Laney: Four Years, Seven Months

St. Patrick's Day

Hey y'all - 

We put together the St Patrick's Day party for your school last week. 

First, we made a cute magnetic fishing game. Actually, to be honest, Laney made the game. She's really into using tape these days, so she actually taped all those letters to those cards you see below. In fact, I bought her one of those tape dispensers you wear on your wrist that shoots out inch-long pieces of tape and she went to town. 

I did the old standby: the dress-up photo booth. Laney was only too happy to be my stand-in as I was getting the lights set up, and she put together this great Olivia Newton John-meets-Mary Poppins-by-way-of-Tinkerbell get-up for the occasion:

Serious detour here, BUT:

Every time Laney puts on a headband like that, it reminds me of my favorite TV show when I was four: Solid Gold. Solid Gold was this weird mish-mash of live musical performances, ventriloquist acts, and - best of all - dance routines to top ten pop hits as performed by the Solid Gold dancers, who always wore headbands like the one Laney's wearing above.

In its review of the show, the New York Times described it as, "the pop music show that is its own parody...[enacting] mini-dramas...of covetousness, lust and aerobic toning--routines that typically have a minimal connection with the songs that back them up." Yes! Exactly! Sold for eight seasons!
Looking back at it as a grown-up (and a television professional), I have no idea how it was ever green-lit, except that people did a lot of cocaine in the early 80s. 

A few months ago, your dad ordered a set of kettle bell weights so he could do some exercises at home. Laney was so inspired that she choreographed her own version of an exercise routine, which basically consists of getting down on the floor and striking dramatic poses while only partially touching one of her dad's weights. It reminds me in particular of this one Solid Gold dancer who specialized in writhing around on the ground while whipping her hair around:

I remember my mother pointing to the TV screen when I was little and saying, "I don't think that woman's been up off the floor in five years."

So, anyway, headbands. Yeah.

But back to St Patrick's Day...

Hagen never made it to the photo booth. While we were setting up for the party and schlepping 125 baked potatoes over to the school for the Baked Potato Bar, Hagen fell down in the parking lot and got a serious case of road rash on his face. He was angry for most of the rest of the evening, except when he popped up from behind this bench to ask, "Is cake?"

Because of his injury and general lack of interest in being in public, your dad got to take him home from the party early. Score another one for Thor.

Love,

Mom

Hagen: Two Years, Three Months

On Being Old. And Controlling Your Environment.

Hey y'all -

Last Friday, your dad and I went to see Martin Sexton play at the Top Hat. I'd bought tickets months in advance, because I've always liked Martin Sexton - I have a soft spot for any singer/songwriter who will write a snappy ditty about a diner. The night of the show rolled around and I convinced myself that I WASN'T tired, that I COULD put on my jeans and I WOULD enjoy a live music show just as much as I had when I was in my 20s.

Lies. All lies.

___

A dozen years ago, living in Los Angeles, I had a good friend from Texas named Levi. Levi's favorite thing to do was to sit in his parked car (like, in his own driveway) and drink beer and listen to the car stereo with the temperature exactly how he liked it. I'd sit in the passenger seat and have a drink and listen to music for a little while, then I'd always suggest, "Why don't we go somewhere?" And Levi would say, "Because I don't want to leave my controlled environment."

At the time, I thought he was quirky and antisocial and probably had a few mental wrinkles that needed to be ironed out.

Turns out, the man was a genius ahead of his time.

___

Your dad and I stood in front of the stage in the midst of a growing crowd and listened to the opening act sing six slow, moody dirge-like songs about how crappy it is to live in Vermont, which is exactly how I wanted to spend my Friday night, seeing as how - for a living - I talk to people who want to build a cabin to escape their crappy house in Vermont.

Martin took the stage and the crowd in front of the stage got bigger, and grad students in front of me started sharing their vapor cigarettes and every man in Montana over 7 feet tall came and stood right in front of me, and your dad couldn't hear anything I tried to tell him, and I thought back to Levi in Los Angeles and had an epiphany...

Would I be happier right now, sitting in my passenger seat, listening to this song as it plays on my car stereo? Yes. And would I also like a taco? Turns out: yes.

So I made the universal sign for "Let's get the hell out of here," to your dad, and off we went to the taco truck on the corner where we got some tacos and then ate them in the warm cocoon of our little controlled environment.

There's a point to all this, I'm sure, and I'm thinking it's this:

As we were walking out of the Top Hat and into the night, I thought, "I hope my kids learn faster than I did that sometimes there's a great freedom in just leaving. It took me nigh on 37 years to learn: if you're not having fun, it's okay to go. You don't have to pretend to love stuff that irritates you. If you want, you can avoid New Age reggae, libertarian rallies, concerts where you have to camp outside for three days and water is $6 a bottle, interpretive dance shows, bad community theatre*, hipster bars where martinis are $16**, football games, sorority rush, etc.

Have fun. If that doesn't work, do your best to make it fun. If that doesn't work, leave. Life's too short to stand around and be miserable.

