, it warmed my cockles to see that kind of freedom and faith. Faith that a kid can manage not to kill themselves ten feet off the ground.

So Supergirl is all signed up and ready to go. She’ll go for a week this summer from nine in the morning to four in the afternoon and there will be a performance on Friday. I know she’s in it for the swinging, the speed, the height, the adrenaline. I’m just hoping this is one more way for her to realize just how much power and grace she carries in her little frame. I hope she has a blast.

Of course I’ll be keeping my fingers crossed that this all doesn’t backfire on me. That ten years from now doesn’t find me clutching a tattered, tearstained goodbye note to my chest, weeping unconsolably as I blindly urge my minivan down a long dusty dirt road in hot pursuit of the circus train choo choo chooing into the dusk.

Ah, Ricardo. I was indeed saddened to hear of your passing.  You will be missed by multitudes – by me. You bring me back, Ric . . . may I call you Ric?  Ric, seeing your handsome Mexican aristocratic features brings me back to a more innocent time. To my girlhood, Ric.  How peculiar that you, a gentleman old enough to be my the older brother of my father, should feel so inextricably woven with my youth – those tender years when I wiled away the hours watching TV on my belly on a musty brown shag rug in the basement of a split level suburban Detroit home. Your prominent and distinguished eyebrows, so reminiscent of my own at the time, bring back a flood of memories as softly contoured and rosy-hued as one of your fantasy sequences where you doled out wishes and life lessons with such knowing benevolence from your tropical pleasure cove. Ric, seeing you in your impeccable white suit, sitting with such ease and grace in that wicker wing chair, flanked by your trusty numero dos, Tattoo, is like opening a beautifully wrapped but long forgotten box tucked way back in my girlhood closet. Inside that box, Ric, are memories – oh so many memories. Memories of the most perfect Saturday night imaginable for a girl of eight in 1978: McDonald’s for dinner, the arrival of a babysitter, a fragrant and breezy kiss goodbye from the parents and the best night of TV in history.  

The holy trinity of TV:  Dance Fever, The Love Boat, Fantasy Island.

Oh Ric, I wish I could hold your soft tanned lovingly manicured hand as I take this walk down memory lane.  I’m sure you remember Dance Fever: four couples, four sets of razzle dazzle costumes, four shots at the big one!  All disco dancing their little hearts out under the sexy gaze and slithery pulsating hips of Danny Terrio. Oh, Ric, don’t make that face. Danny had nothing on you.  He strutted around in jazz shoes and white vests and yes, he had great hair, but he was just an acorn to your strong magnificent oak. You were a father figure to Danny, Ric. Surely, after all these years, you have come to see that?

After that extravaganza of sequins, sparkle, panache and heart came The Love Boat, setting a course for adventure, our minds on a new romance. Again with the face Ric! I’m shocked. What’s that you say? Captain Merrill Stubing was a bald paunchy nelly? Well, of course! He was just trying to be you with the white captain’s suit and all, but he couldn’t hold a candle. This is beneath you, Ric. You should feel sorry for Captain Stubing – he spent his whole career sucking in his gut and talking about you. But you must admit, Ric, The Love Boat promises something for every one – including this eight year old girl.  I might have missed the significance of most of the sultry looks, meaningful glances, and coy double entendres cast about in the soft breezes of the Promenade deck, but oh, how I loved that show. Ric, I know this is going to make you crazy, but I had a crush on Gopher for a little while. Get up, stop that! I know he wasn’t attractive, but I had to pick someone to have a crush on, and he was the only choice when you think about it.  I suppose now I would have picked Doc, but back then, well, Gopher just seemed so friendly.  Oh I know, I’m not proud of it, but I was eight, Ric! Cut me some slack. And really, it was that pool I was hot after. Imagine that!  A pool on a ship! Funny, at this point in my life, I hope to never see a pool on a ship, but back then . . . oh, how titillating that was. Do you happen to know, Ric, being such a man of the world, whether you feel the pitch and roll of the ship when you are in the pool? I always wondered.

And finally, Ricardo, your show. Be still my beating heart – the fabulously escapist and inimitable Fantasy Island came last of all. It was quite late by then, maybe ten o’clock, and my drowsy state probably enhanced the dreamlike qualities of your show. Ric, I wouldn’t have missed it for all the stickers in the world. I forced myself to stay awake. I imagined my eyelids held apart with toothpicks, like those of a sleepy cartoon character. Oh Ric, I loved that opening sequence, with the float plane and Tattoo – you really found a winning formula there. I loved the lays and the drinks and the expressions on your guests’ faces as they alighted from the plane: wonder, skepticism, confusion. Oh, Ric, it was just too much! Each episode was so exciting, an unwritten chapter in a book of wonders and you were the magician, Ric.  A dashing, distinguished, and wise magician. You allowed your guests to seek and strive, to chase their dreams, but you always knew when to step in to save them from themselves.  Danger, romance, longing. You were a virtuoso, Ric, a puppet master of unequaled skill and wisdom. Eventually I would lose my battle with the sandman, the toothpicks snapping into useless splinters. I would drift off to the sounds of your deep and knowing chuckle, the pitter patter of Tattoo’s little shoes on the dock, the propeller, revving and then fading into the distant horizon. Have a safe flight, Ric . . . and a happy landing.  And one more thing.  Thanks.

