Wine Bar

Somewhere amid three bottles of wine and countless beers...part of the Brooks bunch & Matt. We listened to 45 bluegrass songs and were about to take it outside with our hard-edged waitress. My sister-in-law and I were dubbed the "Can Girls" as we swayed and flirted deeply into the wallets of disarmed men, helping collect monies for the band.

Did I have a hangover the next morning? You bet!

Thanksgiving

It has been said that I’m a neat freak; couple that with a shard of OCD (I select one green bean at a time at the grocery), and you have me mopping the kitchen floor around 11pm, like I was last night.

Matt and I are in our new place, and although it’s a mite more snug, we love it. There are dark, hardwood floors (a Swiffer…I get to use a Swiffer!), crown molding, and any quirk one would expect to find in a place built in 1914. Each night we unpack boxes, and we’re slowly making our way to finding the box that holds the remote control (Matt’s OCD begins here – he’s a man, after all).

Sure, there was a gas leak that Matt and his mom detected, but it’s charming, I think.

The best part about moving is the joy of purging. I think we’re now on the Salvation Army’s Christmas card list. It’s a time to ask oneself: Do I really need my album collection anymore? (mostly hand-me-downs from my sister, but there are some good oldschool Fleetwood Mac recordings in there).

Between computers, scanners, TVs, printers, iPods, Mp3 players, speakers, wires, cords and my very-expensive-and-I-can’t-wait-to-get-rid-of-it stereo, there is little room left for the couch.

The first night there I made macaroni and cheese; it was all I could find in the wreckage. I felt very “Barefoot in the Park” when I said, “Come and get your hot meal!”

Last night we ate in the dining room, and this weekend we’re shopping for a Christmas tree…the Charlie Brown kind that we can squeeze into a corner.

I’m blessed; on that note, Happy Thanksgiving!

Ding Dong: The Witch Is Dead

The house is FINALLY *selling* and we're heading downtown. We will miss the trees...but not the long commutes! So long, Geist.

Call me for our new whereabouts. :)

Voter Appreciation 101

Buh-bye crazy people of the world! Let us begin with Rumsfeld...

Massage Therapy

I ran yesterday for the first time in 3 weeks…ah, it felt so good. Matt treated me to a massage on Friday at a day spa, and it made all the frou frou difference. I consider “pampering myself” a run in the woods instead of the neighborhood, but my back’s been killing me, and I know he’s just trying to get me healthy so I can help lift boxes. I’m on to him.

The atmosphere of a massage makes me giggle. The rooms are dimly lit with soft George Winston-esque music playing and scented candles burning. Hold a crystal if you want, but I think it's silly. It’s a tranquil, romantic setting…and then the chubby girl enters the room.

My massage therapist was very kind and soft spoken, like a good massage therapist should be. She whispered everything. With great acuity, I took pleasure in throwing her off by answering in a normal tone, and asking her lots of questions.

I was congested because I caught Matt’s cold (clearly, he owed me this massage), and the room was freezing. She’d put hot, wet towels on me, which was great at first, but while she was busy rubbing my neck and getting gooey oil in my hair (it’d been a perfect hair day until then), they’d cool and I’d be left shivering.

I told that her my lower back needed special attention, but these people are systematic and must go in order: head, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes, so I took it in stride. I was half-naked, after all, so who was I to complain? After a while, however, I thought, “Stop fiddling with my ears and rub my damned back!” She rubbed a stone around on my stomach, the final straw, and finally she told me that I could turn over.

Lying on my back wasn’t problematic because I was still breathing through both nostrils, but when she had me turn on my stomach and plant my face in the head cubby, my body became tense with the fear that my nose would run. I couldn’t relax. Oh, gentle irony, you’re never lost on me.

The more I lay there, the more the pressure built in my sinuses, until finally I had to breathe with my mouth open, thus creating more tension from the angst of possibly drooling. This really sucked.

My back is better, though, and I have the sweet caress of a girl I never knew to thank for it (and Matt, of course). For a small price (actually, these appointments are quite expensive), Matt got his running partner and heavy lifter back.

My Sister Is Published!

First-day jitters
Southwest Florida Parent & Child Magazine
By Angie Brooks

I KNEW IT WAS TIME for my daughter to go to preschool when she emphatically said to me, "Mom, when I go to school, you can’t come. I am going by myself!" WOW. That got my attention and felt like a hard prelude to the teenage years of parental rejection, although she was barely 3.

I realized I had been dragging my feet. We had been "interviewing" schools for more than a year, comparing ABCs and 123s, but none ever seemed to be good enough for Mommy. Each time we would check out a school together, she would excitedly think this is it — and I would have to drag her away, as Eva protested, "NO! I want to go to school!" After collecting pamphlets from every preschool in all the local counties (and some other states and countries), I looked at the mound of information clutter on my dining room table and made one last call. Yea! They offered diversity, a bilingual program, gardening, art, yoga, music, cooking … (I wanted to go, too).

I finally signed the dotted line, got her a physical, and two days later, we drove up to the new preschool, back pack and lunch box in tow. We were greeted at the door, "Buenos Dias." She was shown her own cubby, and then she led me into the classroom. I showed her where the bathroom was and gave her a quick refresher on manners and hygiene (yes, overprotective mom). Her eyes were everywhere, she was absorbing the environment, touching the puzzles, and this new exotic foreign land. She said, "The teacher wants us to go outside in two minutes." Eva pecked me and eagerly headed to join the other kids in line. No drama.

I suddenly realized I was the only parent left in the room and I headed for the door. I looked her teacher in the eye and said, "I am the one who is afraid to go." She patted my arm reassuringly and responded, "It’s normal." I walked out the door, giant tears running down my face, walked to my car, got in and cried a tsunami. Somehow, I managed to drive home, and felt the empty car seat staring at me. There I was greeted by an unremembered heavy silence. I drank my coffee alone, no noise, no questions to be answered, no needs to fill. I walked in the yard; my shadow was not following me. It was the longest day of my life, waiting and watching the clock.

When I picked her up she came bouncing around the corner, beaming, and gave me a big knowing hug as she rattled on about her fun day at preschool.

On the way home, I glanced back at the car seat where my preschooler sat singing "The Itsy Bitsy Spider" to herself in Spanish. I smiled. We had survived the first day.

— Angie Brooks is an artist living in Southwest Florida.