peevish mama

I used to have them all the time: driving uncontrollably fast around a curve, forgetting to study for a test, not being able to find my parents.

Last night I had a doozy – it involved trying to make an important flight with my kids, and not only was I wearing deliriously high heels, I ended up forgetting to get boarding passes, misplacing two of my three children, going to the wrong terminal and having to run back through the airport’s absurdly dense outside landscaping. I finally woke myself up after I discovered that my phone was out of batteries and there was no way to get through the topiaries in time to make my flight. Not to mention the small matter of two of my kids being somewhere other than with me. Also, I broke a strap on my heels.

What the hell?

This couldn’t have anything to do with the fact that we have NINE MORE DAYS OF SCHOOL, could it?

This is hilarious. It’s a video of some teachers at a Massachusetts high school shimmying and dancing behind unsuspecting students being interviewed about highs and lows from the school year. A few of these dudes have got some moves! And not for nothing, dancing behind innocent unsuspecting strangers without their knowledge is, in fact, one of my favorite things in life.

When my guys were tiny, I felt they had me literally on my toes. Every eye in my head, and then some I didn’t have, were trained on whoever happened to be at the age most likely to stage dive off the top step or slip quietly unnoticed to the bottom of a pool. It’s exhausting work, being the mama of small children and I’m here to say that it does get better.

For about a nanosecond.

All is well and good until one day you wake up and realize you’ve got to find those extra eyes in the back of your head again. You’ve got to keep your ear to the ground and cultivate a nose for news. You’ve got to be available and aware because everything gets quieter and more subtle.

What’s more, in the midst of developing these heightened senses, this deeper awareness of what’s going on INSIDE the heads of your kids, you have to pretend to be totally chill. You have to hone your casual opener to the finest edge, so they don’t even hear the envelope tearing, don’t even realize the contents are spilling out.

And while on this tightrope of respectful, cool, hyper vigilant awareness, you need to juggle, like, twenty three different eggs in the air. Because just as things are starting to get tricky in this new way, the shit hits the fan and your family is busier than ever.

This is where I am right now. I am barely keeping it together, barely keeping up – which is frightening, because I suspect this has only just begun. But I dig it. These young people are getting VERY interesting. Curiously, I think I might be better at this than I was at that. Maybe it’s because I have a keen connection to my goofy, confused, scared, and overly imaginative 12-17 year old self. For some reason, that part of my life is really vivid for me, and for better or worse, it may just come in handy.

How about a little country croon for all the mamas out there, muddling through with grace and humor? And when I say grace, I mean tripping and falling and flubbing and sucking and brushing ourselves off and starting again. Because every day is a new day, and every day we get to try again. Thank heavens.

Are we terrible dog parents? Let me rephrase that. We ARE terrible dog parents. Not only did we accidentally make Foxy obese for, like, two weeks, now our wild yeti looks like an exquisite rat. Poor little thing.

The beauty of a doodle, as everyone knows, is that they don’t shed. And without the shedding, there goes the motivation and (we thought) the necessity of brushing them. Every once in a while we would brush out the top of her head to give her an 80’s metal hair band coif in order to amuse ourselves, but serious brushing? Nah.

If she were a Muppet, she’d be Ralph the Dog’s uncouth country cousin – the one with the wild curls and the lopey run, who picks her teeth with a straw and snorts when she laughs. We like her rough around the edges – as far from those frou frou poodles as we can get her. And she obliged by growing thick, unruly, gorgeous curls that made her look three times her actual size and housed twigs, burrs, leaves and, on occasion, legos.

But it was time for a summer cut and her gentle trim turned into a full blown shearing because of the gnarled mats that had grown on her ears, behind her neck and on her bum. I knew it was bad because her stylist called to warn me that she needed to take her really short to get the mats out. She also warned me that Foxy was super sensitive and that I should try to act completely natural when I picked her up. Just pretend she looks the same as ever, she said.