If you make sure my McDonalds’ fries are piping hot and as salty as the brow of the devil’s wife, then you, my friend, have gone a long way to toward making my day.

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.

I’ve been feeling like I’m walking around wearing one of those huge Russian fur hats, but instead of luxurious warm mink, it’s made of vague, heavy worries.  Part of it is reading Hot, Flat and Crowded, part of it is that you’d have to live under a rock not to appreciate just how tenuous and awful everything seems right now.  

On the other hand, it’s Christmas, and while I know that this is a really tough time of year for a lot of people, I feel really  blessed.  I have three healthy children who still believe in Santa, so it is hard not to be swept along in the magic.  Along with the trappings and stress, there are also some things that are truly simple pleasures – like gingerbread houses and Christmas lights.  Today I opened my front door to get the mail (which I love this time of year) and the afternoon sun shining through the glass door had so warmed our wreath that I was enveloped in the smells of a virgin pine forest.  Proustian Christmas synapses were firing every where.  

And so with the heavy fur shapka on my head, I sometimes feel like I’m getting whiplash from the happy and the sad - the lovely and the dreadful.  Think of the poor Walmart employee who was trampled by overzealous holiday shoppers – that singular event, which I try not to think about, typifies the dark and horrible edges of this time of year – the base, careless and deeply selfish contours of the human soul.  

This morning was the dress rehearsal for Saint James’ and Supergirl’s Christmas concert.  I kept waffling back and forth as to whether I would go.  Maybe I should try to exercise or run some errands instead. Maybe my kids don’t need their stalker/mother beaming at them from the pews every time they turn their heads.   I’ll be seeing the whole thing tonight anyway and I certainly have a shitload to do. But in the end, I went.  I went because it’s Christmas.  I went because, in the grand scheme of things, how many more of these concerts do I really have?  I went because life is short and you never know what lies around the corner.  I went because I heard the kindergartners were going to be wearing angels’ wings.  I went because I needed to be still in a pew more than I needed yet another trip to Target.  I went and I’m so glad I did.

Say what you will about Catholic schools, but they sure do know how to put on a Christmas concert.  The children sing in high silvery voices, their chins raised to catch those slippery upper register notes . . . and it is nothing short of lovely.  They sing of mangers and wisemen, drummer boys and angels . . . the boy child bringing hope, love, peace and JOY!  They sing in German and Spanish . . . there are recorders, french horns, bells and violins . . . and not a mention of presents or toys or Santa Claus with all the price tags sticking out of his back pocket.  Crackerjack and Renaissance Man’s son played a beautiful violin solo with so much more soul than I thought possible from a smiley nine year old.  And I swear there was a part where the third graders started humming and it sounded just like Charlie Brown’s Christmas. 

I sat, and I listened.  I beamed and waved at my kids.  I let the dear sweet voices of the children wash over me. And for a few glowing moments, I felt that all was right in the world.

I’m obsessed with tea.  I’ll admit that I wasn’t always such a fan.  A couple winters ago, the winter that Devil Baby was a red, squalling, bundle of colic, to be specific, Doctor Dash started into an infuriating little nighttime tea ritual.  He of the poor circulation and chilly extremities would endlessly putter around the kitchen, readying his steaming cup of whatever, while I watched with growing irritation, usually with the baby attached to my nipple rendering his offers to prepare a cup for me impossible to consider.  I don’t know, something about drinking a scalding liquid over my squirming baby’s face just seemed like a bad idea.  I would watch him through narrowed eyes, feeling my skin prickle with annoyance, thinking he looked so nebbish – so self-indulgent as he sipped and slurped his cuppa.  

I resented his doing something to make himself comfortable when I felt so very uncomfortable.  I resented his making me feel like we were eighty.  Every once in a while, no longer able to contain my disgust, I’d let rip something super mature and intelligent like “Tea is so gay,”  or “You look like Steve Perry when you purse your lips like that.”  

As with many things over the years (i.e. fish, Radiohead, black coffee, Goodfellas, the Yankees), I have come around to Dash’s point of view and then some.  I have taken his penchant for tea and rolled it and patted it and marked it with a P . . . because now Peevish Mama can’t live without it.  I’m especially keen on Lotus teas, with their attractive whiff of the orient packaging and seemingly endless therapeutic benefits.  Heaviest in my rotation are Bedtime, a soothing blend of valerian, chamomile, passion flower and skullcap to help reduce occasional anxiety; Detox, a healthy balance of burdock, dandelion, Indian sasparilla and juniper berry to give my body a natural advantage over pollutants (i.e. liquor, salt); and Immune Support, a lively combination of astragalus, elderberry, echinacea, lemongrass and peppermint to strengthen my body’s defenses (against the petrie dishes that are my children in winter).  I also indulge in green tea, English breakfast tea (with milk and sugar), and hot cider (which is not tea, but is still steamy and old lady-like).  

