peevish mama

So I was checking out Jay Z’s blog (I know, ridic that Jay Z even has a blog) and I stumbled upon this cool video of these three girls who longboard in NYC. They have formed a little pack and they are pretty bad ass, yet still total girls. I’m not saying I’d particularly want to see my daughters weaving around NYC traffic on skateboards with no helmets, but I do appreciate their moxie. They aren’t being groupies, they aren’t being posers, they are just being themselves – and in this day and age, that’s a lot.

We did it. Yesterday Doctor Dash and I got a wild hair and we bought a dog. She’s a chocolate labradoodle and oh, Saint Francis, Patron Saint of Animals, is this girl ever sweet! Those of you who know me, know that I wasn’t looking to get a dog. Until all of the sudden, I was.

When Saint James’ second African dwarf frog died a few months ago, something big shifted in me. I realized I couldn’t take any more tears over fish and amphibians. I was done. He just wants something to love, I wailed at Dash. We can’t keep torturing them with fake animals! It’s cruel! It’s unfair! So we started by taking our hayfever guy to the allergist to make sure he wasn’t super allergic to dogs and started looking on-line, clearing our histories after every search so the kids wouldn’t get any ideas. All the labradoodle breeders were far away, so inertia took over and we figured maybe we’d start asking around. Maybe. But the psychic shift had happened and it seems when you open a door, someone is bound to walk through it.

Enter: Foxy Brown

Dash’s boyhood dog was a chocolate lab named Calvin, so when he saw this little girl’s picture in the paper this weekend, it was love at first sight. Still, we didn’t do anything for a day. And then all of a sudden, when we were at the Linden Hills Festival with the kids yesterday, I made Dash call – just to find out if she was even still there. She was. And something about it felt right. Nanook gave us a little prod and by the time we peeled ourselves off the sunny hill a couple hours later and gathered the kids, Dash and I had decided to drive out to St. Paul and meet her. I had heart palpitations on the way there and nausea on the way home. Somehow this felt like a bigger deal than having kids! What the hell were we doing? I must have transmitted my queasiness to Foxy, because she puked on me in the car. Poor little thing. Between the nerves and the motion, she didn’t stand a chance. With that first little accident and the doleful look that followed, however, she basically put her paw print right in my heart. I don’t know what that says about me, but she’s got me.

So far, she’s been a rock star. She slept all night, she hasn’t had an accident in the house (yet), but I’m under no illusions. This is going to be a ton of work, starting with the fact that we can’t leave everything lying around on the ground any more. We had about a nanosecond of peace and quiet as Devil Baby turned a corner and morphed into a chatty, funny, industrious, ready-for-kindergarten girlie girl. I guess that’s what allowed us to jump back into the fray.

Honestly, why did we jump back into the fray? I don’t know. As Nanook pointed out, some people are just open to a certain amount of chaos in their lives. Moreover, every time Devil Baby bravely approached perfect strangers and used her big voice to ask if she could pet their dogs, it used to tweak my heart a little. Watching Supergirl learn how to handle Red Vogue’s strong and spirited golden boy, Patrick, used to tweak my heart a little. And to say nothing of the deaths (R.I.P. Pearl, Pingo, Bubbles, Horace and Messi) – no one boy should be expected to endure so many frail non-mammals.

Needless to say, the kids are over the moon. Especially, Supergirl. Yesterday she said to Doctor Dash You made a good choice here, dad. You know, you won’t regret this. I hope that’s true. And in my heart, I know it is.

We are ready for you, Foxy. Welcome to the clan, sister.

I hope all my mommy friends out there had a fabulous day yesterday. Mine was busy, filled with my children, who, God bless their hearts, were trying really hard to be good. Doctor Dash is working nights right now, so most of the day, we were on our own. At one point in the morning, after the chitlins had loved me up with hugs and kisses and little wrapped presents of their own creation and I had whipped up blueberry pancakes and Canadian bacon for all to celebrate, the three of them sat down at the dining room table to draw and color. They were laughing and chatting, heads bent to their papers, passing each other markers with pleases and thank-yous. I’m not gonna lie, it was a little freaky. It was as if by some secret prior understanding, they had agreed to keep themselves busy AND get along and set to it right after breakfast. I passed by once. Passed by again. They didn’t seem to notice my stares of incredulity, so I grabbed a cup of coffee and the NY Times and high-tailed it to the sunroom where I got a rare and lovely half hour of paper time. The spell was broken when they barged in to show me their work, so the girls and I took a walk to the store to buy steaks for dinner (because what else would this mama want to eat on HER day?). We stopped by Red Vogue and Salt & Pepper’s for a long overdue chat on our way home.

