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.