Why the tea?  Well my house is freezing, for one thing, so I’ve always got my hands around a warm mug and a scarf around my carotid arteries (another Dash tip).  Those chilly Brits are most definitely onto something with the tea and scarves.  And truth be told, I like the ritual of it.  If I were really serious about this, I would forgo the microwave and wait around for the merry whistle of the tea kettle. I would steep loose tea in a mesh ball (like the one I wanted to put tiny Beck in). I would drink out of dainty floral tea cups with matching saucers. I’d be all spot of tea this and spot of tea that – and I’d cultivate the yellowest set of choppers you ever laid eyes on.   

This year for Thanksgiving, the eastern jetstream kindly brought us our dear friends Kate and Paul and their adorable, slightly elusive, salami-loving daughter, Lainey.  Kate is one of my college roommates, a tequila-loving, hilariously cynical, bon vivant who just happens to be one of my favorite people to cook and feast with.  She married a fellow Wisconsinite named Paul, whose genial, sweet nature, unassuming brilliance and funny stories have endeared him to us in degrees far surpassing the amount of time we’ve actually spent with him.  Doctor Dash and I have made it our life’s mission to convince these guys to move to Minneapolis where they would not only have the pleasure of seeing us daily, but more opportunities for ice skating and hockey than they would know what to do with . . . not to mention superior dairy and pork products than those found in chichi-foodie-organic-everything Seattle.  

We kicked off our visit with empanadas, salad and lots of delicious red wine.  For an Argentine like myself, empanadas are a Pavlovian bell signaling good times.  No one ever eats empanadas when they’re sad . . . or maybe no one can be sad when eating empanadas.  Regardless, on Tuesday afternoon, I took great anticipatory pleasure in whipping them up with the ground beef from this year’s grass fed bovine.  The empanadas did their job of shaking their booties and singing: Welcome friends!  We’re so glad you’re here!  Paaaahtay!

Wednesday was a sunny, comfortable blur of meal plotting, shopping, some prep work and hanging out with the kids.  Inevitably, the conversation would circle around to our other housemates and we tuned into Heather’s hubby’s kick-ass community radio show, Hip City out of Saint Louis, for some bodacious r&b, soul, funk, and hip-hop to entertain and edify us while we hung out in the kitchen.  Devil Baby took quite a shine to Paul, drawing on all her feminine wiles to usurp Lainey, and he spent his day gracefully negotiating the vying, coy attention-seeking of two two year old girls.  God bless him.  Supergirl was big sisterish with Lainey, taking her under her wing to spy, play, and hide from her mother – eventually marking her with the ultimate badge of acceptance by coloring her nipples with a green marker.  Oy.  Saint James took every opportunity to lure Paul outside to kick a soccer ball around or show him cool soccer moves on YouTube.  The day slid by in happy chaos and when Dash returned from work, we piled into the minivan and went to Yum for a tasty, kid-friendly, easy-peasy dinner.  It was our first time there and a bit of a gamble for us to try a new place with our friends – especially given our mission to convert them to the idea of a MPLS relocation – but we were all pleased with our dinners and I, for one, will be back for the tuna melt.

On Thursday, the kitchen was filled with the sounds of sizzling, chopping, music and chatter.  We were expecting our friends Martin and Betty, their two sons, Martin’s mom and their nanny at around four.  We had an unexpected but lovely pop-in from our friends Big and his foxy wife on their way to another Thanksgiving celebration, so we cracked a bottle of wine at three o’clock with them and were deliciously sandwiched when they came back by for desert.  

Our dinner was a knock-out, a true group effort, and honestly, not something I think I could have pulled off without my girl, Kate, by my side.  Or it certainly wouldn’t have been as fun and relaxing.  Here’s the blow by blow:

We started with an array of cheeses:  Humbolt Fog, a delicious weedy tasting goat with two textures and a line of ash in the middle, an aged Mahon, a creamy, nutty tasting hard cow’s milk cheese from Spain specked with intriguing flavor explosion crystals, Fromage D’ Affinois, a pungent, oozy and decadent double cream, and St. Agur Blue - always love a blue and this one is especially creamy.  We also had my not-yet-famous-but-worthy-of-being-famous smokey, spicy, carmelized almonds for snacking.  I’m trying to come up with a better name, and so far the frontrunner is Deez Nutz- crooned à la Snoop Dog.

The curtain opened on dinner with a light and savory white bean soup made by Martin, who year after year, has proven himself to be the kind of cook who always manages to make it look effortless.  The rest of the luscious ditties were as follows: a beautiful 20 lb organic bird named Tom in honor of the nut pecker we’ve all grown to love and admire.  Creamy horseradish mashed potatoes.  Cornbread and chorizo stuffing made by Doctor Dash and unanimously agreed to be a worthwhile and delectable departure from traditional stuffing.  Bourbon yams brought by Martin and Betty – as happy as yams could possibly be, bathed as they are in a silky sauce of bourbon, butter and brown sugar – to die for.  Brussel sprouts topped in pancetta – also delicious with the salty pork playing nicely with the slightly bitter sprouts.  And last but not least, cranberry chutney – again, a departure from the standard, but the shallot and ginger manage to work the berries into a frenzy, their tart little voices singing with joy in your mouth.  For desert, we had apple pie, pumpkin mousse pie made by Kate and Supergirl, and regular pumpkin pie brought by Big and his foxy wife.  The latter became a victim to my late night snacking on multiple nights thereafter . . . the perils of being delicious and in my path when I’m up past two o’clock in the morning for four nights in a row.

