Maui at Night

We took a recent trip to Maui, which was breathtaking and spectacular, and we want to live there. Period. I'm a little haunted, however, by how yet another culture has been ruined via the relentless need for retail stores and knickknacks.

When the three of us go on vacation, you can bet your American currency that you won't find us at "the mall." Look if you must, but we're out exploring. 

Explore we did, and Sam and I shared our birthday. :)

Our dear friends John and Becky chose Maui for their wedding, John being Australian, Becky, American. It was a good halfway point for all guests. When they asked if Sam would be the ring bearer (the ring barrier, as he calls it) we hesitated not one second in taking him out of kindergarten for 7 days. Take that, Sam's future!

We rented a condo—practically in the Pacific—in Kihei (Kee-hey) for the beginning of the week, so we grocery shopped (asparagus $8/lb, box of cereal $8/box) and cooked a few meals. Mostly, we ate out. We found a little food truck selling fresh Ono and Mahi Mahi tacos, and there Sam began his love affair with fish. We ate lunch there every day, I think, and we even stopped by on our way to the airport the final day! 

Matt surfed daily, although the waves were more Sam's size. Sam has tremendous coordination and balance, so surfing is a breeze for that little guy. One day we drove along the North Shore of the island, finding one ridiculously beautiful scene after another, and hiked 4 miles just to catch a glimpse of Jaws. Unfortunately, the wave doesn't break until mid-January, but it was a wondrous view, nonetheless.

We took in our first luau, where Sam glimpsed his first hula dancers. This ritualistic dance full of symbolic movement (water, fish, love, for instance) was once performed for the Volcano goddess, Pele. It is now performed purely for tourists' (mostly American) entertainment. Kind of sickening. The goddess Laka, keeper of the dance, had to give up hula once Christian missionaries decided it was against their principles. Banned for over a decade, the hula made its return, but as Laka was once honored with prayers, offerings and leis, now these leis come to us, paying customers. 

Certainly I'm not against Christian missionaries, but must we all evolve into one singular persona? Can we not find concord with a few cultural differences? OK, OK, cannibalism I'll agree with...but the hula? Really?

I ziplined with the wedding party one day...what an adventure above the trees! Sam wasn't tall enough, so he and Matt stayed behind. It was a great day of bonding, but after lunch, one of our instructors, Loki, hid in the bushes pretending to be a wild boar, and I freaked out. He had a really good pig snort, and I fell for it completely. I grabbed Becky and told her to go back the way we'd been, and wouldn't let her pass. When Loki stood up, he was laughing his ass off. Becky said, "You're such a mom!" So true! I told Loki that somehow, some way, I'd get him back. I'm working on that plan now...

The wedding was stunning, and full of messy, casual Australian accents. Love the Aussies. John and Becky are great friends, and they love our son to death. What more can we ask for? At the reception dinner, Sam wanted to sit next to Becky because "she looks so pretty." Oh my, ladies guy. Across from me, Becky's mom said, "Well, if you're only going to have one child, you might as well raise an incredible one," which I think is perhaps the coolest thing anyone has ever said to me. Truly, I'll never forget that. 

The day after the wedding we took the Road to Hana, the South Shore, hiking trails and deep forests to find waterfalls, wading pools, enormous trees and comely sights. We listened to a CD that Matt had the foresight to pick up, telling of the best places to stop along the way. By far, the best part was Waimoku Falls & The Seven Pools at Haleakala National Park (probably shut down right now, thank you, Congress). We arrived around 4:30 p.m., the hike to the falls two miles uphill through a dense bamboo forest. I had Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness on my mind the entire time, and Sam even agreed to hold my hand in the "pitch black." 

With the Falls being #26 on the list, somehow we forgot to listen to #27, which was titled, "Tips for the Trip Home."

Unwise.