I should win an Oscar for my performance because OHMYGOD!!!!! FOXY!!!!! What a shock. Turns out, she’s this tiny little dog with a tiny little head. Here we thought we had a BIG dog. She is so wee and so exposed. And I must say, this sheepish embarrassed Foxy who is slinking around as if she’s naked (because she is) touches my heart in ways the giant yeti Foxy had yet to do. Her tiny frame skittering under the coffee table as if to hide is enough to make me weep. She presses against my legs for warmth, to make sure I still love her, and I suspect, so that I won’t be able to get a good look at her.

I feel like we’re seeing the true inside Foxy – her dear, vulnerable little self – not because we wanted to and not because she wanted us to, but because she was shorn, because of the mats, because we didn’t brush her, because we’re terrible dog parents.

Of course, a little Beasties in honor of Adam Yauch, MCA, who died of cancer last week at age 47. It’s sad. He’s but a bit older than us and his arc, represents our arc. It’s more than cliche at this point to say that the Beastie Boys brought hip hop to the white kids, but it’s true – the Beastie Boys brought hip hop to this white kid, via the boys at our inner city brother school, U of D. Imagine me, with wild perm and silver braces, bopping around to Fight for Your Right (to Party) before I had any real party experience under my sailor rope belt.

I never got sick of the Beastie Boys and their shaken up beer spraying mug in the camera antics because they grew up too. Their music evolved and so did they, while managing to stay cool and relevant. “They spent their career gently deflating their penis balloon” writes Sasha-Frere Jones in the New Yorker. How hilarious and how apt. It’s true. We grew up. They grew up.

I’ve been reading about Adam Yauch in the last days and I had no idea he directed many of their videos under the pseudonym Nathanial Hornblower and started a production company that produced, among many, the very cool movie about graffiti artist, Banksy, called Exit Thru the Gift Shop – which I loved. In addition to all his work in support of the Tibetan freedom cause, he was a dad and a husband.

So here’s a video Yauch directed for the song, Shadrach, where each frame was painted by hand. It’s gorgeous and was included in the 22nd International Tournee of Animation.

Rest in peace, MCA.

A voyage never fails to stir everything up inside of me so that when I’m back home, everything has settled back into its place, but in a slightly shifted way. I suppose that’s a rather inartful way of saying that you come back and see things differently.

I went to Argentina with my mom and my official position was that of wingman. I was there to help with heavy burdens, both luggage-wise and emotional. You see, my uncle, her brother, has melanoma and she (we) needed to see him. To say hello and then goodbye.

Maybe it’s because I was traveling with my mother alone, or maybe it’s because I was back in Argentina where I was born, or maybe it’s because we were there to spend time with someone we might not see again, but the time I spent there has a dream-like quality to me now. It’s as if the days had fuzzy edges, one bleeding into the next and although the time passed quickly, I have the sense that I was acutely aware of each bittersweet moment.

Strangely for me, I went into a zen-like state where I felt completely content to sit for hours in my uncle and aunt’s kitchen, drinking tea and chatting. Various members of my giant tribe would stop in to visit and I would sit (always in the spot nearest to my uncle) and listen. I had no agenda. There was nowhere else I needed to be. Nothing I needed to do.

I was there as a wingman. My job was simple. I made sure I could scoop up sadness where I saw it and tuck it away. I made sure I basked in my uncle’s kindness. I made sure I got a few beautiful pictures of the four siblings together when they happened to be in the same room. I took pictures of old pictures at my uncle’s house – that’s him with my aunt when they were itty bitty. Aren’t they cute? They met when my aunt was 13. Their’s was a love for the ages.

Argentines don’t mess around when it comes to conversation. We talked of faith and death, of health, of blessings, of family, of distance, of voyages, of politics, of so and so who knocked up so and so and acted like he didn’t know it until an intermediary told him he needed to check out the kid because it looked just like him and he did and it knocked his socks off and then he fell in love with and got married to the knocked-upee. They needed to catch my mother up on all that good old fashion juicy small town stuff. Oh, the stories.

My relatives are story-tellers and there is a certain Latin drama that runs through their tales making everything sound just a little bit magical to my Americanized sensibilities. There is something about this place and these people that resonates deep in me and I feel simultaneously very at home and yet very foreign. Dash saw this picture of me with my two cousins and one of their daughters and he said You can tell these are your people. You look like them. You fit with them.