By twelve thirty, it was time to head out to Supergirl’s soccer game. It  rained a warm rain, forcing Saint James and Devil Baby to huddle with me under the umbrella, so no complaints. As if on cue, to make me proud as a peacock, Supergirl scored three goals and got the MVP award from the other team’s coach. Man, her face as she jogged off the field towards us at the end of the game was priceless – all smiles and wet plastered hair – she looked like the happiest drowned rat in the history of drowned rats. Remember last year when she started traveling soccer and I was having my girl power moment? Well, it all still holds. I re-read those couple posts the other day and as I was watching her get carried around piggy-back style after the game by another girl, both of them wet, muddy and jubilant, I felt like all is as it should be. That messy, joyous, well-earned victory is exactly what these little girls need. And the mamas on the sidelines couldn’t have been happier after an hour in the pouring rain. It was the essence of vicarious happiness for us.

After a lazy afternoon and a yummy dinner, we all walked to the lake and hung out at the beach. The sun was back out, just in time to scatter its fading tangerine light over everything. Turns out our whole family can fit up on the lifeguard platform at the same time. I swear, every time I clamber up there, I feel like a teenager. The kids climbed trees, Dash and I watched the water and the planes. I don’t know what we talked about or whether we talked at all. It was just nice to sit together on a perch with our brood scampering around below. On the way home, Devil Baby spotted two owls in a tree, which is cause for major excitement in this family.

It occurs to me that Mother’s Day, like mothering, is an ever changing thing. As a family, we don’t have any established traditions, aside from being together and being outside (and apparently, Dash browbeating the kids not to fight). I like keeping it loose, deciding on a whim what feels like fun. On our walk in the morning I saw tons of dads out with babies and toddlers, no doubt giving their wives a badly needed break. I’m not saying I never need a break, but I think I’m past the years of needing a break on Mother’s Day. My kids no longer physically exhaust me. I’m not chasing and wiping and nursing anymore. I don’t have kids physically attached to me for a major portion of the day. They are most definitely and completely other.

Now, more than ever, I feel like I’m in the gravy years of parenting. My kids actually WANT to be with me and I with them. Soon that will change, and then, when they’re sullen teens, we will force them to be with me on Mother’s Day because it’s the right thing to do. And what of our mothers, I wonder? The mothers whose children are grown, whose children have families of their own? I wonder what it feels like for my mother and my mother-in-law on Mother’s Day. Many of their children don’t live near them and the most they can expect is a phone call on this day. And yet, without them, none of what we have would even exist. Do they feel longing, for the years gone by? Do they feel a bit of the vicarious happiness I felt at Supergirl’s soccer game – only deeper and more well-deserved? Bittersweet, I imagine.

We will all be there some day, on a different point of the arc of motherhood. Bittersweet, indeed.

So, happy happy Mother’s Day to the brand spanking new mamas (Delicious Apple, I’m looking at you!), to the seasoned mamas (all my dear friends, you know who you are) and especially to the mama who gave me Doctor Dash and the mama who gave me my life, my self, my know-how.  You both deserve all the love, gratitude and smooches in the world, because as you well know, and as I’m in the process of discovering, this motherhood gig – it ain’t easy!