So, the South Shore of Maui, past Hana, where George Harrison lived, the Magical Mystery Tour began. After all the quaint towns and necessities of life, Maui had NOT ONE light along the treacherous, hair-pinned-curvy road back to Kihei. When night falls there, it crashes like your drunk friend on the couch. The deceptive lure of the day trip became the twisted-stomach, leaning-forward-in-your-seat, wide-awake kind of nightmare. Neither of our phones would work, and we had no idea where in the hell—oh, I'm sorry, God's beautiful creation—we were.

40 miles of this. My go-to thought, "What would Laura Ingalls do?" returned. There was serious silence in the car, even Sam knew better than to ask any questions. We could barely make out the line between land and water, and I asked Matt, cautiously, "Can you please SLOW DOWN?" 

Then I screamed, "Matt!!!!!!" He screamed back, "What? What the hell??" (You could cut the tension with an icing spreader.) I replied, "COWS! There are COWS in the middle of the road!" Matt gave it a quick, "Oh, shit," and swerved out of the way.

Then we began laughing. Nervous laughter, like when you're not mugged in NYC after you feel you're about to be. Sam asked what was going on, and I said, "Oh, just 3 cows, gray, black and brown, walking up the hill, minding their own business." 

20 more miles, and we began to see twinkling lights. I thought of Wordsworth.

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Only these weren't daffodils...this was a town! Oh, glorious town in Maui! Whatever you are, we love you! And we're having dinner here! 

Matt and I stayed up very late on the lanai (after all, we were in Hawaii) once we found Kihei again, drinking wine and laughing about the evening. It’s amazing how quickly happiness returns. One thing is for sure: I have one helluva a husband.

The remainder of the week we spent in a lush hotel with all the trimmings. 7 swimming pools, Fernando Botero sculptures, marble floors, and a mall right next door. Now, that’s America.

Kinder Care

It's Sunday, and I've been up since 6:08. This, be it told, is a consequence of kindergarten, and our new household training of "waking with the animals." I'm way better at it than my husband, a far cry from a "morning person," and my son, who is just like his dad. Go figure.

At 9:00 a.m. on a weekend morning, those two are just getting comfortable (often together), preparing to go back to sleep. They stretch, yawn, and pull the sheets over their heads when I take a peek. By then I've had a cup or two of coffee, started laundry, read something, written something, posted something, and likely mopped the kitchen floor. No one trespasses on my morning rituals, no one asks me where anything is or if I can fetch something for them, and so it's my favorite part of the day.

But Kindergarten has been most difficult for me. I cried for three days prior to Sam climbing aboard the bus (his favorite part of this ordeal, by far), and when the bus rounded the corner that first day, I said, "Sam, you don't have to get on - there's still time to home-school." I was kidding (not very much), but he said, "No!"

He likes it so far, minus the rug time. Too much rug time. And only 15 minutes of recess. An embarrassment to five-year-old energy, like the death sentence "have some fruit" when a kid craves candy. His teacher is sweet, so we can't complain. Show me a kindergarten teacher who isn't sweet, and I'll buy her the book, What Color Is My Parachute? Better jump now.

Sam asked why they have rug time so much, and I went into a spiel about the importance of the Miss Krabappels of the world having control. "Your teacher needs your undivided attention. It's like when cowboys corral cattle, or a shepherd corrals his flock..." and then I got depressed for him. I wanted to take it back and say, "Run for your life!" Damn, can't do.

I miss my buddy. I miss our listless days and our busy ones, our talks, our lunches,
playing tennis in the street, dressing like ninjas, going to the skate park before anyone else showed up, and writing down his every funny thought and sentences in a journal, which I've kept since the day I found out I was pregnant.

When Sam arrived from my C-section here in Indiana, back in 2007, I thought, "What am I supposed to do with him...all day? Every day?" POOF: he's gone. Now he's sitting at a classroom table with three other children, eating homemade lunches that I pack each morning, gathering often on a rug and getting 15 minutes of recess.