We set up our Who table in our as-of-yet empty living room and this is the first time we fully used our wedding china – gravy boat and all.  I felt quite grown up, to tell you the truth.  The kids made place cards and napkin rings, giving the whole table a quirky, casual vibe.  And let’s face it – throw enough votives at anything and it looks pretty.  The food, wine, and company were as lovely as I could have hoped for and went a long way toward warming our house into home.  I like to believe that with each visit, each echo of laughter, each spilt glass of wine, each candle lit that melts down on its own, each story told and meal shared, our house shivers a little with pleasure, holding all of that warmth into itself, remembering and preparing for the next time.   

And Friday – well, on Friday Dash and I pulled out the big guns.  After an afternoon poking around the Lake Harriet Peace Garden and Bird Sanctuary, topped off with a trolley ride with Santa, we happily left the brood with a couple young sitters and busted a move for downtown.  A little nighttime driving tour by Dash ended up at the Guthrie, where we grabbed some beers and ogled the sleek beauty that is the theater and the stellar views throughout.  Aren’t we lucky to have such a pantheon to theatre in our city?  I love the Guthrie – we go there during the day with the kids after eating our way through the Mill City Market – we stretch our imaginations and intellects when we get the chance to take in a wonderful play – and now, we’ve discovered a great place for cocktails before a night out.  Just cool.

At nine o’clock we slid into a booth at 112 Eatery, my absolute faaaaaavorite restaurant . . . Cheshire cat grins and ready for a feast.  And 112, of course, did not disappoint.  Plate after plate of mouthwatering, unfussy, inspired vittles kept us contentedly eating and drinking and chattering for nearly three hours.  Dash and I lost our steak tartare virginity . . . andloved it.  Everything from the lamb scottadito in basil goat yogurt sauce, to the maple gorgonzola squash, to the spicy broccolini, to the prosciutto bread, to the crab salad, to the pan fried parmesan reggiano covered gnocchi, to the scallops on oyster mushrooms . . . was swoon-worthy.  We topped it all off with the banana cream tart, which Dash and I always get, and the chocolate pot de creme.  The four of us rolled out of there, licking our chops and rubbing our bellies. 

After dropping off the sitters and making sure the kids were snug bugs, we reconvened in the basement for a little Rock Band, and the Bradleys proved to be quite the dynamic duo on drums.  Paul brought an uncharacteristic rock n’ roll swagger to every instrument he tried and with these two virtuosos in our corner, we were able to unlock a bunch of new songs and fully rock the house.  Really, we were really really good.  And no band fights!

And now, after days and days of relishing our friends and feasting on salty foods and drinking delicious wines and beers and laughing and reminiscing and concocting all manner of new inventions and jobs for ourselves, I need to depuff  and detox . . . before the next round of parties . . . 

The stars aligned themselves this week – just so – in order to bring us two of our favorite people:  my best childhood friend, Sweet Sue, and our hilarious college buddy, Duddy.  It felt like an embarrassment of riches, to have these two in town for work (and a bit of play) at the same time.

Sweet Sue has known me in all my fiendish glory since I was twelve.  We were silly, hyper, over-achieving Catholic schoolgirls together, we were awkward boy-starved, melodramatic journal writing teenagers together, we were crunchy, boozing, bar hopping, bored by our hometown college girls together . . . and now, as impossible as it is to believe sometimes, we are all grown up.  Women.  Sweet Sue lives in Manhattan. She’s a standup comic and a writer. Her life is technicolored and glamorous to me – a world away from my deciduous tree kid-centered existence.  We’re both busy – we correspond by email in intermittent flurries and then go dormant for weeks, months even.  We squeeze in good long juicy phone calls a few times a year and a visit every couple years.  There is no one, and I mean no one, who I’d rather loom with than Sweet Sue.  She and I raise loitering to an art form.  We once spent nine hours slothing it around Fanueil Hall in Boston and on the same trip, logged an ungodly number of hours in a nondescript park in Washington, D.C., happy as clams, moving from park bench to park bench, amused spectators to a tiny chunk of the world I couldn’t find again if you paid me a million dollars.  We meander, eat, sit, people watch, shop, and most of all talk.  We can certainly talk on a couch in a quiet room, but something about being out in the fray, with the world swirling about, that sort of allows conversations to unfold and skip along in expected and unexpected ways.  The volume on the world gets turned down, and we talk of life and love and loss.  We talk of clothes and hair and celebrities.  We used to talk about weight a lot – and then do nothing about it.  Now we talk about skin care – and do nothing about it.  Why is it so good for my soul to spend time with her?  Because I love her, plain and simple.  I just do.  And because when we’re together, the girls we used to be are there too, shimmering closer to the surface than in regular life.  When we’re together, it just doesn’t feel that different from when we were twelve.  I don’t think it ever will.