I never particularly thought I’d say this, but damn! my boy looks handsome in a mohawk! He reminds me of a British soccer hooligan, and I guess I have a thing for British soccer hooligans. Actually, any hooligans will do. We sprayed it hot pink and off to school he went for crazy hair day looking pretty rad, if you ask me. If my family tuned into this blog on a regular basis, you might hear eeking and gasping all the way from Florida right about now. My sister is getting married on Saturday and no, da hawk will not be in attendance. Saint James will be wearing searsucker and a hot pink bowtie (per his request), because he’s a bit of a dandy this one. Go figure. As unassuming as he is, he sure doesn’t mind being looked at. So we’re off to the airport now, freshly spiked and pinked, ready to freak out the grandmothers, get a little sun, meet our new bebe girl niece, kick it up with our families and hijack the DJ next Saturday night for some fresh dancin’. I’m one happy mama right about now. Catch you all on the flip side!

Once upon a time there lived a girl who had never been to Vegas. She considered herself lucky at life, but unlucky at games of chance and was therefor uninterested in what Vegas had to offer.

And then one day she went.

She knew that going anywhere (even Siberia or Peoria) with her posse of 8 maidens would be a good time, yet she was still surprised. And. Yet. Still.

She danced so much and laughed so hard that now she wants to move to Vegas, except for the fact that she’d be dead of exhaustion within the week.

Everywhere she went, day or night, she was wrapped up in the booming soundtrack of her favorite dance tunes, except for that one lounge by that one door where the Sinatra impersonator wooed them in with “My Way” and sent them off with “Free Bird”. Sinatra and Skynyrd? Is that even possible? Is that even legal?

Part Oz, part Disney World, part heaven, part Hades, the town pulsed like some kind of organism. From time to time, it revealed bits of darkness and melancholy that made the girl turn and pause for but a moment, and then run to catch up with her friends. She marveled that a place could be so tacky and yet so gorgeous. One second she was oggling the sad sacks at the slot machines with fluoresent drinks growing warm in oversized beakers, or the showgirls making eyes at the wolves, wondering where their mothers were and the next her hands were itching to touch the art, plunge into the fountains, caress the Jurassic palm fronds – to see if they were real.

Was any of it real? She was intrigued by the poetic madness, the collective understanding, the endless, feckless revelry. What a slice of life, she kept muttering, not sure anymore if she was even saying it out loud.

But mostly, and most wonderfully, the girl felt that she and her maidens had finally met their match. As long, hard, loud, and wild as they wanted to rollick – as much as they wanted to dance and drink and laugh and carouse, Vegas rose up like a chivalrous and indulgent knight  (or cowboy) to make it happen. In this oasis of over-the-top, nothing they could do was over-the-top. There was no question of turning in early. There were dragons to be slayed. And slayed they were.

Or at least she thinks so.

Did any of that happen? Does Vegas even exist?Only one way to find out.

I don’t really mean that, but I’ll be damned if Kingfield isn’t getting WAY more than its share of restaurant awesomeness lately. Meanwhile, we in Lynhurst limp along, starving, moaning and casting deflated glances at the giant hole in the ground that used to be Blackbird Cafe and Heidi’s before the fire, keeping fingers and toes crossed that the two restaurants slated to go into that space (who knows when?) are going to be good. On Thursday night, feeling springish and famished, we took a hot tip (LOVE a hot tip) from Red Vogue and Salt and Pepper Polymath and headed over to The LowBrow on 42nd and Nicollet. My burger loving brood gave it a resounding thumbs up. It’s cool, arty and retro with a giant paint by numbers mural on one wall and the food really is scratch-made comfort food using locally farmed sustainably grown ingredients. Kids are totally welcomed and entertained by the hustle and bustle, grown ups are quickly transported to a happy place: seventies basement inspired chic with great drinks and food. The burgers and fries were amazing and I kinda can’t get the bison chili at the next table out of my head. So, yes, we’ll be back. Probably many, many times. Damn!