I do.

Why not? I’ve got nothing but wine and time, so Imma gonna set this bitch up to publish tomorrow. Sorry, sheesh. I just read an amazing article in the Atlantic about Kanye and I’m very linguistically suggestible. Just google it- to link would take too much effort here with my phone in the airport.

The truth is sometimes a song crashes back into your life and makes you laugh and dance and vow to memorize the choreography in time for your 20th reunion – just in case – with your old friend Patrioouuk whose visit was in itself, a glorious a crashing back.

Brilliant. Funny. Brilliant. What d’ya say, Nugs?

If all had gone as planned, I’d be in Buenos Aires right now with my mother. Instead, I’m killing time in the Atlanta airport, the boredom so intense that I’ve been driven to a desperate act. Posting from my iPhone. This is tricky business, this thumb typing. This placement of words into a box so tiny it threatens to preclude both rereading and revision. Never a good thing.

I tried to go to Argentina yesterday, when I was supposed to, after hasty preparations and and huggy goodbyes. I should have known I wouldn’t get far. Supergirl begged me to do my imitation of the Japanese tourist from Disneyland screaming “Capaten E O!” into her cellphone. In a moment of weakness, I relented, which was not only a misguided attempt to leave my daughter with one last funny memory (it’s hilARIous, you should hear me) should I meet an untimely demise on my trip – it was also stupid, because everyone knows it’s bad karma to make fun of people before air travel. Especially international air travel.

Long story short, mechanical issues – missed connection to Buenos Aires. The only reason this is even something worth writing about is the almost unbearable sense of lightness I had walking into the airport yesterday. But not lightness in the way we like to talk about it. I felt unmoored. As if at any moment I’d go flying to the ceiling like a mistakenly released helium balloon.

It is disorienting to leave my whole brood, knowing full well I’m putting huge distances, multiple countries, between us. Ok, I just realized I don’t know how to scroll back, so I really am reduced to 3 line increments. Consider this performance art.

What is even MORE disorienting, is to spend 4 and a half hours in MSP, listening to music, paging through Harpers Bazar, half enjoying it, half gripping the seat so I don’t start to drift up toward the ceiling, half wondering if my persona makes any sense here in this airport without my peeps and THEN end up having to go home. To reenter life and have one more night before I have to go back to the airport and try again to go to Argentina.

The sliding doors make a sucking sound as I leave the airport, and just like that, I am my weight once again. I am substantial. Grounded.

Long story short: burgers, the couch in a puppy pile, a couple episodes of Malcom in the Middle, pjs, two more chapters of that unicorn book with Devil Baby, one more warm entangled night’s sleep with Dash, an early morning lake loop with Foxy, blueberry pancakes. One more look at that broken pinky toe on Saint James. More smooches and goodbyes. Take two.

Which brings me to this piano bar in the middle of terminal E of the Atlanta airport and this tuna sandwich, this second glass of wine, and these streams of strangers going places who don’t even seem to notice that I’m in danger of floating away.

This week’s selection is dedicated to my girl Foxy Brown, who has learned to walk her muddy paws back and forth on a towel when I stand at the back door and say FEET!!!

DJ Jake Rudh busts this song out every now and again at Transmission and I always get a chuckle. My favorite part comes at 59 seconds. Oh, and also at the beginning when the announcers says “metamorphosis.” Such fun.

Me likee, very much. I mean, come on. Look at him. He’s like a hip hop Beck.

Based out of MPLS, with vim and vigor to spare, check him out.

Did I mention me likee very much?

Very much, indeed.

Sending a little California-love your way today. We’ve been happily ensconced in a cute little bungalow in Venice Beach for a few days and man, I could get used to this. The people watching is out of this world and I’m glad to report that surf culture is alive and well.

L.A. is kind of blowing my mind. It’s just so vast and as we’ve been opting for side streets instead of congested highways, we’ve seen the city up close – colorful, diverse, bizarre, beautiful.

It’s a city of such extremes and the yearning is palpable – yearning for riches and fame or more simply, for a livelihood, a love, another bottle of booze. And those leggy palms, whispering in the wind: not all that glitters is gold.