And after Sweet Sue’s short and lovely visit, I turned my attention to Duddy, who was Doctor Dash’s roommate in college.  He and Dash and three other guys lived down the block from our little blue house of girls on Saint Peter’s Street.  Duddy was the beautiful curly haired boy with the station wagon – the wagon that I conjure in my memory as having clouds of pot smoke billowing out of its windows as it sharked its way through the streets of Southbend.  It was so good to see him again.  We feasted and we partied and we laughed our asses off.  We talked about our kids.  Duddy has three beautiful children. In a way it blows my mind – but I also have this down in the gut certainty that he’s a great dad.  I haven’t seen him with his kids, but after seeing him with my kids, I just know.  And I’m not surprised.  What else were we doing in college, but in some ways preparing for this?  We were finding ourselves and figuring out who we wanted to be.  We were free and happy and in constant pursuit of a good time, a good buzz – soaking it all in, completely unaware of the blink of an eye that would take us to our real lives, our lives with a capital “L”. 

We were unwittingly setting the bar for ourselves: the bar for friendship, the bar for happiness.  

Duddy and Dash knew me when I was young.  When motherwas not my identity.  When every thought, emotion, decision and perception didn’t emerge, slightly altered, through the filter of motherhood.  It’s almost inconceivable to me now that I was actually that girl once.  That I walked through this world freely, unconnected to these children that are now everything to me.  For these reasons I have always cherished my college friendship with Dash and our friendships with our other college friends.  It’s a cliche, but man, you really do pick up where you left off.  I hadn’t seen Duddy in ten years and it’s as if a day hasn’t gone by since we were all huddled around a keg in fishermen sweaters and flannel shirts.  At the same time, there’s this intriguing decade and a half long chasm filled with the stuff of our lives:  marriage, work, children, pleasure, survival, compromises. There are music, books and ideas to be shared. There’s a whole hell of a lot to catch up on.  And catch up we did. 

Dash and I are both transplants to this fair city, so we don’t have many old friends here.  We have friends that are starting to feel like old friends, friends that will some day be old friends.  Here’s the thing – our old friends are scattered around the country, so when we see them, the past  – our shared past – is breathtakingly immediate.  We tap right back into that fountain of youth because we haven’t had time to pile other experiences on top of it.  There haven’t been barbeques and kids’ birthday parties creating new memory growth rings that change our perceptions of ourselves and each other from when we were twenty-one.  I suppose that’s why these little peeks into each other’s lives as grown ups are so sweetly compelling.  We see our own growth in each other . . . and in each other, we are reminded of how it all started.

The happy, pasty people in this picture don’t know how tired they are.  They won’t know for a few hours yet.  As of the time of the taking of this picture the bone-deep fatigue is still hovering in the periphery, floating on the jittery thermal winds of coffee and adrenaline, punctuated by fuzzy memories of unfettered dancing, hilarious snatches of conversation, trippy barefoot runs through darkened woods, the kind of laughter that makes your cheeks hurt and music. Music. So much music.  No, it will be much later when the debilitating exhaustion will settle around their shoulders like a heavy, leaden cat and they will begin to unravel and take inventory of the extent of their mysterious injuries: head aches, bruises, sore necks, lost voices, blisters, maimed toes, puncture wounds.  What the fuck happened last night? they will ask themselves.

*  *  *

This is what happens when you put six couples in a super posh Wisconsin lodge/manse with a gorgeous and well stocked kitchen to cook in; two to three refrigerators stuffed to the gills with beer, wine, spirits and the fixings for elaborate and toothsome meals, appetizers and late night snacks; a huge support beam covered in beautifully ornate American Indian ceremonial headdresses just begging to be brought back to life; cozy fireplaces and smooth wooden bars strategically placed throughout; canoes hanging from the ceilings creating warm canopies, the feel of a Northwoods tiki bar; sparkling chandeliers made of spindly, ghost-like antlers; coffee tables strewn with fashion magazines and books; vintage photos of American Indians – weathered, noble and austere; and beautiful and exotic taxidermied animals everywhere you look, their calm eyes belying the sensations they must have felt when last they ran.

Around every corner there is somewhere to retreat, something new to see, someone to share a laugh with, someone handing you a beverage . . . and here is the clincher: six couples in this over-the-top, unbelievable, verging on psychedelic outdoorsman paradise lodge without the collective sixteen children roughly spanning the ages of 8 months to 12 years that they lovingly and wholeheartedly parent the other 363 days of the year.  Sin chicos! Sans enfants! Nein kinder!