As if that weren’t enough salt in our wounds, Doctor Dash and I ended up at Corner Table on Saturday night after some yummy saki at Moto-I. We opted for the 3 course tasting menu, which is basically Chef Scott Pampuch going all bananas and sending out brilliant off-the-menu riffs of deliciousness. I loved not knowing exactly what was heading our way and being shocked and delighted each time. I actually said to Dash, This guy is just like DJ Jake! He’s psychic!  He knows just what I want to eat next! Looking at our entree of pig insanity (pork belly AND pork sausage! with parsnip puree and some heavenly sweet moutarda of some sort and egads, were there capers?) I stage whispered, How does he know? How does he know? Seriously, it’s a little freaky. How did he know I am such a luvuh of the pig? If he spied us walking through the door, I’m not sure HUNGRY LIKE A WOLF FOR PORK BELLY is exactly stamped on my brow, but shit, it might as well be. I can’t believe it has taken us this long to get over there (it’s because normally we flee these parts for date night). Aside from the lights being way too bright at first (what can I say? It’s a THING, for us), our experience was perfection. Having had a little taste of the Kitchen Table experience, which Pampuch describes as “a gastronomic feast of gluttonous enjoyment”, I’m going to make it my business to go back for that sometime. We were blown away. Blown. Away.

Damn you, Kingfield!!!

I am so amused. Just as I was fretting about my kids not knowing how to entertain themselves, Saint James and the neighbor boys went on a rap writing rampage. They’ve got 12 songs written and have recorded two. Of course I’m biased, but I think they’re quite good. To the extent rap is a medium for telling your story or a fantasy version of your story, I’d say this is exactly what Saint James, er, Lil’ Ziggy and his posse are doing. They have each written their share of songs, they feature each other and provide the hooks for each other. It’s all very funny and extremely cute. In his song, Mercy, Lil’ Ziggy goes through a long list of mahem caused by the boys, including letting loose, riding a moose, playing ping pong and getting a deuce, spraying graffiti on someone’s hood and stealing fire wood and then the refrain, sung in a high falsetto, imploring the cops: You see those storm clouds above, asking for bloooood, all we want it mercy. Just give us some mercy mercy mercy. Tonight Tonight.

The last verse:

Bring it down!

Officers came said we had one last chance

We don’t care, cuz it’s not fair

We’re not done, let’s have some fun

Up till three hours past one

We put foam in a jacoozi (sic) then everyone else went snoozy

We posted on youtube, got a million views

We were rude, but we don’t regret it cuz we got all the credit.

No one came to edit, they all just fed it.

See? That’s some story telling right there. No one came to edit, they all just fed it? I love that! If you don’t know my son, you’d probably be alarmed by this, but honestly, he’s a gentle guy. Last night we were lolling on his bed while Doctor Dash read the raps out loud and Saint James was just laughing and laughing. I have no doubt he knows the difference between right and wrong –  understands that there’s quite a bit of terrain between a yarn and the truth. And to me, that wild acreage is a pretty fun place to play.

Maybe you’ve already seen this, but I’ve been in spring break unplugged mode and I just stumbled upon it and it made me feel like weeeeeeee! Apparently, the National Geographic Channel actually pulled off recreating a house flight inspired by the movie UP. Check out more pics here. So neat.

So, on a seemingly (but never entirely) unrelated note, yesterday we had no real plans aside from a date with the couch and a US v Argentina friendly soccer game at 6:00 p.m. We had a lazy Saturday morning and I managed to scoot out of the house for a noon yoga class. When I came back, Saint James had a friend over and they promptly took off for the community center down the street to kick a soccer ball around. Good boys. The girls, though, were bored, whiny, bouncing around the house and getting on each other’s nerves and mine. I finally got so exasperated that I kicked them out – it was a beautiful sunny day and they needed to be outside, breathing in the last bits of cold winter air. Go build a school of snow children, I snapped as I shut the door. They stayed out for a while, came back in soaking wet, pink cheeked and smiley, just the way I like ‘em.

Later that night when we were cleaning up after dinner I found a paper magazine subscription insert on the counter. I was about to toss it in the recycling when I saw that Supergirl had meticulously filled the whole thing out. Name, Address, E-mail (made up), Number of Issues – all in neat, tiny, purple letters. I still tossed it, of course, but not without a twinge of guilt. She was so bored, sooooooo bored, that she filled out a magazine subscription card.

But let’s be real, here. I shouldn’t feel guilty. Not at all. We just spent three glorious days in Lutsen with Nanook, Gear Daddy and familia. They got to ski and snowboard their hearts out, bunk up and giggle into the night, feast on all sorts of yummy food, celebrate Nanook’s birthday, watch American Idol with peeps, color, bicker, chat, spy, and generally scamper around a big, cool house while the grown-ups talked, drank, cooked and cast a lenient eye over everything they were doing. It was a blast. What is wrong with coming home from that kind of trip and just chilling out?

