Party at Our House

Matt and I love to entertain. We both love cooking, and I like making sure everyone's glass is full, all the candles are lighted, not one spec of dirt lingers anywhere, and that the music is spot on.

We're having a New Year's party, so come on over!

We had the greatest Christmas ever. It will be difficult to top in the coming years. We went to church--pretty much the entire Brooks clan, Matt, Sam and I--and allowed Sam to stay with us for the candle-lighting ceremony. It was beautiful and moving.

The Brooks gang joined us for Christmas Eve dinner and festivities, which warms my wee heart when we all can be together (but we were missing Jason's family, sadly).

Santa came, of course, and brought Sam everything on his list. Matt and I exchanged presents...one highlight is my retro Schwinn bicycle from the late 1960s - perfect!

But my favorite gift of all, from Matt, was a huge box filled with canned and dry food. I want to get involved--really, really involved--with Gleaners Food Bank. I have a plan I've been working through for a while, and when I opened the box, Matt said, "This is to help you start your mission."

I almost cried. This guy, this husband of mine, the onion...oh, I love peeling back new layers revealing what a sensitive guy he is.

So, he can't fix much around the house. That's all right. He's a good guy, and I knew that the minute I laid eyes on him.

With every great year and wonderful Christmas we have, we know that the most important part is giving to those in need. I hope to end all of my nights wide awake at 2:00 a.m. worrying about the children who didn't get dinner. And all it takes is a plan...and some serious driving around.

More to come - Happy New Year!

Say, what?

In all of my geekdom, I discovered my new favorite website: Forvo.com. All of the words in the world. Pronounced.

It has over 6,000,000 people pronouncing words that might typically throw you, like Aeschylus (that one always gets me) or Jeffrey Eugenides (also had a really hard time getting that one down).

For this website you will need:
1. A computer
2. Volume turned up on said computer

You type your word in, and then click on a little arrow icon and voila: someone says the word correctly!

It even gives you a "Language of the Day," which today is Flemish, in case you want to practice your Belgian Dutch.

I'm searching the house for words I can't pronounce...I might play on this all day!

Shrimp & Grits

I'm in the South. I've been in Charleston, SC for three days for a little break; a calm before my three writing jobs kick my ass in January. The 3rd South Carolina city I've visited, it's by far the most grand. Not quite Atlanta, GA, but for the South, it's really good. Strangely, it's a blonde town. I've met several great locals, and tonight a Charlestonian woman said, "I like you. Blondes have to stick together." She wrote down her phone number and told me she hoped to hear from me very soon. Funny, as that's something I'd probably do.

I've had some very quirky things happen since I've been here, and I'm shocked at how many 80s preppies are still living that dream. Whale and duck pants, bright green and bright yellow pants and shirts. I think the stores simply haven't restocked since 1985.

Charlottesville was chock-full of preppies with Daddy's money, seeking a degree in philosophy or poetry; The Charlestonian accent, however, doesn't give me the shivers.There was a sardonic quote once about how Southern people never sound like rocket scientists, even if they are rocket scientists.

Charlestonians deliver diction, syntax and annunciation with a soft undulating way of conveying their "inna-most" thoughts. It's sweet, sophisticated sugar. I told Matt that I could live here (if we ever move from Georgia, cough cough), and he said that Ruby Sue would likely turn over in her "grave" if he ever moved to the South. We simply won't tell her.

I met a couple last night who started off fun, but I quickly left the jazz bar via a ride from their "bike taxi" son, who'd recently graduated from the Citadel. I was afraid I'd either be sold off to slavery, or chopped into bits (worse yet, grits) if I played with this crazy group any longer. The wife, a Charlestonian, told me her "ugly" secrets and dark thoughts, her husbands miscomings, and her son's quest to marry the daughter of his dad's (her husband's) ex-wife. It was all too "Bravo" or "Oxygen" channel for my liking, so I left before they locked me in a trunk.

I had some damn good wine and mussels before I left, though. I held my arms way up in the bike taxi, laughing at the experience.

I took a wonderful walking tour of the historic downtown given by a 7th-generation Charlestonian and two dry old women from deep-Virginia, whom I could not comprehend at any corner. Although it's fascinating to learn about history--the 1860s were sure good--I noted one little thing that I don't think the rest of the group was following, something that was wearing on me like moss on a myrtle tree. The Civil War ended. There is no more Confederacy. You can talk about palmetto trees and artillery all you want, winning battles at Ft. Sumter, and decorated generals, but the Conferacy is not coming back. Charleston seceded first--and that's cool--but the Yankees won the good fight. And there's no sweet-tea-sipping glory-day-remembering under a magnolia that's going to bring it back. It just...poof! Went. In smoke, nonetheless.

But my stay at the Francis Marion Hotel (Revolutionary War "Swamp Fox") has been wonderful. My calves are killing me from walking...and I've done my share of eating and drinking. The icing on the piece of cake I did not order was Indiana beating # 1 rated Kentucky while I sat tasting my first-ever shrimp & grits.

I'm really looking forward to scooping Sam into my arms today, and kissing my husband hello. I miss them!

The Importance of Being Noticed

One of the best quotes I've heard in a long time came from my friend, Doug, who tells his dates, "Can we please not record this night on Facebook?"

Hilarious.

Today Sam had a playdate with a good friend, whose mom--a wonderful mom--is very young. She added to her Facebook page "where we are having lunch and what we're eating" and I gave earnest consideration to ever posting again.

This younger generation keeps record, by God. I'm astounded at how many accounts they need to tell and show the world just what they've been up to. Is it ego? Is it trying to fit it, or find their place in the world? Is it necessary?

I'm waiting for an answer. I'll check Twitter and see what I find out.

A Fond Farewell

We said farewell to our loving gerbil this week. Gertie died November 30 at 8:11 p.m. Her services were held under our Evergreen tree in the front yard.