It was pure, unfettered debauchery . . . but the kind of debauchery that makes you feel good, not bad.  Doctor Dash and I marveled at how genuinely happy everyone was to be there.  Everybody brought it!  I haven’t experienced that kind of instant group chemistry since college, where many many crazy and funny nights slur together to form a comfortable backdrop to any new adventures.  Maybe the chemistry came from the fact that we’re all in the same boat right now, walking the fine line between enjoying and surviving young children.  Maybe it was the extraordinary surroundings.  Maybe it was luck.

During the day everyone did what they needed to do, whether it be a run, a walk, a brisk jump in the lake, a sauna, a dip in the hot tub, a nap. Some people retired to a comfy couch to read, some watched sports, some watched a movie. Some drank green tea, some drank emergen-C, some drank Coke, some started mixing drinks at lunch - to each his own, come as you are, live and let live - we were all just happy to be there.  Mellow and happy.  Good good mojo all around. 

At night there was a joyous amoeba-like quality to the festivities.  If people were prepping dinner in the kitchen, everyone generally hung around, getting the candles lit, queueing up the next perfect song, wiping down countertops, setting the table, collectively and unconsciously working out the tempos and crescendos of the night.  Dinners were boisterous and luxurious candlelit affairs, with amazing wines and delicious, sustaining food, leaving us sated and fortified for the rest of evening.  

And did I mention there was music?  And did I mention there was dancing?  And did I mention there was tequila?  Señor Patrón rides again!  Maybe it was the snow-white mountain goat perched in the eaves, but climbing up to dance on coffee tables, couches, bars and barstools was peculiarly and simply irresistible.  

Oh babies, did we shake it!  We shook it and shook it until all the shake in our shakers was shook out!  

*  *  *

And within hours of the time this picture was taken, the music was quiet, the dust had settled and they were gone.  Only the mounted animals remained, gazing forlornly over the empty space.  The couples left as quickly as they had come, speeding back home, hearts suspended, bone-tired but pulled like moths to flame – to small arms and delighted shrieks . . . to home.

Is usually just trash.  Most of the stuff IN peoples’ houses is junk, so chances are extremely high that what they actually choose to throw out, deserves to be thrown out, and probably should have been thrown out a long time ago.  I’m the woman who’s always trying to get rid of things. Simplify. Good riddance. Which iswhy it was alarmingly out of character for me to blow by a little pile of curbside stuff with a cardboard sign labeled “FREE”, only to stop the minivan and actually back up on Penn Ave.  Supergirl was in the backseat and as I threw the car in reverse I muttered “Let’s just get a closer look at that painting . . . thing.”  

She sprung out of her seat, landed in a soft crouch, swiveling her head to and fro to make sure no one was going to move in on our find.  She was so excited she was panting.  I rolled down our windows simultaneously and I imagine that the sight of our mugs being slowly revealed was rather amusing if anyone happened to be watching from the house: Supergirl in her plaid jumper with a huge open expectant smile and bright eyes, me in big sunglasses covering my need for another cup of coffee, a look of mild distaste mingled with curiosity stamped on my tired face.  

“That’s so beautiful!” gushed Supergirl.  The die was cast.  The minivan door slid open and out she popped for her first dumpster diving expedition.  This pastoral Northwoods scene is painted on a piece of plywood, about 20” by 25” so she had to use all her muscle to hoist it into the car.  

It is so obviously the work of an amateur.  It is so obviously something that has moldered in the garage collecting grime and the occasional paint splatter for the past twenty years.  But something about it is compelling.  For one thing, it makes my daughter happy and I can’t help thinking that this two minute episode may end up being one of those salient moments that she remembers for the rest of her life – as opposed to the piles and piles of other moments when I’m being crabby and impatient and not my best self.  Maybe this will be the shiny pebble that she can clutch in her hand someday in the far distant future.

Moreover, it’s a reminder of that little sputtering light inside of us. The flicker that mostly gets tamped down, but sometimes, with a little luck or grace or a change in circumstance – with the stubborn set of a jaw or a deep breath or a rash move, gains a little strength and burns a little brighter and prods us to try something new, causes us to scratch the itch and venture outside our comfort zone, through our fear and do something that we may very well suck at. 

When I look at this painting, I imagine it was painted by a crotchety old guy, someone who worked the same job his entire life and didn’t go in for artsy fartsy stuff at all.  He probably loved being outdoors.  Maybe he had had a cabin somewhere.  Maybe he was retired and one morning as he stuffed his stiff feet into the slippers by his bedside he sighed, gingerly massaged his swollen knee and wondered why he should get up at all.  Maybe he stared down at his frayed moccasins for a while, turning it all over in his head.  What was the point?  Maybe he pulled his feet back out of his slippers and laid back down, closing his eyes and giving into the soft heavy blanket of depression.  Maybe his wife poked her head in and asked him if he was sick, retying her light blue chenille robe as she stood in the doorway with an impatient look on her face, her cheeks still shining from her night cream.  Maybe he said Joyce I’ll be down in a minute to get rid of her and let himself sink into his sheets, his blue-veined eyelids flickering as he marveled at the stubborness of breath. Coming and coming and coming, whether he willed it to or not.  Maybe he held his breath once, just to see if it would work, a tear streaming down his temple from the exertion.  Maybe when he was lying there, thinking of everything and nothing, he remembered that old piece of plywood in the garage. And that box of his daughter’s paints from college.