If you were to look at my shoulders, you wouldn’t see the devil and angel taking turns whispering in my ear. Instead you’d see Julie McCoy, our fave cruise director, on one shoulder, hatching plans, leading adventures, planning field trips, always thinking of ways to make my kids’ lives more FUN. On the other shoulder you’d see Joan Collins in a silky dressing gown, maribou kitten heels and a very large martini glass muttering that these kids need to learn to occupy themselves. The truth is, I like doing excursions with them because I’m a bit of a “flee the house” kind of a gal. But it’s just that kind of on-the-go life that has made them so intolerable if we ever do want to hang out at home. If they don’t have friends over, they are pretty much guaranteed to be driving me insane. Which makes me yell at everyone and shoo them into the car for – you guessed it – an excursion.

As far as I can remember, my parents didn’t spend all their free time trying to keep us entertained. There were giant swathes of idle time in my childhood, which I filled by reading books and the backs of shampoo bottles, playing Dukes of Hazzards, spying on the neighbor boy and convincing my brother I was a wizard. I know this isn’t anything new, but I wonder what my kids are missing out on by being constantly occupied and entertained. There are so many things that can only be learned with ample time: how to get along, how to love books, how to French braid hair, how to climb trees, how to choreograph dance routines to the entire Grease album and then the entire Xanadu album. I bet the dude who thought of floating that house had lots of idle time in his youth (and she brings it back! bam!)

The way things are going, it seems like our children’s generation, more than any other, is going to find success through knowing how to hustle and being creative. Seems to me, those are just the kind of skills that may be borne of a little boredom. At the risk of sounding like I’m rationalizing my laziness (which, don’t get me wrong, I’m totally comfortable doing), I think I need to be less Julie McCoy and more Joan Collins. And maybe, just maybe, my kids will be better off AND I’ll get to do more of this:

The Summer Day – Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan,  and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper I mean—
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention,  how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me,  what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

I love this poem. It’s so simple. I don’t know exactly what a prayer is. But I do know how to pay attention. I see a pink cheek, small freshly painted blue nails and the twist of  a braid on a late winter’s day and I know to pause and take note.

Is this what I’m supposed to be doing with my one wild and precious life?

I think so.

What will she do with her one wild and precious life?

To ponder that exquisite question too closely or for too long is like staring into the sun. Better, for now, to stick with my moments.

Devious Knickers turned me onto this project by Argentine photographer, Irina Werning. She ferrets out old pics and gets the subjects to reenact them. Her ability to bring the same light and texture to these photos is uncanny. Not to mention the outfits! What a trip.

It’s no secret I’m addicted to live music. The more I go, the more I want to go. It’s kind of preposterous, except that it’s not. There are very few things in this world that make me feel so alive (sorry, I know that sounds cheesy, but it’s true) and so, like a rat who has figured out which pellet spits out the tasty treat, I keep going back for more. I can feel the top of my head pop open and my heart fly around the room. And I can’t wipe the grin off my face for days. That joy, that juice, it lingers and lingers. The problem (if you can call it a problem) is that we are lucky lucky lucky here in the Twin Cities. It’s so easy to go, really not much more work than going downtown for a meal -you  just wear flats. At certain times of the year it’s actually hard to choose who to see. Obviously, I can’t go every night, or even every week (nor would I want to), but I’m not going to lie, when I pass something up, my mind wanders over to that loud, sweaty space as I’m wrangling the kids to bed and I can’t help but wonder what sort of magic I’m missing out on.

This past couple months I’ve seen some gems – a trifecta of beautiful ladies and then the amazing Fitz and the Tantrums, which you knew about. I’m not going to torture you with my amateurish and annoying reviews, but to the extent that I’m going to be reading this blog when I’m an old biddy, sunning myself on a chaise lounge in Florida like a tawny lizard, I want to get it down. Just so I can say, boy oh boy, have I seen some things, Marco! Did I have some times, Marco! (Marco would be the pool boy). I want to remember, because even right now when I’m living it, sometimes it’s hard to believe.