Gertie spent many of her days being completely ignored. During those times she enjoyed chewing through toilet paper or paper towel rolls, hiding in one of her many "huts," and running on her obnoxious, loud, green wheel.

She leaves behind her family: Matt, who told Jill "Yes! Let's get a gerbil! Gerbils are fun! I always had gerbils when I was a kid!"; Jill, who fed her, talked to her, held her although Gertie made her sneeze, and cleaned her cage; and Sam, who once took her to preschool for Show and Share.

Gertie died with a full belly, and both Jill and Matt got to hold her for a while until that fateful moment when she decided to lie on her back. Sam seemed unphased by the situation, as it was bathtime, but he did kiss her a couple of times before she passed.

When told that Gertie was now in heaven, Sam smiled, and said, "My next gerbil is going to be name Tutu. And my dog is going to be named Fafa.

Peace Out, Gertie.

Brining the Bird and Other Disgusting Measures

In a few moments I have to walk into my kitchen and stick my hands down the turkey's underpants and pull out stuff that no one in their right mind would actually use to make gravy, let alone eat.
My brine is cooling, Sam is coughing his head off in his "office" playing video games (it has begun...video games), and Matt fled for work (a short day, thank goodness). His parents have been with us for two weeks, with one more week to go! There is plenty of body heat in our house.

We took them to the Jazz Kitchen, which is one of my favorite places, and scored some bonus points for doing so. They're in Chicago today, so I'm going to whip this place into a Christmas wonderland since they leave next week, and will miss the transformation.

Thanksgiving tomorrow with Matt's folks, my mom, sister and niece. Big Brooks bonfire on Friday with the entire clan. Matt's parents want to join the bonfire, but I neglected to tell them that they might have to pee in the woods. This should be interesting.

Until then, happy Thanksgiving!

School Pictures

I got behind a Chevy Malibu on Tuesday and it almost ruined my day.

Kidding.

Sam had school pictures taken on Thursday. We arrived to school early (we're almost always the first ones there because we drive 15-20 minutes to school, so it's difficult to time).

The director said we could "go right in" for the photo session since we were early, and she handed Sam his "paperwork," which she even called "paperwork." I waited. Sam sat in a row created just for picture day, little orange and blue chairs the height of small trash cans. I combed his hair and waited outside. I peeked a couple of times while he waited. He had this huge piece of paper gripped in one fist, and with the other small fingers he waved to me. He grinned. He was knocking his legs together and occasionally swinging them. He kept giving me big grins like he was very patient but couldn't believe how long he was waiting in line since he was the only kid there.

Or perhaps that's what I was thinking.

When his name was called, I vanished. I didn't want him performing for me, looking my way, or making goofy faces. I hid in the bathroom.

When he finished I walked him to his room. I asked how it went. He said, "It was fun, Mom. I was just getting my picture taken."

I cried the minute I got to the car.

This needs no formal introduction...

Fresh Beats

We're people people

Oh man, oh man, the blog. I think about writing, but I always feel so busy that I wonder how I can possibly boil down the facts. I can truly piss away my free hours like nobody's business, too. It's a balancing act.

Good words to describe Sam could be over-indulged child (like the fact that he owns at least 10 costumes and yet I spent my entire evening tracking down a "Dark Knight" costume because he'd rather be that than Ironman, which we bought 3 weeks ago), but somehow he keeps his sunny, friendly, highly-positive, sweet disposition, so Matt and I shrug and say, "Eh, hard to deny him." That kid always has plans. He's 99% Matt, with my social spark: he finds people wildly entertaining and enjoyable. He's knows all of his letters and numbers (up to 40) by sight, and is starting to relay his feelings/desires in fluent Spanish. His teacher said that he's definitely the most direct and assertive (albeit the youngest), and one of the smartest in the class. Let's hope he doesn't blow it all by voting Republican. ; )~

Winter is approaching. I can hear it in Matt's whimpers and sighs. My biggest winter challenge won't be shoveling all the snow, but keeping Sam in line. My flowers are dying, the grass is trying to choke out one last meaningful burgeon, and I've decided that I'll never dwindle time again with the fool-hardy mums. They last but a week or two. Hopeless.

We're heading down to French Lick Springs Thur-Fri for Fall Break, because preschoolers who are only in school 15 hours a week need respite from their harrowing schedules. The timing was perfect for Matt's CLE class (snoooooooze to the commoner), so Sam and I can get in some good swimming time at their wicked indoor pool.

Matt and I are going to a Halloween party with our friends Kelly & Mike on Saturday. The photos from this evening should be cracking. I'm just sayin. There have been a lot of trips to Goodwill, and I got to shop at stores like Wet Seal, Forever 21, and Deb! Whoa, enlightening. I cannot believe I've been wasting my time online ordering from Athleta and Title Nine.

Wal-Mart Bingo

I have not been to Wal-Mart in over 6 months. My heart rate is back to normal, and I don't care if I could save $2.45: I will never return.

I will never drive behind another dump truck, a Mercury Sable, any type of Buick or Toyota Corollas. These are the slowest cars out there, and it isn't worth the aggrevation.

I seriously wrapped a gift at the corner of 96th and Keystone the other day, so I'll never take that route again, either. I'm simplifying my life.

This bingo card fully explains my recent, necessary actions.

Spooky Corner

Our latest creation...it's killer.

Matt's Terrarium

Sam and I made this for Matt's boring office...

note the tiny surf board.

4th Birthday Bash

The sound of 30 little feet running around our house. We threw one killer 4th birthday party for Sam. 41 people in our backyard...awesome. And I KNOW there's no time clock in baseball...Angie was being creative. The scoreboard was the best part of the party!