The painting is signed (on the left) by Savle.  Who is Savle?  Savle . . . Savle . . . Salve . . . Save.

Just as I was bemoaning the end of summer, something really good happened.  My big fat Fall issue of Vogue came in the mail – the September giant that weighs at least five pounds and never fails to get me all in a lather for boots and frocks.  Even before I subscribed to Vogue, in fact even before I was out of a Catholic schoolgirl uniform, the Fall issue was synonymous with the change of seasons and the fun new clothes that went with it.  

In Michigan we have apples up the wazoo, so to me, cider and Vogue portended cool winds, piles of crunchy leaves and the faint smell of backyard fires.  I would spend hours pouring over pictures that were beautiful and challenging, confusing, even. There were clothes I didn’t understand, but knew on some level were the ne plus ultra.  If I wanted accessible, I could go to Seventeen magazine – and, of course, I did that too.  

Now I want fantasy, inspiration, escape . . . and my lovely Vogue brings me all of those things.

Example:  something I stumbled upon buried deep in the pages of Vogue simultaneously tickles my funny bone and my covet bone and is helping, in some small way, to take the sting out of fast approaching Autumn.  The inimitable Karl Lagerfeld has succeeded in realizing a twenty-year old idea with the help of his resourceful Roman furrier friend.  They have succeeded in creating . . . are you ready for this?  They have succeeded in creating GOLD FUR.  GOLD FUR, people!  G-O-L-D FUR!!!  If you think you detect a note of sarcasm, you’d be wrong.  I love this.  I don’t care who thinks me vapid and cruel.  I love the over-the-topness of it.  It’s gorgeously ridiculous – ridiculously gorgeous!  Leave it to that white-maned, pointy-booted, cigarette-panted, cape-wearing, dark-glasses-clad wily fox to come up with something like this.

These sartorial mad men have figured out a way of sending the fur through a space-age washing machine where a bar of 24 carat gold sits waiting to act like a fabric softener.  The gold is pressurized into a mist and at some point the cellular membranes of the fur open and absorb the gold and then when the pressure returns to normal, the gold is sealed into the fur forever.  Genius.  I love the idea of research and development for gold fur.  I know, I know, we need to find a cure for cancer, but Karl would not be doing that anyway (his fluttering fan would knock over the test tubes), so let him dream up the unthinkable and send his minions on fantastical treasure hunts, luxe and bizarre wild goose chases.     

Alas, I will never own a gold fur.   C’est très chic, mais très chère.  But once again, my big fatty fall fashion mag has succeeded in giving me something delectable to chew on.  Can’t wait to go back and peruse the rest.

The clack of the wooden screen door.  A minute passes.  I glance at the clock.  9:08 a.m.  I dry my hands and poke my head out of the kitchen.  Was it someone coming or going?  I find a couple extra kids on the couch eating grapes, shoulder to shoulder with mine while they watch cartoons.  They’re all eyes and nubby bare toes.  

“Hi guys,” I say.

“Hi,” they reply without looking up.  

One thing leads to another.  On Wednesday night, I was planning on throwing some pizzas on the grill topped with nothing more than a little olive oil, fresh tomato, mozzarella and kalamata olives . . . maybe a little torn basil from the pot of it that’s growing gangbusters on my front step . . . cheese and pepperoni for the kids.  I also pulled some boneless pork ribs from the freezer with the intention of marinating them on Thursday morning to grill Thursday night.  When Saint James found out we were having pizza, he uncharacteristically squeak-groaned that he felt like steak instead.  I cannot say no to this boy.  And, moreover, I really cannot say no to someone who is jonesing for meat.  I’m like the kindly, weathered nurse at  a methadone clinic, but instead of rubber gloves and little plastic cups, I deal in oven mitts and barbeque tongs.  Maybe it’s the Argentine in me, but I firmly believe that if someone is craving beef, it’s because their body is in need of iron, protein, fat – whatever.  When you need a steak, you need a steak.  My mother flew to Boston after Saint James was born and what was the first thing she cooked for me when I got home from the hospital?  You guessed it.  It’s our comfort food.  So off to Kowalski’s I went, to purchase the prettiest ribeyes I could find, so that my little guy could get a belly full of beef.

So then on Thursday, I remembered the pork patiently defrosting in the fridge . . .  sigh . . .  I  wasn’t in the mood for  more grilled meat.  Plus, Saint James claims that pork makes him throw up.  Too bad for him.  Pig is neck and neck with cow in my book. If I had to pick one to join me on a deserted island, I would be utterly stymied.  I actually think I’d pick a pig.  A pig is smart and would probably be much better company up until the time I turned him into bacon and sausage.  He might even help me find some truffles before I ate him.  

