A Morning Person

Normally, my husband's alarm clock processing is pretty smooth:

1. Set alarm to play the same CD at 6:03 a.m.
2. Hit snooze a cajillion times
3. Get into the shower by 6:50 a.m.

Something went awry. The day before, the alarm didn’t go off, or he slept through it, or something, because he flew out of bed at 7:15. In his mind, he was running a whole hour behind. According to my math, it was a mere 20 minutes. Math is one of those differences between us, but I’ve grown to understand that he is a creature of routine. 

On this day, he was bashing and banging and flipping switches like he had never operated an electronic device. The clatter woke me up, and what happened next kept me up. He managed, in a bleary rage, to turn on the radio at the opening moment of “Jesse’s Girl”. He shut the thing down just as Rick was ramping up to the chorus.

Who’s going back to sleep with that stomping around in their brain? My honey, but not me. Now I’m in bed, pondering weird teenage boy expressions of angst. “She’s watching him with those eyes ... She’s lovin’ him with that body, I just know it.” Who talks like that? And what was her name? Did she have any hobbies besides Jesse?

I spared him these thoughts, but he eventually got up and into the shower. I might have drifted off to sleep, but alas, Baby Girl threw open my door. She waited for my acknowledgement like a Broadway star waits for applause. I unknowingly gave her the sign, probably by ever so slightly lifting my head. She ran in, pounced onto the bed, hugged me, and then asked me a question I have never been asked, a question that replaced the fiction of Jesse and his so-called friend and the unnamed girl:

“Mom, can I set a crocodile on fire?”

And that, friends, will wake you up faster than a cup of coffee or a song from the '80s.

Wonder

Unexplained phenomena. That's what it was to me, running around in our shaggy crabgrass at dusk. One minute, I'd be gooofing around with a Frisbee, and the next, a glowing orb throbbed ever closer. Through the treeline, over the corn, taking the occasional surprise turn before turning back toward its obvious goal: me.

What it was, exactly, was a matter of speculation. A neighbor had told us of a terrible experience with lightening, chasing her out of the shower. I had heard of ball lightening. Perhaps, I reasoned, this was it, coming to get me now. This theory did not explain why I only saw it in the summer, so I formed the fireworks hypothesis. My mother felt very strongly that all fireworks were dangerous. She never even let us use sparklers, she was that serious. These unnatural terrors of eventide appeared around Independence Day, and what could be more fear-worthy that a firework's ability to have a rogue ember?

Ball lightening or killer sparkler, whatever. Its origins were of little consequence when it came to get me. I would try to stand tough, I would try to be brave. I would watch the little sucker, and pretend like I didn't care what he was up to, like my apathy would stop it from its attack, but this failed. I always returned to what I considered the only guaranteed approach to this enemy. I went where it never followed and ran hard toward the house.

My relationship to being outside at night in July remained until into my late twenties and I somehow put the whole thing together. Now that I am forty, and live in a spot rich with fireflies, I wonder why I had never heard of them, and what my parents thought when I came inside, wild-eyed and out of breath.

All Signs Points to Spring

Crocuses? Bah. Robins? Who needs 'em? In my little town, where the state highway meets the road into town, we have an old school, drive-in A&W. It closes in the late fall, and when it reopens, well, you can be sure it's spring. 


We stopped yesterday, and nearly everything about the first trip to A&W for 2010 was right. When I handed the kids their food, they treated it like a sommelier handles a fine bottle of cellared wine. There was the admiration of the packaging. The unwrapping, married to a deep inhale through the noise. A satisfied 'oohhh'. Praise poured forth from the lips of all: the perfect coating on the chicken strips, the crispiness of the hot fries. To all this, we added the glory of the Black Cow: creamy soft-serve ice cream blended with that signature A&W root beer.


Nearly everything was right. How did it fall short? Two things: we didn't have time to eat right there, so I was forced to drink my root beer out of a paper cup. If you stay, they bring your food on one of those trays that latch onto your window, and your root beer is served in a glass mug. Mmm. The second thing that was wrong? I'm still recovering from the stomach flu and wasn't up for the deep-fried mushrooms. 


Ahh, but there's time, now. Spring is here, at last.

Huntin' Math

I've been married for 18 1/2 years to an outdoorsman. Some of the implications of that have been enjoyable. I love to cook, so preparing venison and pheasant has been a satisfying challenge. It might be a little 1950's housewife, but I enjoy how much this makes him feel good about providing for his family.