Lordy Be

We camped in Yellowwood State Forest for Labor Day - beautiful. Two men occupied the site next to us: one looking like an intern pastor at the local Church of Latter Day Saints, the other covered in tattoos with beady eyes and a crooked face. The kind of face you get when you bust out of jail.
We couldn't figure them out, and they kept shouting the Lord's name--not in vain, mind you--at the top of their lungs. Things like, "Glory be to God for fishing!" and "Praise be to Jesus the almighty, let me shout it to the world!"

Matt, hmph-ing, said, "Something ain't right with them." But we camped on. Tyler Brooks joined us, that cute little college kid.

Another guy was walking around the grounds carrying his bible. He smiled wide at me, and said, "You sure have a good looking family there." I could tell he was looking for fellowship, so I kept my nose down and kept camping.

We think we might find another place to camp next time. We keep to ourselves, usually.

Preparations are underway...

I'm preparing for Sam's 4th birthday party. So far, there are 14 kids on the list, with parents, and my entire family. Matt makes the best margaritas, after all, and adults love drinking at kids' birthday parties. It's baseball-themed this year, and I'm creating a score board as the backdrop.

Sam and I practiced making baseball cupcakes. They were very tedious and we stopped after 5, but I am his mother for God's sake; I cannot buy store-made cupcakes!

I was just about to OK an order of personalized M&M's that I created for $52 online, but I had to stop myself, click off the site and hide the address. I thought, "Does he really need these?"

Definitely when he turns 5.

I should be in the party-planning business. I'm over the top - the guest room closet is already full of "birthday stuff."

Someone stop me. "Please," says Matt. : )

Super Fan

This week has been a surfeit of stress. My dad would describe it as low level continuous stress, such is Katie's life. People who do not grab hold of what they have, who find fault and factor in the teeny cracks of their lives (I've been guilty myself), should rejoice that they are still living, still able to complain.


A good guy died this week, along with 5 others at the Indiana State Fair, who I'm sure were good, as well. At first, before I realized I knew one of the victims, it was hard for me to validate the feeling of loss and anguish the families and friends were experiencing. When I knew it was someone I'd known for so long, someone who had always been so wonderful to me, so happy and full of life, it was difficult not to imagine the horrible last moments of life he experienced. Glenn, who worked security at the Vogue Theatre, was a jovial, happy spirit. He spoiled me in my twenties and thirties, experiencing many concerts for the first time with me on the front row shouting, "Glenn, this is a really important band. They're from _____ and they have recorded ____ records." He would just laugh and smile. He didn't care. That wasn't part of his job. He was there to protect us. He knew I was all about the music, and any time I "wished" a nettlesome guy to disappear (which was sometimes), he would wisk said guy off into the darkness of the Broad Ripple, Indiana streets.

Perhaps 3 guys were kicked out of shows in those days, just for messing with me, for trying to push me somewhere I didn't want to be pushed. I should feel guilty, but I don't feel guilty. Glenn would laugh with me now. They all had it coming. I was Eric's girl.

Don't let me confuse you. I never had a boyfriend named Eric. No, no, much better. A best friend named Eric. A guy who would stay after hours--if, let's say, I was passed out in the Vogue's bathroom--for me. If I was heartbroken, or if I wanted to meet--let's say, The Tragically Hip for the first time--a band. Eric was there for me. Eric grew up at the Vogue Nightclub - it was his first job in high school. He stacked chairs in the evening. Now Eric is one of the most sought-after production managers (perfectionist and obvious Capricorn) in the country. Yep, the country.

Eric has come to my rescue more times than I care to remember, and Eric was standing next to the Indiana State Fair stage when it collapsed last Saturday evening. My husband and our neighbors were sitting on our deck 10 miles north saying, "Ooh, isn't this a scary sky?" Little did we know the aftermath that followed these comments.

So tomorrow I'll attend Glenn's funeral, and I'll likely tell him something funny that will always remain between the two of us. I'll thank him for all of the years he took care of me, and how he helped mold me from a starry-eyed fan...into a real fan. He taught me through his sincere laugh, and I taught him through my sincere devotion to music.

What can I say, I'm a fan. A fan of Glenn's and--thank god, still--a fan of Eric's. Without such friends, my life would simply have been a series of random concerts.

Lake Tippy

Our goal is to vacation as much as possible before:
1. Summer ends
2. The United States careens further into financial disaster.

Matt says, "Not to worry, the stock market has crashed before!" I told him to please buy stock in Marvel Comics while it's down. ; )

We went to Lake Tippecanoe (Battle of Tippecanoe, if you know your Indiana history) over the weekend with our super fun, super nice, fast-becoming-our-best-friends Kelly and Mike, and their friends, Jason and Sandy (lest we forget the 5 kids in attendance). Lake "Tippy," as one would say, was very pretty, very Hoosier. It was in the town of Leesburg, which was near the town of Wabash (which I thought was only a county), which was accessible only via small town after small town on State Roads 37, 15 and 13.  I'm maybe a little more comfortable on 465. I have definitely been to more places outside of Indiana than in Indiana. Shame on me. Better brush up on my Indiana history.

Once we arrived, once Matt and I stopped arguing over directions, once I had a PBR in my hand, it was bloody awesome:

Sam tubed.

Sam soaked up rays.

Sam drove the boat with Mike, drank a beer with his dad, and swam with his (previous lifeguard) mommy.

Sam...did crafts? Whoa.

...and Sam did NOT sleep in the room deemed "for children." Oh, that little mama's boy.

What a great mini-vacation.

Next up: The Outer Banks!

The Wood Pile

Summer was rolling on nicely; M's garden was growing with few weeds:

Sam's playset was finally finished:

Sam learned how to swim (pretty well):

And then M bought a chainsaw:

...now it's back to work for us all.

Indians Game

Today I attended a staff outing for Indianapolis Monthly. Given that I only knew one person there, my editor, who hired me over a beer at the Broad Ripple Brew Pub, I appreciated being included as "staff."

The outing was an Indianapolis Indians baseball game, and it was 95 degrees.