First up. The queen. The QUEEN! Ms. Lauryn Hill. At First Ave. After all these years. We knew she was going to come on late so we had our sitter come at ten o’clock. Yawning and moaning after the kids were in bed, I was so close to letting myself fade away, but Dash and a little green tea pushed me through. Once inside, she sent out her DJ and wild horses couldn’t have dragged me out of there. Five children later, she’s as incredible as ever. Truly one of my top five shows ever. (Five is an extremely elastic number in my world, but I really mean it this time.)

Then came Dessa. Young, smart, drop dead gorgeous, girl-about-town and CEO of the Doomtree Collective. Big Red, Nanook and I became fans after she curated a hip hop series at the Guthrie and wanted to see her perform. We knew she could rap, we didn’t know she could sing. Boy, can she sing. And she’s really into collaborating, as you’ll see from this clip. We saw her at The Cedar which had partnered with the Jerome Foundation to commission local artists to create and perform new work together. Really cool. She’s brainy, wordy, sexy and funny. What’s not to love?

And last but certainly not least was Robyn, the pint size powerhouse from Sweden. Thank you to Rosalita for spearheading this adventure. And when I say adventure, I mean adventure. She, Nanook and I were instantly engulfed in the happiest, gayest First Ave crowd I’ve ever experienced. She’s a little Madonna (but with a good voice), a little Gaga (without the theatrics), a little Gwen Stefani, a little Pink. And not for nothing, Europeans have such a different sensibility with regards to what it means to be sexy. She’s as sexy as the day is long, but sexy like Bjork: smart, empowered, unique sexy. Quirky sexy. Some of our artists could take a page out of her book, fo sho. She’s a fiesty, kick-ass pixie and I could have watched her and danced with the gays all night. She is phenomenal – total electronica, 80’s pop, and it’s infectious. We got the fever and spent another happy, silly, dancy few hours at the Saloon afterwards with Rosalita’s hilarious hair posse. Top five, people!

And finally, Fitz and the Tantrums. Talk about lingering joy. They were SO GOOD. Thank you to Creeper Bud for turning me on to them and insisting that it was not an option to miss this one. I would drop everything to see them again. Only next time I suspect it won’t be at Bunkers. Lucky us. Lucky, lucky us.

Now where’s that Marco with my drink?

So I realize that as of late you’ve been getting mere crumbs here at Peevish. I’ve been holding out on you, keeping a bit of a secret this winter. You might know about it if you read the beef jerky recipe, but I realize that dehydrated meat is kind of a niche interest and I won’t take it personally if you didn’t. You see, along with my other New Year’s resolutions , I also promised myself I would learn how to snowboard this winter. Except, unlike those other resolutions, this was a promise I made to myself with quaking knees and more than a little trepidation. Frankly, I hadn’t learned a new trick in a really long time and I was scared. I was scared I would get hurt, scared I would fail, scared I’d be driving myself home from my first lesson with snow down my pants and my tail between my legs. That’s why I didn’t want to write about it. I didn’t want to jinx it. I didn’t want to widen the audience that would be privvy to my totally sucking.

But I did it. I learned. Every time I go out, I get better. I can honestly say it was one of the most challenging things I have ever done. I am really proud of myself – like puff out my chest and strut my tail feathers proud – make the sign of the horns and yell AWWWWWHAAA proud. Law school, babies, knee surgery, you name it – I am most proud of myself for learning how to snowboard. It was as much a mental game as a physical one for me, especially at first. Every time I drove to the hill, my heart pounded in my chest and a repeating loop of Wile E. Coyote-esque crashes and wipe-outs played out in my head. Every time I slid off the chairlift for my first run of the day, I was convinced the snow was slipperier than the last time, that the trees were jumping around, trying, just trying to take me out. And don’t even get me started on the freaking children – whole hoards of school kids littering the hill, getting in my way and generally causing me to eeek and panic at every turn.