Apologies to Martin Sexton, but your CD sure does sound nice playing in the Subaru.

Love,
Mom

* Unless you have a friend in the show, in which case you have to go. And clap.
** Unless by leaving, you'll be abandoning a friend. Safety first.

72 Hours in Los Angeles

Hey y'all - 

I've been in LA for work the past four days, though I accomplished very little actual work. Someday, when I feel like boring you for half a day, I'll explain to you how the reality TV business works. In short, one day you can think you have six months to produce a show about...say...burritos, and then you get a call from the network telling you you now have six weeks to produce a show about monster trucks.  "And why haven't we seen any footage of trucks yet? We never said anything about burritos! Why would you think we wanted a ten episode show about burritos just because we greenlit a show called 'Ten Tasty Tortillas And Their Fillings?'" Basically, I walked into the office as we were getting the monster truck call, and then hung around during the fallout 'til it was time to fly home. I came home still employed, so all of this is neither here nor there. 

I got to stay a few nights with my good friend Will, his wife Lindsay and new baby Ethan. 

You might remember that when Ethan was first born, I couldn't hold him because he was so tiny. Not a problem anymore. Now we're big buddies. 

While it's still snowy and slushy and grey in Missoula, Will and Lindsay's backyard looks like this. I did nothing to enhance the colors in this photo. I am working through my jealousy issues. 

I think Will is finding being a working parent exhausting. No kidding. A less mature me would have run in small circles in his tropical backyard chanting "I told you so! I told you so!" But the more mature me just sang it to myself inside my head while trying to keep an empathetic expression on my face. Being a grown up means you gloat on the inside. 

But this face? Totally worth the exhaustion, I bet:

My second night in town, Will and I went to dinner after work with Brian and Tyler. I know I say this every time I go out with them, but I can't remember when I've laughed that hard.

Brian had chosen the restaurant because he'd heard it was great. Y'all, the place was so rife with pretentious hipsterism, it was downright funny. And overpriced. And ridiculous. We were all giving each other the side eye to make sure we were all in agreement that the Emperor was naked.

For example, this was a $17 pea shoot salad on the menu described to us by our server as "Gorgeous!" and "a can't miss!"



Y'all, it was ten arugula leaves, a coupla pea shoots, three berries and four actual peas. With a foam on top. And - my hand to heaven - it was listed on the menu under "Plates to Share."

That's when we started laughing.



This is Brian, preparing to take a bite of a pear that had been sliced and was to be served, if the menu description was to be believed, on "a bed of leaves collected by our house forager with the essence of forest floor."



You had better believe Will had some follow-up questions for our server, like, "What kind of degree do you have to have to be a forager?" Everything that the rest of us were wondering, Will came right out and asked. It was like we had sprung our embarrassing Grandpa from Shady Pines.

Tyler answered a ton of Will's old man questions about social media - how it works, why all the youngsters are participating in it, and "Why does everyone call it a "hashtag" when it's so obviously a pound sign?" Tyler was very patient and talked him through it, just like kids in the early 1900s talked to their grandpas about those newfangled horseless carriages.

The chef came out to be sure everyone was enjoying their meals, and we realized that the chef had been a contestant on Top Chef. Your dad and I love that show. So Tyler took my picture with Chef CJ, and it was awkward (for me) so I should've gone ahead and asked him what the hell he was thinking with that "essence of forest floor" business, but whatever.

Server: And here's your dessert, with strawberries that have been locally sourced...

Will: From the grocery store?

But seriously, it was the best thing we ate because even classically trained chefs can't mess up a doughnut hole. 

My last night in town, I stayed with my friend Karen, her husband Stephenson, and their kids. Their kids are the same gender and age as you guys - a matched set. It was sorta like I got to pick up rental young'uns.

I think I took more pictures of the birds in Karen and Stephenson's yard than I took of any of the kids I saw on this trip. I'm not suggesting the wildlife was better behaved, but they did to stay in one place long enough to be photographed. Score one for the birds.

It was a great trip, work stuff aside, and as much as you can be homesick for a huge sprawling smog-choked metropolis, I sure do miss LA. 

I realized on my last day there that I was basically doing a "bridesmaids tour" of LA, seeing all the bridesmaids from my wedding (Will, Brian, Karen). More than the weather and the food and the culture and the ocean and the job opportunities, when I think about LA, I miss these yahoos the most:

Good to see you all. I love you. 

Love,

Mom

Regressing

Hey y'all -

Let's say, for fun, that you're married to a brilliant just-turned-40 year-old man. It's a snow day, and you realize you haven't seen your husband in a few hours. He's working on some important project, you figure. Perhaps cleaning the garage. Walking the dog. Organizing the recycling, maybe? Definitely doing something that improves the family's quality of life or appearance of the household.

Nope.

Spoiler alert:

He's digging a by-God snow cave in the backyard.

Why, you ask? Um...because we needed an instant egress from our hot tub to the swing? Because inside that furry chest beats the heart of an elementary schooler on a snow day? Because he can?

D) All of the above.

Love,
Mom