Secretly, I like being married to a fella with his kind of passion. Time spent outdoors transforms him from tired working man to enthusiastic kid: jumping up and down after a successful hunt, imitating the squirrel that almost walked right into his treestand.

Ah, but the downsides. Consider the month of August. In my mind, it's still summer. I'm taking in the last bits of sun before the kids go back to school. I'm enjoying those cool evenings where you throw on a sweatshirt and hang around the fire. But while I'm thinking gourmet s'mores bar, the change in nighttime temperature does something to him. He raises his head and sniffs the air. If his ears could twitch and flit like a dog's, they would. He starts looking for the Cabela's catalog and I know I've lost him. It's 'pre-hunting season' season. 

March is the August of fishing season. He had to go to Bass Pro before all the good stuff was gone. He's working on a signature laugh, like Jimmy Houston (I'm trying to get him to go Rosco P. Coltrane.)

All this has reminded me of one other thing I've learned from him: hunting math. Here are three principles:

1) When discussing the harvest, round up. For example, a 25 1/4 inch fish is 'about 30 inches long'.

2) When discussing the cost of equipment, round down. A $299 gun is 'about 200 dollars'.

3) Since hunting and fishing provide food, the budget for these areas should be as great a priority as grocery money.

Of course, I've taught him a few things too, like this formula: 

Saying #3 out loud + Couponing wife = No new gear and an indian burn

Why didn't they teach that in school?

Real World Foodie

February. When I read the word, it sounds a lot like Jerry Seinfeld saying Newman. It is accompanied by back, neck and shoulder tension.

I start thinking about February in November. The leaves are off the trees and I think, "Ah yes. Bleakness. The return of bleakness. I remember being beat down by you, back in February."

Thanksgiving and Christmas and New Year's Eve come and go. I am mostly distracted from my annual nemesis.

On or about January 2nd, the full dread of February comes upon me. "Oh no! It's almost February. I hate February! How can I distract myself from this tortured month?"

I've done well this year, but I'm finding myself a little beat down with only a couple of days to go. It's snowing, still. I'm yearning for warmer weather, flowers, real strawberries, fresh greens. What's a girl to do?

Here's my plan:
1) Watch one of my all-time favorite comedies, The Jerk. 
2) Wish I had a cat to juggle.
3) Start a highly unprofitable second blog about being a foodie in the real world.

Stop by and see me. I'll be the one running amongst the piles of mail and homework assignments, wearing an apron, fanning the smoke away from the detector and shouting, "He hates these cans!"

Pet Peeves

I love you, pet lovers. I love that you take joy in your animals. 

I confess concern that some of you must take your animals everywhere. I once had a run-in with a lady carrying her tiny pooch in Macy's, who said to a disapproving make-up counter lady, "Well, what do you want me to do? Leave him HOME?"

I recognize that this is an extreme case. Despite noting FortiFido on clearance back in December, I generally keep silent; I married an animal lover; I'm pals with other animal lovers. But Fancy Feast, the people who've spent years trying to convince us to feed our cats out of stemware, has pushed me over the edge. 

I am begging you: standing on my hind legs, looking at you with big eyes. Please. Do not buy your cats an appetizer. If you really want to spoil Mr. Whiskers, buy a feeder mouse and let it loose in your home.  If you're really well off, clear your shelves and get it a parakeet. Or install an indoor pool and stock it with koi. It might get a little messy, but he's worth it, right?

Maybe that's what I'll do come fall. I'll open a trophy ranch for cats. With a spa.

De-nesting

I realized, back in January, that I have nine months. Nine months until my littlest little one transforms from preschooler to ruler of the known world by way of kindergarten.

For many moms, including those who mostly stayed home, shipping the baby off to class is a sad day. I know. I've seen strangers and friends race ahead of their child's bus on the first day of school. They line the school sidewalks; they snap a gazillion pictures through their tears, forming a sea of mourning paparazzi.

I, being a delinquent slacker mom incapable of capturing life's moments on film, let alone scrapbooking them, am planning (God-willing) a different approach.

My pal over at I have a blog? coined a phrase for it: de-nesting. It's time. Time to let the kids gather some twigs of their own: do a few more chores, have a little more freedom, take a little more responsibility for themselves. Time for me to tackle something new, prepare for changes, discover new opportunities. It's like throwing myself an un-baby shower.

Do I sound excited? I'm only slightly embarrassed to say that I am. Eight months from now, you might find me momentarily weepy as the future dictatress waves goodbye and advances toward an unsuspecting teacher. But the moment will pass, and I will enjoy the fact that as she expands her territory, some manner of adventure also awaits me.