Yep, I did it. Four new soups in my repertoire and they’re all keepers. Really truly. We all loved this one – it has meatballs, so ya, of course. Take a gander over at Simple Good and Tasty if you wish.

Y’all don’t know this, but I’ve gotta a little thing for producer extraordinaire -Danger Mouse. He’s just one of those really talented, behind-the-scenes music people and everything he touches, turns to gold. Not necessarily in a commercial sense, though he has that touch too; rather, one simply knows that whatever he collaborates on and produces will be good.

He was one-half of Gnarls Barkley with Cee Lo Green, one-half of Broken Bells with James Mercer of the Shins and he’s worked with everyone from The Black Keys to Beck to Gorillaz. He’s everywhere.

This is a song off a new album called Rome, in which he collaborates with Italian movie composer, Daniele Luppi, featuring vocals by Jack White and Norah Jones. It’s a loving nod to classic Italian cinema, but with a modern sensibility. It’s a movie score without a movie and it sounds good to my ears, but then, when does Jack White not sound good to my ears?

Here’s a little warmth for low down in your gut on this dreary spring day.

Saint James got a phone for Christmas because it was time. It’s a cheap little phone, not a smart phone. He can only use it to text and call. This way, when he roams, we can reach him and he can reach us. For the first couple months the phone was languishing somewhere in his room, usually out of batteries. Now it’s fully charged, in his pocket or in his hand at all times.

A few days ago, Dash heard it vibrating when he was saying good night to Saint James. Saint James played dumb and pretended it wasn’t his until Dash found it on his nightstand and saw that there were texts from a bunch of girls. They had a chuckle, Saint James was a little red-faced, but no biggie. I tried to look at the messages later that night, but he had deleted everything. Foiled.

Next came the talk about not deleting messages because we need to make sure everything is kosher, followed by the talk about being a gentleman and a good guy and a good friend in person, but especially in writing.

He seems reasonably open to our talks, although the texting is definitely on the upswing. Dash and I are doing the dance – all a’dither with each other about our kid texting with girls, but totally chill about it with Saint James, because it’s no big deal – you know, guys and girls should be friends. We’re trying to convey the rules and parameters, while giving him space and respect, while still letting him know we have an eagle eye on him, while allowing him to feel like his own person, while spying on him, without him feeling like we’re spying because we’re not really spying because everything we’ve read and heard says parents need to monitor this stuff, while not embarrassing him, while embarrassing him just enough. It’s a pickle and I, for one, am floundering.

THIS IS MY BABY BOY WE’RE TALKING ABOUT.

This morning I picked up his phone to see if he had stopped erasing messages per our talk and I was horrified to find that the texting with many girls has jelled into an awful lot of texting with one girl. An AWFUL lot. And aside from the purposefully atrocious spelling and grammar, these texts were surprisingly substantive. They texted about books, movies, soccer, the new kid, homework and I had to stop reading because it just went on and on and on. Dash came home from work and I was in a state.

I don’t know how to feel. I know this is normal. I know this is good. I’m happy he’s able to have a seemingly normal friendship with a girl at the ripe old age of 11. I’m happy he’s a social creature. I’m happy someone else gets to see what a good kid he is. But but but . . .

I just feel like I’m standing on a cliff, the winds of change whipping fiercely around me. And I’m ill-prepared. This is my baby boy we’re talking about.

I just spent the morning carrying my laptop from room to room as I made pancakes, got the kids ready for school and tried to clean up for the painter. Do yourself a favor and watch or listen to Bruce Springteen’s keynote speech at SXSW when you can stay in one place. Make some meatballs and enjoy an hour of the funny and self-deprecating Boss dishing music history, anecdotes, jokes and adolescent angst all interspersed with a little illustrative singing and guitar. Bruce is a silver-tongued wordsmith and his drippy hot descriptions of doo-wop alone, are worth the listen. Hard work, grit and caring too much are what have made him a titan. But he sure doesn’t act like one. He’s easy and cool. BY FAR the most riveting hour of video I’ve seen all year. What a guy.