I did a "drive-in" at his school on the first day, which constituted sitting in the parking lot during that meager 15 minute window, hoping to get a glimpse of him on the monkey bars. I can't admit that to him yet, but by the time he reads this (because that carpet time must be helping with reading) he'll forgive me my trespassing (I hope). Mine was the ONLY car in the lot, and instead I caught a glimpse of myself. "Oh, hell, I'm probably being filmed," thought I, so taking myself in hand, I got a grip and sped home from inside that peanut-free school zone to become the person I always dreamed of being!

If one more person tells me to "discover" myself during this time, I will scream. I know who I am. I know exactly who I am. That has never been a problem. The only problem is the void I feel without that little guy around.

After almost 6 years of being with Sam each day, now reflecting on my life experiences (thousands), goals (eh, a few), achievements (strokes of luck) and passions (too many to count), I never dreamed that being Sam's mom was my dream. Not my only dream--of course not--but the best dream by far.

Who knew?

Tonsillectomy Love and Subtext

I prepared for this week for months, using most of my time consciously dreading it. Sam had a tonsillectomy last week, and I am pleasantly not astonished by his strength, tenacity and humor. The boy does amaze.

Out of the gate, it was worse than I'd imagined. Sam won't ever allow us to give half-facts, or omit details. When we told him that his tonsils would be removed, he asked, "What exactly does the doctor do?" Oh, damn. I'd forgotten who we were dealing with: little Matt. Questions, questions, more questions. ;)

So, we told him. We told him pretty much every step, and Matt concluded that the doctor would likely use a samurai machete. Sam thought briefly that that might actually be cool.

But here is the one step where we foundered: anesthesia. He'd been through it before, but we pared down the complex storytelling by summarizing: "You'll wake up and we'll be there." NOT TRUE.

He woke up, apparently, as Matt and I watched the monitor for the little "bandage" icon to appear on the waiting room screen. When it did, we were quickly led down a hallway, and I heard crying. I said, "That's my child!" Quite distressed, we turned the corner to find Sam on his hands and knees, blood on the pillow and sheets, writhing all around the bed. I touched him, said, "We're here, sweetie," and he, with his little voided tonsils said, "Mommy...!" Matt rubbed his body, and the nurses swiftly got my ass in bed with that kid. Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it. We didn't plan it that way!

I lay holding him, and he immediately fell asleep. The nurse said, "That's what he needed." I was being strong, stroking his hair, holding the ice pack in place, but inside I was bawling and shaking and hating it for him. Tears were streaming down my face, and a lump grew in the back of my throat, but I said things like, "There, there," because those are mom words. Matt was standing right there, definitely doing the same thing with more masculinity.

Matt and I are both perfectionists, so imagine the stress permeating the recovery room 30 minutes later, when the sound of my voice wouldn't stop talking about "it," and Matt had to "take a call" from the office. The show must go on (but at that moment, I was pissed). McCorporation.

But this horrific experience has resulted in one of the best weeks of my life. Sam and I have cuddled and stared at each other a thousand times since Tuesday. He attempts to spell things in the air instead of talking, his husky voice has raised an octave, and I'm still holding the ice pack in place. Matt calls constantly from McCorp during the day to check on us, and we've both been up half the night, every night, administering pain medications. During all of this, Sam has still managed a few "Rock to Fakies" at the skate park with his dad, and plenty of smiles.

Two things I'll never forget (and if I do, thank God I keep a daily journal): The first night, when I walked past Sam's bed on my way to get more ice, he squeaked out, "I love you, Mom."

The second night, he rubbed my arm and said, "Go to sleep, Mommy, go to sleep."

50th Anniversary Bash

My step-mom put it best when she said, "You're the travelingest people I've ever met!" The fact that we get away often is on the Top 10 List of things I love about my marriage. Matt and I are great travelers, both open to anything new, and trying to find as much adventure in a single vacation day. It is no surprise that Sam is following in our footsteps. Sam is wide-eyed to the world, and the things he's experienced have made him a cool little dude with absolutely no attitude. We are so lucky. We cannot wait to see who he becomes; I think he's going to be quite something, but if he doesn't learn to clean up his room, we'll put the kibosh on all future ventures. Ahem.