I changed outfit ideas a few times, finally leaning on one of my Title Nine skorts to get me through yet another day (best purchases I've made all summer), and a cotton "ruffle" top (so far from my daily gardening tee), just in case these business people were wearing suits. I considered a quick pedicure touch-up for those who might look down at my feet. No time.

I got Sam to school, got back home and took a shower, was having a perfectly good hair day, and allowed myself 45 minutes to drive downtown, park, and walk to their elite offices on the Circle.

It took me 50 minutes just to get downtown. I was starting to sweat, but that's mostly because of the temperature. I walked into the lobby 5 minutes late and several cute women were dressed in shorts, T-shirts and skirts, so I knew this must be my group. I introduced myself and they phoned my editor to meet us.

I walked with a large group of journalists to the game and, quite literally, I could feel the sweat beading on my lip and occasionally dripping down my back. By the time we got to the game--hadn't even taken our seats yet--my shirt was wet, my deodorant was "pilling," and I had severe "shine face." The perfect hair went up in a ponytail

We sat in our seats--right in the sun--for about 30 minutes. I could feel sweat running down my bra...eww. No one ever mentioned a beer. I couldn't be the leader on this one (although, typically, I like being the suggester when drinking is involved). A few times I thought, "Is there a hidden camera? Is this some kind of a joke?"

I ran to the bathroom and used 35 paper towels to wipe sweat. Other women were doing it, too, so I didn't feel so weird. I returned to my seat. I baked. Finally, my editor said, "Let's go get a beer!" Oh, thank God.

I stayed for two + hours and I was the first one to leave. I'm certain no one ever saw my toes. I held my arms tightly to my sides so that no one could see the huge sweat rings, and I ambled back to my car.

What I brought home were some new acquaintances, an official baseball for Sam, and knowing that I'm not really a spectator of sports.

I have no idea if the Indians won; in fact, I don't even know who the Indians played.

For those who still keep datebooks

The magazine shot. How hilarious. "It looks like a dating site photo," my mom told me.

Well, it isn't from a dating site...it's in Indianapolis Monthly this month as there's a wee feature on me being the new Datebook Editor. I seriously love my job. It causes me to be even more of an insomniac because I'm constantly playing over the words of my Top Ten write-ups each month. I choose my words carefully, mull them over, sleep on them, change their order or relevance, and do this for about 3 days each. It's neurosis. I love writing, and I feel very privileged to be writing for the Monthly.

Matt is also acting as my agent trying to land me my second law firm book deal. Ooh, that would be nice. But when would I write...in my sleep? Oh yeah, I don't sleep.

Sweet.

I mean, who's complaining?

Seriously, there aren't enough words to describe the evilness of edging a lawn. I edged one very long stretch of ours today and I was cussing, bitching and calling all of our neighbors racial slurs (ok, that part is untrue). Matt and Sam came outside to check on my progress, and I said, "Probably not a good time to talk to me." Matt knows exactly what this means.

Because we live on a corner we have one freaking big yard, which, God knows why, I happily claimed as "mine" when we moved in. I'm minutes away from calling a lawn service. The only bright spot of this torture was 1) The fact that Sam did help me early on, before the name-calling, and he was so darn cute about it, and 2) Sam got bored with helping pretty quickly and 3) Sam hosed the middle of the street and said, "Mom, I'm being evil (this was preliminary, way before I'd decided that edging was the devil's work)." I asked why. He replied, "Because I'm making the street slippery for cars that pass." I said, "Ooooh, good one, honey."

But how can I really complain? Matt has spent the last 3 Saturdays putting together Sam's new totally-awesome playset that I picked out. Matt is far less dramatic or bitchy than I, and he--this will blow you away--never really complains.

DAMN IT. That pisses me off!

Our neighbors were over last night, and the wife (my friend) of the family said, "Jill's a work horse." Oh, man, I love her. FINALLY someone recognizes my efforts! I am a work horse. It's a Brooks thing. I take after my dad, who took after his dad, who took after my great-grandfather, who could apparently put a fence post in the ground without ever first digging a hole. We have brut strength, it's weird, and I love physical labor, even when I'm complaining.

Our old-guy next door neighbor told me a few weeks ago: Let me know if you ever want to get rid of your husband. Hahaha. He's a strange chap with a mysterious motorcycle alter-ego, which wouldn't interest me on any playing field. He wants free labor.

Sidebar: Sam dunked his first Oreo in milk this week. I think that's a rite of passage in the South.

Redbuds of summer

There's a redbud tree in our front yard-a giant, well-nutured, mature one-that's my favorite, next to the weeping cherry we got Matt last Father's Day. The redbud, though, is growing low, touching the ground in places. It's difficult to mow around.

Tonight I sacrificed a few branches, hated cutting them off, but it's really a giant sacrifice for our family. Every branch that goes into the trash opens up a little window into our lives for our nosey neighbors, the Kravitz family. Gladys Kravitz inspects everything we do, who comes and goes, what time of day we're coming and going, and if she can't figure it out she asks us.

It was a field day for her when I came home early from California; my brother picked me up at the airport and spent the night at our house. I worked in the yard everyday, and kept driving back and forth to my dad's house, helping out with Kate.

Gladys marched over-literally marched-and said, "Where have you been???" I told her and she continued, "Well, where were Matt and Sam???" (always three question marks after her sentences.) I explained the situation. "Well, whose car was in your driveway???????" (big question.) Damn it. It would have been the perfect chance to say, "My boyfriend's," but I'm weak, and she scares me. I explained further, wimping out completely.

Gladys said, "Well, I had Mr. Kravitz look over your fence one day to see what was going on!!!"

When my mouth finally closed, I slowly walked away from her, saying under my girl-who-got-her-ass-kicked-in-dodgeball voice, "You can think those things, Gladys, but please don't ever say them outloud."