In any event, I decided I’d cut the pork up and make a stew.  I sauteed some onions and shallots and garlic, browned the cubed pork, added some white wine and a few bay leaves, remembered some Spanish chorizo I had in the fridge and added some thin slices of that too.  Since it was turning out to be a Spanish-ish stew, I added some smoked pimentón and chickpeas.  And then I added some reconstituted dried porcini mushrooms for no other reason than they add a dark and dusky undertaste that I love.  So this big pot of toothsome stew is bubbling away, and I can tell it’s going to be good and way too much for us, so I decide to see if our next door neighbors, Red Vogue and Salt and Pepper Polymath, are free for dinner.  I know they would be cool with a last minute invite.  I also happen to know they like chickpeas.  Happily, they accepted and I inadvertently found myself tying my metaphorical apron strings and taking up the role of hostess again.  We haven’t had people over in eons because of this whole house situation, and truth be told, I miss it.  

Supergirl and Saint James went on a hunt for centerpiece fixings and came back with some pretty leaves and pine cones.  I had a bouquet that was half dead  from our last showing, so I threw it on the lawn with a couple scissors and told them to have at it.  They filled two tiny cups and a vase with their booty and the brilliant results are pictured above.  They helped me set the table and I, for one, ended up with a butter knife and a tiny coffee spoon, but no matter.  Doctor Dash picked up some olives and Manchego cheese on his way home.  I threw together a little salad with strawberries, gorgonzola and toasted pepitas.  Red and Salt and Pepper brought over a crusty baguette and a beautiful little chocolate torte from Rustica (man, do we have an abundance of good bakeries here in Minneapolis).

It felt good to set the table, to pull out my little bread plates and votives, the tiny ice bucket my mother brought me from Italy.  What a treat to eat in the dining room again “en famille.”  Dinner was its typical happy chaos, with the kids in full show-off performance mode.  They’re like the Van Traps, but instead of singing for our guests in pretty dresses and lederhosen, they climb the molding, jump off the furniture, wrestle with each other and otherwise cause a ruckus.  We were even treated to a school uniform fashion show.  Dinner parties at our house are never very relaxing and I imagine Salt and Pepper and Red went home and put icepacks on their heads, but they were fun, mellow, gracious and sweetly attentive to our wild children – good sports, as always.  

I suppose this is how our kids will learn to behave at a dinner party.  More importantly, I’m hoping this is how our kids will learn to treasure breaking bread with friends and family.  The ritual and comfort of planning and cooking a meal, of preparing the table, and of luxuriating over conversation, crumbs and sputtering candles will hopefully work itself into their little psyches.  If somehow this can become part of who they are, the simple act of sharing food will become almost reflexive, in times of celebration, in times of strife.  It will become a way of finding home, regardless of where their lives take them.  

And if anyone needed a reminder, it was me.  Sitting down to dinner is so essential to our sense of well being.  When I think about it, every dinner party we have ever been to or hosted has always, always filled us with a sense of bonheur and grace, of feeling part of something special and important.  

Here’s to feasts with loved ones.  Chin chin!

Anyone who knows me knows I’m having a bit of a moment.  I generally exist on a relatively even keel, but these days, all bets are off.   (See last two entries for proof).  I was feeling so forlorn that I decided I would stay the hell off this blog until I had something positive to write about.  It’s simply boring to listen to someone rant all the time – just like it’s boring to see a slutty dresser in yet another slutty skirt.  But put a normally buttoned-up mama in a slutty skirt, and you’ll hear the heads swivel.  Va va voom!  

In any event, the solution to my pent up feelings of angst turned out to be rather simple: yoga.  I simply went to yoga.  Well, not simply.  I had to perform Nadia Comaneci-worthy scheduling gymnastics, but I stuck my landing:  I found a sitter and an hour and forty-five minutes before a swim meet in Wayzata to sneak away.  I love and adore yoga despite the fact that I am so bad at it – both mentally and physically.  I can’t focus and quiet my mind to save my life.  On the physical side, as far as I have been able to determine, there is a strength/flexibility yin yang to it all.  I list way to the strong side of things (although I don’t hold a candle to my friend Crackerjack, who is remarkably strong . . .) and I am highly inflexible.  I have further determined that it’s not my muscles that are tight, it’s my sinews – my tendons and ligaments, the way my joints are jointed – I’m kind of like the Tin Man.  This is why I started yoga about four years ago – I don’t want to end up like my grandmother who was about as hunched and stiff as the wooden cane she shuffled around with, but could lift a small car.  So I go to yoga when I can, and I try my hardest to open up all those tight areas on my body, to breathe into them so that I can reach into new space.  And in the process, I learn humility, patience, acceptance.  Or, at least I try.  But that’s not where I was going with all of this.  

What I was going to say is that washing my yoga mat is one of life’s pleasures for me.  I can’t imagine there are too many people who share this sentiment, but I have my reasons.  First of all, if I’m spraying down my yoga mat draped over my adirondack chair, it means I’m all blissed-out after having made it through a particularly sweaty and challenging class.  It also means it’s summer and I love summer.  It also means that now that I have the hose out, I get to water my herbs and flowers too and I love killing multiple birds with one stone.  Finally, and best of all, it means next time I go to yoga, my mat will not smell like cheesy biscuits.