We traveled to California for Matt's parents' 50th wedding anniversary, which was a complete surprise for them since their good-doings often go unrewarded. We left our house at 3:00 a.m., and were in Cali by 9:15 a.m.. I dropped Matt at his office there (a nice perk for him now), and Sam and I headed to a hotel in Costa Mesa. I gave the girl at the front desk our sad story (it was 10 o'clock in the morning), that we were from Indiana, that we were in town for a big surprise party that didn't take place for nearly 12 more hours, that my child was jet-lagged (he was fine) and, behold, she let us check in early. Oh, humanity! I think adding the part about Indiana always helps, because no one west of Kansas knows where Indiana is, so they give you this, "Oh, you poor thing, living life deprived" look, and bingo, you're in.

Sam and I swam all day at the hotel California, ate a really expensive lunch, I ironed everyone's clothes for dinner, and we picked Matt up early and headed to Newport Beach. I didn't feel like doing the beach thing with Sam earlier. I was in the mood for a heated pool and a bathroom really close. There's always the issue of filling your pockets with quarters to feed the meters at Newport (it's very old school), constantly keeping an eye on "your stuff," which includes your child, and I knew that it would be packed with summer tourists. It was. Matt and Sam couldn't surf that day because the beach had been "black-balled" (too many swimmers, no surfboards allowed). And the people, the thousands and thousands of people, were giving me hives.

Time for a margarita!

We whiled them away until the meeting hour, when a very large restaurant table was filled with the F'an family. All three brothers, girlfriend, token wife (that's me), cousins, and Matt's parents' best friends from Chicago. Surprise! It took Matt's parents several minutes to conceive that the party was for them. It wasn't my parents...but it was awesome to see their faces, nonetheless. Sam fell asleep three minutes later. :)

The Best Medicine

So maybe you’re not up on Pseudobulbar Affect (PBA), a neurological disorder triggering involuntary crying or laughing, so know this: scientists claim that it is usually secondary to neurologic disease or brain injury. Well, I guess those scientists never sat next to their brother in church when they were young, uncontrollably laughing at absolutely nothing, while their dad sneered down, threatening to kill them both. I may know a thing or two about this.

There was an intriguing story on NPR lately about the Tanganyika Laughter Epidemic of 1962. It caught my ear. Tanganyika, now known as Tanzania, is located near the border of Kenya. The laughing epidemic first ignited in a mission-run boarding school for girls. Three girls began hysterically laughing, and chuckles spread to 95 of the 159 pupils, aged 12–18. The girls were sent home, taking the monkey on their backs with them, thus affecting 214 other people living in their villages: men, women and teenagers. If you don’t know the difference between “affect” and “effect,” skip ahead, as this narrative will likely hold no significance for you.

The laughter compounded, as laughing attacks often do (remember church, your dad, your brother), and in the end 14 schools were shut down and over 1,000 people were left laughing about it. Some were probably crying. The facts might have gone through a poorly administered game of “telephone,” but the epidemic lasted for months.

Robert Provine, author of Laughter: A Scientific Investigation, and a professor of psychology and assistant director of the neuroscience program at the University of Maryland studied the case. Further research determined (with plenty of disbelievers) that all of the girls—all of the people affected—had one thing in common: newly found freedom. Teenage girls have all kinds of new freedoms, and teenage girls giggle a lot, but records show that several of the villages had been recently “freed,” as well. And with freedom comes overwhelming giddiness, almost certainly.