There's a kind of hush

It's incredibly quiet. I've been home alone for nearly 24 hours, with nary a sound in the house. I am so loving this. I miss Sam and Matt, and we talk so frequently that it seems they could be watching Spiderman in the other room, allowing me some time to think and write. I'm drinking wine, eating olives, and baking bread. It's a Little Women moment. I'm smiling. Did I mention that it's quiet?

I had to leave them in California behind my airport tears, but they'll be home in two more days. I was "randomly selected" for a hand-check (a sexual term, actually, that our neighbor claims his parents used on him often, as a teenager watching television on the couch with a girlfriend) at John Wayne airport. My sad emotion quelled, and became rage.

My brother, Jason, picked me up at the airport. He took my picture as I walked off the concourse, and said, loudly, "Jill, how was China???" He then whispered, "I wanted to make it seem big." He's a funny guy. I told him my hand-check story and he said, "You were crying...and about to board a plane? I would have checked you, too!" He and I stayed up drinking wine and talking until 2 a.m. He was leaving for...California this morning to, crazy guy, participate in the "Escape to Alcatraz and Try Getting Back Amongst Those Sharks and the Cold Water Triathlon."

I mean, really, he's a machine.

And now I'm home. I'm going to soak this in while I can. No TV: heaven. Lauren and I are picking Kate up at camp tomorrow morning, and we're going to find the little Southern Indiana breakfast nook of which my dad spoke, and turn up the dial on fried eggs and bacon. My step-mom has ostensibly asked be to "kid sit" while they are on vacation in Long Boat Key, although she's completely allowing me to shirk responsibility, for the most part.

We had a wonderful trip to California. My mother-in-law and I are two peas sharing one pod. We are both a little about the gossip, but she generally wins if she's talking about anyone in Hollywood. I just...don't care. We laugh a lot, though, both free-spirits.

We drove back to Santa Barbara County, where Matt and I honeymooned over three years ago (Sam's age math quiz!). This time we took Matt's parents and Sam, but it was still quite lovely. We hit a few good wineries, bought some killer wines, and Matt's dad ordered a case of the 2007 (Sam's year) Alma Rosa pinot and shipped it to us! YEEEAH! We ate at the "Sideways" (our favorite movie) restaurant we'd missed the first time, the Los Olivos Cafe & Wine Merchant. My god, but the Californians know how to cook. We walked around a million shops, bought fudge and fridge magnets.

We hung out on Newport Beach a couple of times, Matt and Sam surfed, and we saw the "bearded lady" hanging out at Perry's Pizza. Later, we drove down to Dana Point. Matt asked if I'd like to see "the scene of the crime," and I replied, "Of course!" Beautiful place. I thought maybe it would be a little weird for Matt, but he neither hesitated nor hurried, because now it's just another place. Beautiful place.

Did I mention that it's quiet here?

We rented a camp site at Doheny Beach, and Sam and Matt surfed some more. Matt and Sam hung out on the beach at sunset, playing "Tell me another truth about you." Sam is the most darling, dear-hearted child in the world. He and I were standing on the beach watching Matt surf, and he said, "Thank you for buying that hot chocolate for me this morning, Mom." I knelt down and gave him a huge hug, he touches my heart so easily. I said, "Sam, you're the best person I know." He said, "Yeah, and I'd really like the Buzz Lightyear bike for my birthday." Perfect.

The three of us built a fire and sat around until well past dusk. Sam fell asleep in the car in about 15 seconds. Matt and I kept smiling at each other. There are not always perfect days.

The final day, I wrote out my "Sam list" (eye drop (he's had pink eye), brush teeth, don't forget his DVDs on the plane), and they took me to the airport. It was crushing. Sam called me later and said, "Mom, you must come up to the "coozie" (jacuzzi)!" I explained how I was in Minneapolis now, and that my toilet at the airport, while I was organizing my suitcase, flushed 5 times. Sam said, "Mom, I'm really serious. You must come up to the the coozie." Heartbreak.

I noted four types of people now on planes: The workers (Matt-types, always on their laptops), the game players (also on laptops, but mindlessly), the book readers (me, and a handful of others left out there who read actual books), and the parents flying with children (staring off into the distance).

I miss my boys. I cannot believe they haven't called during the construction of this blog.

It's too quiet.

Oh, gee, thank you!

I just watched Sam sleep for about 20 minutes, which is what I do every night for about 20 minutes (sometimes 50 minutes, when insomnia kicks in). Matt came in and we held hands in a little Sam-cradle. Awww, we're good parents. : )

I received a thank-you note today from my step-grandmother (my awesome step-mom's mom) for showing up at her house with my family for Easter, and eating all of her food. I'm ready now. Bring it, Louise. Next time I see you, no matter what the reason, I'm sending you a thank-you note. Sam and I stop by to play pool in your basement: you're getting a thank-you.

I love the thank-you note generation. I'm the last of the thank-you note generations, I'm afraid. Although I may not thank someone for coming over and eating, I certainly send thank you's, and I'm teaching Sam, with his little S. A. M. handwriting, to send them, too. For a little boy, he has beautiful manners.

Sam got his hair trimmed the other day, and I noticed another little boy doing the same. His mom allowed him to play on his DS the entire time. The stylist worked away, and the child (older than Sam, maybe age 8), never looked up. I was appalled. I told my dad the story and he said, "God forbid the little boy learn anything from that lady." So true. He continued, "Someone will ask him someday who cut his hair, and he'll say, "What? Someone cut my hair?""

I got my hair cut last weekend by a guy, and when I told him that my son has beautiful manners, he asked, "You say that to him?" I said, "I sure do, because I'm raising a sensitive, wonderful child who happens to love guns, swords, daggers and Spiderman."

My "stylist" seemed affronted. Sorry, dude.

Wine Wonderful Wine

I felt self-conscious returning the 23-wine bottle stand to the store, explaining that we needed more wine space in the dining room, and that my husband had found a lovely 47-bottle, iron stand online.