But here’s what I learned: I learned that if you tell your crazy brain to fuck off and just keep going, your body miraculously starts to do the right thing. By some magic stored deep in our muscles and nerves, it starts to stick, it starts to work. Now I go around the kids if I have to. I dig the slippery snow. I have a renewed faith in my physical self. In the past, I’ve written about going from feeling invincible as a girl to utterly betrayed when I blew out my knee at 17. I don’t think I ever really recovered from that. I have been walking through this world carefully, defensively – but no more. Snowboarding is empowering and exciting and it’s all mine. I did it. I did it! Me!

Here’s what else I learned: It’s frigging fun to go fast on your own juice. To skiers and snowboarders, wake boarders, kite boarders, surfers and all those other ers out there, this is a ridiculously obvious statement. But when is the last time I went fast? On my bike? It’s fun, but not like this. People, there is NOTHING like carving down a hill. NOTHING like it. Goddamn! It makes me want to yell profanities and pump my fist in the air. It turns out that buried in the body of this 40 year old woman lives a randy 15 year old boy. Hossing down chicken fingers covered in ketchup and Cholula hot sauce in the car after snowboarding = TOTAL BLISS. For real.

And here’s yet another thing I learned: You never know when you’re going to make a friend. When I took my lessons at the beginning of January, I never considered that I might meet someone. But I did. Her name is Shreddy Betty. She’s a mom of two boys, one tough cookie, a bit of a danger grrrl and as crazy about our new little hobby as I am. We make plans by text and meet up after the kids have gone to school to play on the slopes. We call each other dude and pump fists after a good run and laugh and laugh. We laugh a lot. Because what’s not funny about snowboarding mommies? We both bought boards a few weeks ago and are figuring out how to tame these spirited fillies, so much faster and more sensitive than the rental beasts we were riding before. It’s always a blast and we’ve been out in some crazy-ass weather: 10 degrees below with the windchill, but as sunny as a lemon ice pop one day; 35 sweltering degrees that turned the snow into quick sand and a pile of laughs the next.

So there you have it, the reason for the crumbs. Even on the days when I woke up frothy to write, I’d come back from snowboarding feeling completely sated and quiet. And I just couldn’t find the words to write about my biggest news. I was too freaked, too blown away, too smitten.

Still am.

It’s fun, man. So much fun.

This is the text I received from Supergirl (using Doctor Dash’s phone, of course) yesterday on her way back from soccer:

“Hey mom! What we having for dinner?????????????? ?????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????? I’m starving how about meat oh I love meat juicy meat on the grill YUM!!!! I love meat GIVE ME MEAT MEAT sweet meat. Love ya smooch bye P.S. I LOVE MEAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Give me meat :-p”

I’d say that girl had the hungah! She’s a protein girl through and through. Just like her mama. And guess what we had for dinner?

Last night Doctor Dash got home from work and the following conversation ensued:

DD: Saw your present!

Me: Oh ya! Do you like it?

DD: Well, is it printed on a thong or something?

Not only is that totally funny to me, I think it’s a fabulous idea. Oh Darling, Let’s Be Adventurers! Hilarious.

Dash and I had a special Valentine’s din with our sweetie-pie brood. I made sure to stick to the big faves: rib eye steak with red chimichurri sauce, Caesar salad, potatoes roasted in olive oil and sea salt, a crispy baguette and brownies. That dinner, simply, is my way of saying to my family: I love you. I love to feed you. I want you to chow until your little bellies are distended. IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou.

Tonight is part two of our Valentine celebration (because why not milk it?) and the dashing Dash and I have gotten a sitter so we can go see the Illusionist and then (fingers crossed) grab a couple of seats at the bar at La Grassa for a late night bite. I’m really excited for this movie – it’s by Sylvain Chomet, the same guy who did The Triplets of Belleville which completely enchanted both us back in the day. Here’s to long, drawn-out and delicious Valentines plans.

Her name is Roxanne Tataei, she goes by Rox, she’s half Jamaican, half Iranian and a mere fresh baby twenty-two years old. She’s from South London and sister can sing. I love this girl. I love her with the piece of my heart that loves Janelle Monae, Lauryn Hill, Estelle, and Santigold. This vid is worth checking out, especially for the acid-wash-bedazzle-pocketed-high-waisted shorts.

Who knew those could be so sexy? Apparently, Rox.

Love. Her.