As far as I know I haven’t a neurologic disease, and have never suffered a brain injury (unless you count the years of bad dating experiences, which, truth be told, could equate to one). I do not currently live in a village, but last night I was stuck at Sam’s first karate promotion. A “promotion” meant that Matt got to pay $45 for Sam to receive a new belt, which he would have received at age 6, anyway. And by “stuck,” I mean that I didn’t want to be there. I love Sam, I’m proud of Sam, but the building stinks and the parents are weird. One woman brings a caged ferret while she watches her son. It’s gross.

I sucked it up, and thankfully Sam went first, so I got to smile and give him the “thumbs up” for the rest of the evening. Near the end of all the kicking and kiais, the head honcho—OK, sensei—Anglo-Saxon woman to whom all children scream, “Yes, Ma’am!” asked an eight-year-old boy how long he’d been studying karate. She continued, “How many kids have you known the whole time you’ve been here; I mean (this is where the Pseudobulbar Affect began), are there any kids that you’ve gone ‘all the way’ with?”

The eight-year-old was befuddled, as even he understood the unfortunate moment that had captured the attention of the entire audience, and I looked over at my husband. Big mistake. Never, ever look at Matt when things get awkward. Matt said, “Has he gone all the way with a kid? God, I hope not.” That was it, I felt free. I didn’t have to watch children being made to “drop and give her 10” because their stupid moms left their nunchucks in the car. I didn’t have to bow inside the dojo, and I certainly didn’t have to pet the ferret. Sensei had broken code. I began laughing, and my entire body began shaking. I remained chortling in that “oh, god, I’m laughing in church” kind of way, to the point of tears and mascara streaming down my cheeks. And furthermore...did no one else find this hilarious?!

Matt kept it together, leaving me as the “weird mom obviously laughing during the most important moment of this child’s life” and then I looked at Matt again. He practically spit. He let out some type of convulsion, and we both sat sniggering, shaking, red-faced, joined in the uncontrollable hysteria of our evil, little, karate-disappointed world.

Our poor, poor, dear son. He has such a long road ahead.

Rules of Surfing

I find the dreams of my next European vacation--in Tuscany--shifting to reveries of sunning myself and catching the perfect wave. Possibly, this is because I have little say in the matter, but I mustn't discount that I'm actually starting to like it. Beaches are beautiful, but too much of one is boring to me. Where's the art? Where's the fine dining? Call it my restless nature, but I want to dip my toes in more than just salt water: I want to soak up culture, experience all that I can. Matt and I compromise on this one.

Puerto Rico provided all of the above (with the exception of much fine dining). What a secret gem. Captured by the French, the British Empire and, finally, the US, this place was anything but American, and that was by far the best part. The people were plump, kind, poor and happy. Happy. Many live with practically nothing...and they are peaceful. It helped me with the skewed perspective that governs our need and greed in the States. True, I didn't bring my wedding rings with me (since Matt jammed his knuckles skate boarding, he hasn't been able to fit his over his fat fingers, so that took care of that). Crime is up everywhere, but we didn't feel one bit of it, and we weren't in the "touristy" areas. With only one day in San Juan, we stayed mostly in the surfing capital of the Caribbean, Rincon. Highway 413: Surfer's Road to Happiness.

I bought a travel book at Half Price Books before we left, but I should have checked the date. It said that Rincon was nothing much, simply for surfers. In some ways that was true. It's remote, but there was much to see and do. The hotels were lovely, but I'd forgotten just how awful Caribbean food is. Fried fish and plantains. Yuck. The only veggie we saw all week was "green salad," which was simply shredded lettuce, nothing fancy. We ordered chicken wings once and they came with mayonnaise or ketchup for dipping. Disgusting! It truly was about the surf.

Rule #725 of surfing: She will not be looking when you catch the perfect wave.

But let us replace the pronoun she with he. 

I had a two hour surfing lesson in Rincon, Puerto Rico with a smiley dude named Angel Martinez.
As neighbors on the same continent, we'd be great friends. We paddled out at Domes Beach, full of threatening, jagged reef, and Angel said, "Try not to touch anything "hairy."" Oh, thanks.