A lady standing near me chimed in: Can we come over to your house?

Our next house--and the way Matt likes moving, that'll be in a year--will have a wonderful little nook in our basement for proper wine storage. Falling short of my friend's that has a 9,000-bottle wine cellar.

I chime in: please don't forget me in your will.

Future Memoirs

I found a fork on the kitchen floor while I was sweeping today, and I vaguely remembered Sam dropping it about three days ago. I shuddered at the new me. When I was dating one of those other guys, we once visited one of our few friend-couples with kids, and I noticed a piece of hotdog on their floor. I couldn't believe that a mom would allow a hotdog to linger like that, and I most certainly judged her.

It's no secret that I clean constantly. We have two spiders--big fat-bellied things--living on opposite sides of our front French doors. I vacuum there at least once a week, and I always clean up their piles of other dead, weaker spiders and bugs, but leave the two motherships in peace.

I've always had this soft spot for bugs and animals, although I eat animals, crave eating animals, and don't hesitate to feast upon them regularly. When I was a child, my parents tried, in a vain attempt, to save baby possums (these were regular possums, not opossums) whose mommy had been run over by a car (probably my great-grandfather's). I bawled every time one died, and they all eventually died.

So now, I love when Sam yells, "Mom, get a cup...there's a spider in my room!" I just hope that none of his friends end up mentioning us in a memoir.

Wow, I'm easy to please

Matt handed me $400 from the sale of his 1971 Mercedes that was rusting in our driveway, from the money I gave him to buy the 1971 Mercedes that was rusting in our driveway, and I bought a new lawn mower. Nothing runs like a Deere.

Richard Russo Lecture

I'm impressed with Butler University's Visiting Writers Series. It had been quite a while since I'd stepped foot in the Atherton Union, but my mom and I saw Richard Russo "speak," which is to say "read" last night. He mixed his non-fiction essays with his fiction—-my favorite, Empire Falls—-for which he's so well known, and it gave the audience an in-depth look into his childhood hometown of Gloversville, NY. The town is Empire Falls, from the Pulitzer Prize winning Empire Falls, and Bath from the book-made-movie Nobody's Fool (Paul Newman). His essays were amazing, and I came home and regurgitated them verbatim for my husband, the biology-major-turned-attorney, who has a flare for the creative, or at least for creative people. : )

But here were the weird points of the evening:

1. When Richard (Rick) finished reading, and said we'd all "be done" after a session of Q&A, I heard a cacophony of car keys being pulled from women's purses. Women are weird, and there were plenty of them there. When women hear "the end," or even "it's almost the end," they get those damned car keys ready. I, so sensitive to sound, took notice.

2. My mother was appalled by the attire worn by the bookish women in attendance. She could barely get the word "clog" out of her mouth when she was trying to describe the outfit of the quote, unquote freebird sitting next to me. Mom and I went for a glass (or two) of wine after the lecture, and she admitted that she'd been shaking her foot the entire time, trying to get the poorly-dressed women to notice her leopard-print shoes. Oh, how this woman makes me laugh.

This is why I'm earthy. This is why I read great books and don't give one hot damn about whether or not I'm wearing make-up. I'm at home with fellow English majors in Atherton's Reilly Room, even though I'm a Hoosier through and through.

Showtime

Ken Bethea and me before the show.

Bowling for general realization of the world

Matt took Sam bowling today, and text-messaged me this: I now know where to come when I'm having a low self-esteem day. That's how I feel about West Lafayette. Hooray Bulldogs. Matt doesn't realize it, but we're getting a damned bulldog soon.

U.S. Mail

We've been getting our neighbors' mail all week, as they are sunning themselves in Florida while we rot in the snow and rain. They get home tomorrow, so I have to re-seal all of their letters, and make sure to smooth out the creases of their Details magazine. I'm writing like crazy and this job is piling on the hours, but I love it. So happy to be creative.

'Gans

Matt and my dad are on their first official date: the Willie Nelson concert at the Murat! I stayed home with Mr. Sunshine and we're watching lots-o-Backyardigans adventures. I recently "friended" Evan Lurie, musical genius of the 'Gans, as we like calling them. We own 8 Backyardigans DVDs, and Matt and I sing the music all day long in our heads.

Evan used to be in a NYC band called the Lounge Lizzards - remember them (kind of) well. I absolutley love social utilities. I don't go backstage anymore (although I am having lunch next Sunday with my friend Ken Bethea, an Old 97), but I still have the need to talk me some music with the professionals. After all these years, music is still my passion...I've simply added a few more.

My delicate little flowers are covered outside with bed sheets (what else?) because we're expecting spring snow, but the Bulldogs beat the Gators in overtime, so it's a good night. Sam and I want a slobbery bulldog. We're trying to convince Matt of their charm. I grew up with an English Bulldog named Sophia of Downey; she took a nap against me every day of my life until 5th grade, and I want to create such fond childhood memories for Sam, too. Matt grew up with a Domerman. Nothing cuddles like a Doberman. Whatever.

Time for the Swamp Creature. Some seriously good music. Thank you, Evan.

Spell Check

I'm loving this new writing gig! I've spoken to 10 PR people already this week, and I've let a couple know about the grammatical errors on their websites. ;)

I've already logged many hours, written many "pieces," and I can't get enough. Go English!

My schedule is beginning to need some juggling.

Old 97s

Old 97's are coming to town in early April. Here's a review I wrote in 2004!