The first hour went something like this: Me saying, "This sucks so bad" about 100 times; trying to get my balance on the board with Angel cheering, "Go Jeel!" behind me; scraping my knees, feet and ankles on the reef; my rib cage aching from taking the "surfing position" over and over (which is basically a cobra in Yoga); and finally saying, "I think I'm going to be sick." Angel laughed and said, "Jeel, you're funny. It's not that bad." I continued, "No, I mean, I'm really going to be sick." I jumped off my board and began dry-heaving into the clear water, giving Angel "the hand," trying to push his curiosity away from potential puke, while choking out the words, "I forgot...I get seasick."

Angel said, "Jeel, get on your board. I push you back to shore."

When my feet touched land, I said, "Well, Matt, that was a horrible experience." And that was day one.

The next day I had bruises all over me, and I told Matt that I'd be drinking margaritas all day.

Day three I said, "Damn it, I'm no quitter," so I went back out...with shoes. Angel met us at Domes again, and Matt took a few initial photos of me paddling out and taking my position. I tried once and fell immediately, and then it came...I stood up. I stood up for several seconds and had--it felt pretty huge--a smile on my face. I was riding a wave. I was a native, and I was HAPPY.

I looked toward shore. Matt was fiddling with something in his backpack, and Sam was playing in the waves. No one was looking my way. I jumped onto the reef, turned my board around, and with--it felt rather small--a tear in my eye, I paddled back to Angel. He said, "No one saw you. Matt had his head in his bag and Sam wasn't looking. This is always the way with surfing." I said, "Story of my life, Angel." He said, "You're funny, Jeel."

I got up several more times. Matt and Sam cheered and Sam kept giving me the "thumbs up." For that moment, I wish I'd had a camera. Seeing Matt smiling, seeing Sam's little face and little thumb in the air: I've already carved it into a memory that's playing on heavy rotation.

Do I have what it takes? Oh, hell, I don't know. It was an experience, but one that I'll likely try again and again! I'm not sure that Matt will ever get me on a board in the cold, brutal, shark-infested Pacific, but I'll always dip my toes...

True Love and German Food

Today we celebrate Valentine's Day, our first date 8 years ago, and our love of Wienerschnitzel.

We're having our annual lunch date at the Rathskeller, where Matt and I had date #1 in 2005. We'd been trying to sync our schedules for a week or so, and the only day that worked for both of us was February 14. On the phone, I said, "Um, you know that's Valentine's Day, right?" Matt said of course he did.

He brought me a rose. I brought nothing. We both had the Wienerschnitzel. I knew we were gonna make it.

And after clearing away several cobwebs, here we are. What a beautiful ride.

I know one thing I won't be giving Matt for Valentine's Day: his own Pinterest board on my account. Several of my friends have boards for their husbands and, besides being kind of silly (oh wait, did I just delete the word "stupid"?), I just don't get this. Do husbands consult these boards? I'm thinking not.

So, Happy Valentine's Day, big hunky husband. Please do not ever get a Pinterest account. I love you.

When Stars Align

I'm a little pissed that I spent two weeks carving out valuable time reading Gone Girl, which I shall now rename Damn, girl! I guessed the ending. Well, I narrowed it down to three endings, but somehow I thought Desi's part would be a little more grotesque, as in "Amy gets her just deserts." I had such high hopes for her demise. This could prove to be a disastrous movie, especially if someone like Renee Zellweger gets the part.

But on to happy things...my hubby and I had a great getaway weekend in Chicago. Stayed at a cool place, drank at cool places, ate gourmet food, listened to "the Blues" with college students (who thought we were cool and "No way!!" our ages). I was hungover for 48 hours.

Sunday morning, we walked a terribly cold 4 blocks with a devastating windchill to breakfast. I had one arm holding onto Matt, and one hand covering my chin, which I could no longer feel. We passed at least 4 crazy people running. Bundled they were, looking miserable, I said, "F*#K that." Matt replied, "Idiots. I'm going to eat a stack of pancakes."