PREVIEW
The Old 97's
The Vogue
January 19, 2004

Come see the first good show of the year: The Old 97's. The hypersonic genre-mixers play the Vogue next Monday to their "we've been waiting two bloody years for this" fans. Once Dallas-based, the band now collaborates via 3 cities: lead singer and guitarist, Rhett Miller, is in New York and bassist, Murry Hammond, in Cali, while lead guitarist Ken Bethea and Philip Peeples hold down their Alamos in Texas. Rhett Miller recently chatted with me and, glutted with vigor and warmth, expressed the band’s hullabaloo for their upcoming album, touting a couple of songs to pique our interest. "Murry's chord progression is the cornerstone to the song "The New Kid," which, ironically, isn’t about my 2-month-old son, Maxwell," he said. The tune "Won’t Be Home No More," from the Ranchero Brothers (former Miller & Hammond band) is being brought in from the pasture and added to the kitty as well. But with five albums, they’re sure to play the old favorites Doreen, Big Brown Eyes, 19 and Timebomb too. Miller stated, "The audience often stands slack-jawed when they don't hear old songs; it's tough to try new songs out on the road, but playing them isn't so much for the audience as it is practice for the band."

Cowpokes with brains, the 97’s are all avid readers and the band’s eloquent writers, Miller and Hammond, construct most of the songs. "I sing the songs that I write and Murry sings the songs he writes—we're even getting Ken to sing a song which he's never done in his life," said Miller. Their catalog casts the net wide, bringing in styles from the Ramones, Jason and the Scorchers, Hank Williams and the band X. Miller's former band Killbilly purveyed his "deliverance" of Bluegrass and they all retain their native y'alt-country style. Hammond named the group from a song sung by Johnny Cash, The Wreck of the Old 97, though "accelerate" seems more their nature. Their music flies open like unfastened shutters in a Texas tornado, executing precision and flare with double-time alacrity. You arrive at their show tired and return home unable to count any sheep.

Miller, rock-n-roll's haute du jour, is the type of guy who answers, "Ah, shucks" to a compliment. Any girl who's ever had an interest in their music has secretly hoped he'd turn up as her mystery date, though he recently became Old 97s-number-4 to marry. Raised in a family of music lovers, he began playing guitar at age 12 and was playing Dallas gigs by age 15. Known as the "weird kid who played folk songs" (or so he said), he opened for the Pixies' Frank Black when he was a mere 18. He opened for Hammond’s band Peyote Cowboys in 1986 and the Old 97's was born. Collectively, the 97’s have all had solo or side projects; most notably, Miller recorded a 2002 solo album on Elektra, The Instigator, that won high acclaim as the perfect pop album. Several local radio stations picked up the single "Come Around," and I spun it a few thousand times myself. The album's infectious lyrics and charm are unyielding and frustrating to critics who love to pan, and its danceable mixture of rhythms forces even the most stubborn toes to tap. Miller should be performing surprise (oops, sorry) solo acoustic songs off Instigator at Monday's show (or so I asked).

The 97's have new management: Vector, to be exact (Lyle Lovett, Emmylou Harris) and after their January tour lite the band will begin recording their sixth album in February. It will arrive mid-summer 2004 on the New West label. Miller's next solo album, also on Elektra, will fall on the heels of the 97’s’. For now, Miller's greatest ambition and achievement are simultaneously the birth of his son. He sang me Maxwell's favorite song, the backwards alphabet, saying, "We call it his ZYX's – he loves when I sing to him." Ah, the beauty of rock-n-roll.

--Jill Brooks

Inevitable Vulnerability

The Ba-Ba Beenie Club was at our house today: Sam, Cole and Teddy. I made pizza for them, but Cole suggested "sugary cereal" instead, so they had Fruit Loops, with a chaser of fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies. I want them to like me.

Yesterday, I had a flashback of the time at the Blue Point Bar when Steve Simon said we should all tell of a time when we were the most vulnerable, an embarrassing moment in our lives. For me, these moments, these chocolate-sauce-dripping-down-a-new-white-shirt occurences are frequent, and I had one yesterday.

I'm very organized, but hugely impatient. Do it now, talk about it later. Go on, do it. Get it done.

Sam's teacher--the kind of person who deserves a "bless her heart" after her name--puts her "all" into Sam's class. She writes down everything the kids do each month, prints the reports out in color and does not leave one Painted Rock Day unturned. Sometimes I'm too busy for these lengthy accounts.

She sent a sheet home last Friday explaining that the kids would be making vegetable soup on Monday. Bring a vegetable. This is all I needed to know. I did notice an italicized "bring ONE," and I moved on to my next project after marking it in my brain index. One veggie. Monday. Next.

I thought it was a little weird, one veggie, and I even commented about it to Matt over the weekend. "Isn't that strange...one veggie? What if it's a mushroom? One mushroom? What about a green bean? One? How weird."

Never thought to re-read the teacher's three or four paragraphs because I already knew it all: Veggie soup. One veggie.

We bought fresh French-style green beans over the weekend, and I put two in a plastic bag. I took them into to Sam's class on Monday, telling the teacher and her assistant, "Well, they're French, so we brought two," as if we were being somewhat generous. The teachers looked at me incredulously.

I noticed that other moms were bringing in entire gardens of green beans, peppers, mushrooms. I drove my 8.5 miles home and re-read the memo. It read:

If the chosen veggie is a carrot, please bring ONE carrot, because I'll also be bringing carrots to class.

So, poor Sam represented two small French green beans in his class soup and, from what I hear, he ate most of it, too.

Matt almost choked he laughed so hard.

A spoon full of medicine ball

I've been steadily working out now for nearly three months at my little gym where nobody knows my name. I love that. Cheers in reverse.

On the days Sam doesn't go to school, I've been trying to get up around 6:30 am and get my workout in before Matt and Sam even roll out. All other days I go right after I drop him off at preschool, and right before my venti latte and a stroll around Clay Terrace mall. JOKING.

The "trainer" at wee gym said that I should always begin with weights, but I begin with a run. I have to, otherwise the A.D.D. kicks in after weights and I can sometimes be found walking to my car. Gotta get the real sweat out of the way...the weights feel like pencils when my heart's already pounding.

I want to choke those people with 13.1 and 26.2 stickers (except my neighbor, who is very nice and therefore allowed to put any sticker she wants on her car). My brother's sticker would read 140.6. Go to hell with that kind of attention span.

But, strangely, I'm loving the treadmill. I can zone on a treadmill unlike on the street, where I have to keep track of my footing vs cracks, rocks, twigs and ants (I cannot kill anything). I can finally watch Fox News, which we all know I just wuv, or Kathy Lee and Hoda, equally as news-filled, without interruption! (Trainer Boy said that they once put CNN on, and two extremely old people never came back...haha).

My favorite part, though, is the Core. I love Dead Bugs and Mountain Climbers. I'm having a little love affair with the medicine ball. I don't think Matt minds this affair, either. : )

When I was sick a few weeks ago, Sam said, "Mom, use your medicine ball!"

I love that kid. True love.

Cookin'

I do amaze myself. This week I cooked rack of lamb crusted with coriander, stuffed steak pinwheels, and chicken carbonara.

Luckily, I worked out at the gym every single day.

I'm enjoying the tone, especially since we're gourmands. My sister calls to see what we're whipping up each day - she said it's like calling a restaurant.

Weekenders and Anniversaries

My husband, what a guy. He told Sam and me to pack our bags because we were going to Chicago for a the weekend! He booked a room at the Palmer House because he knows I'm an old-fashioned girl who is a sucker for Art Deco and Grecian frescoes.

Jason and the boys met us up there. We spent several hours at the terribly expensive and super marginal Shedd Aquarium, where a "snack" cost each party $30. I kept asking where the big sharks and some whales could be seen. No such things. Such a big city rip-off.

We grabbed drinks in the Palmer House's lobby, and had an amazing dinner of Spanish tapas at Mercat a la planxa, a restaurant that Matt had discovered through being a total foodie. It was really a sight to see the three young boys devouring filet, lamb, scallops, sausages and flatbreads. We loved it, until the bill came. ;0

Liam and Finn gave at least 10 dollars to the homeless on our walk back to the Palmer, and we were scolded by a little Chinese man when we brought our 3 little bulls into his china store after dinner. Jason even said, "You look really nervous, sir." He had no idea what that meant; he just kept saying, "No touch...no touch!!"

In the morning we toured Millenium Park, which is far more inviting in the summer, grabbed breakfast at the West Egg (sweetly reminiscent for me and my many hung-over mornings after concerts back in my singlehood) shopped at Burton and Jonathan Adler, and ate pizza at the ever-famous Gino's East. Sam fell asleep at the restaurant, which he never does - those little legs were tired.

It was a perfect trip, and I'm so glad that Jason made the effort to join us. The real treat: Matt's and my anniversary! Let's toast to that!

There is definitely a saving-of-one-another involved in marriage. I was so independent that I never wanted to be saved, never thought of it that way. I never in my life "looked" for a husband, but I see more and more how Matt swooped in and took me into his life, and I'm so very grateful. And I saved him, too. Oh, how I saved him. When we talk about it, Matt just wipes his brow. ; )

Happy Anniversary, sweet Matt.

The Party Nook

No matter where you have a party, everyone ends up in the kitchen. Matt and I had a few neighbor friends over the other night and, not only did we all congregate in the kitchen, we stayed in the kitchen nook the entire night! What a waste of a perfectly clean house (Sam mopped!).

If I'd put the beer and wine in the mud room, along with our gerbil, that's where were would have gathered. Next time, as a test, I'm going to put all of the alcohol on top of the washer/dryer and see what happens. Maybe I can get guests to help fold.

Mrs. Clean

Matt says I just look for shit to clean.

Celebrating the Birthday Boy

I surprised Matt with a getaway weekend in ... Louisville, KY! Who says I'm not a great wife? There were lots of "y'alls" and thick country accents (no one ever sounded smart with a country accent...I stole this line from a comedian), but it was extremely charming.

The best part: Matt's friend, John, from UVa and his wife, Jacquie, drove up from Chattanooga, TN and surprised him. John and I set this up in November, so we've been scheming for months.

We took Sam with us a). because John & Jacquie wanted to meet the fine fellow, and b). because we take him everywhere.

We stayed at the 21c Museum Hotel, which had a modern art gallery in it. What a cool place. Outstanding. Matt, Sam and I went out to dinner Friday night, as we had a much shorter drive and J& J hadn't yet arrived. I was trying to keep everyone awake, kept texting John about his ETA. Our plan was for them to knock on our door when they arrived.

After dinner, the three of us went back to our hotel room, and Matt changed into his comfy clothes. I was chuckling at the thought of him being in his underwear when they finally got there, but that didn't happen. J&J knocked on our door at 10:30 pm--SURPRISE--and I made Matt go out and get drunk with them. Good wife!

Matt was completely surprised, and it entertained me as much as seventh-grade socials to witness this. : )

John suffered from his Friday night martinis the rest of the weekend, but we ate a delectable lunch at Ramsi's "Food of the World" on Saturday, and ate dinner at Proof on Main, which was noted in Esquire magazine as one of the best restaurants in the country. Oh, it was good. They made Matt cotton candy!

Sam was the only child in the hotel. Sam was the only child dining at Proof. They asked if he needed a straw, and with a tsk, I replied, "He's fine, thanks."

We "hit" the Louisville Slugger museum for good measure. A lot of baseball names were brought up...all flying right over my head. John loved it, because he's a New Yorker. They eat baseballs for breakfast.

Now we're planning a weekend trip to Nashville, TN (Dede, can you babysit?), and a ski trip with J&J. Quickly, I need some snowboarding lessons.

Matt, Sam and I ate lunch at McAllister's Deli, somewhere off 65 N. in Clarksville (Clarksburg--Clarksomething) and: oh, my. That's all I have to say about that.

Birthday Boy is having a great day...he's cooking dinner for us, of course! He is allowed to listen to whatever music he wants...just this once.

Happy Birthday, Matt! xo