And with this, I nuzzled his arm a little closer, knowing he is my perfect mate.

The Lonesome Dove

I've never been a joiner. And with this I mean not even slightly. I adore my friends, and I love hanging out with them, but they know never to ask me to join anything. Except maybe a book club, or a wine group, my guiltless pleasures.

I'm becoming my grandmother, that's what it is. Books, the BBC channel, a heavy sigh when the phone rings. Sam actually asked me if I'd teach him how to knit--knit!!--and I jumped a bit, said, "Why, I don't know how...I don't knit!" Damn it. I'm sure that's just around the corner. (Note to self: Pinterest board.)

I've been dutiful, even industrious, given my nature, making certain that Sam grows up knowing and spending time with people. Real people: not action figures, stuffed animals, or characters in books, but humans. I've met at local parks completely against my will, always the mom who forgot to pack a snack (aren't we just here for, like, 20 minutes?), often the mom who--OMG--hadn't taken a shower yet (at 3:30!).

But this kid is funny. He's never been into "typical" things. He thinks freely, openly...and constantly.

When he was little, we'd meet friends at the Children's Museum, me playing my part, and another other mom would say something like, "So-and-so is really into dinosaurs (as if one might possibly lean over the glass wall and lick crackers right out of her hand). He just loves them, knows all about them, each and every one." I'd reply, "Yeah, dinosaurs are neat - and boy they're big, aren't they? Yep, we learn a lot about dinosaurs."

Not at all.

Pirate swords, daggers and death traps, maybe. The occasional Backyardigans' Super Spy episode, but dinosaurs? Never.

The other day Sam asked if I'd get him a toothpick. I asked why given that it's an old man, not child, thing to use. Got some broccoli in your teeth, do you? He replied, "I'm going to make a poison dart." While I was walking into the kitchen to fetch one, he said, "Oh, and Mom, bring some poison, too."

Today, I began another freelance gig, and while I was (kidding myself) trying to get work done with Sam in the room, he sat behind me, asking, "Are all ninjas dead? I mean, you said that there's really no need for a ninja anymore (after news broke that the Japanese had worked out their civil differences in the 17th century), but I was thinking that if I lived in Japan, maybe I could be a ninja and people would need me to kill their enemies."

What do I even say to this? I blame his dad. He's always wrestling, boxing, farting and teaching him how to punch. I've actually suggested, "Can't you guys just cuddle for a while?" met only by astonished guffaws and giggles about my obvious lack of insight.

Oh, dear god, another club. And damn, would you look at that: membership is closed.

Dog Days

I never asked for this dog and, most certainly, I never asked to be the sole caregiver to this damned dog. At least once a day he runs away. I used to yell, "Waaaaaylon! Come back, Waylon! Come on, boy, come back!"

Now, he's lucky if I shrug. He always turns to look at me shortening in his distance, and I swear I've caught him raising his front paw, giving me the "middle fingernail."

One mile walks take 35 minutes. Runs are a complete hell, and I cannot believe how much pee he saves for these. Literally, he feels that he must whiz on every bush, blade of grass, low hanging pine and mailbox post before we really get going; but even after we’re running—full speed—he’ll launch me into the most abrupt, chaotic halt, ripping my arms from their just-warming-up shoulder sockets.

Car horns blast. Children snicker. People stare. There are two things in life that make me look ridiculous:

1. Mathematics contests.

2. Running with my dog.

In other news, I've been planning a romantic, childless get-away for Matt's birfday. I can announce this publicly because I had to tell him that we're going somewhere so he would not book a business trip. He's in for a surprise...since it'll be coming from Groupon. :)

They had this deal: “Overnight in Springfield for two.” Are you kidding me? That’s near Columbus, Indiana, right? Let's not overwhelm him with luxury.

I like that idea about as much as I like people who say "libary."

Surprise, surprise, surprise. It's my specialty.