Flies

Down here in this dusty corner of the country, summer passed by without so much as a whisper of a hot day, let alone a heat wave. My kids spent the first month of school wearing jeans, t-shirts and the occasional sweatshirt. We even had a smattering of light rain, a completely uncharacteristic event for my new home.

Did you know we've been here three years now? Three years! Leaving Ann Arbor doesn't hurt quite so much now, everyone was right the pain isn't so sharp but just sort of stingy and throat lumpy. Thanks all of you, Everyone, who told me I was going to be okay and that time would heal these wounds. Everyone, except Carolyn, that is. Carolyn read some geologic study about how California shouldn't even be here and soon enough it was going to crack off of the continent. She warned me not to buy real estate and she told me to hold on tight in case the cracking episode happened while I was still here. Love that friend of mine, though, I didn't take her real estate advice and second guess it every time we get a little jiggle from being perched atop these big old fault lines.

Now, here I am in my real estate digressing about things. My Coca Cola Zero is sweating, I'm sweating, my kids are sweating and my dog is sweating. I've got sweat rolling down that space between my boobs that most California women proudly call their cleavage (price approximately $10k), but my boobs are still solidly Michigan and so I am fortunate enough not to have a little pond gathering at the apex where my girls meet.

The weather has changed suddenly. It's hot and crispy. You singe your hand on the handle just trying to open the ding car door. And because we don't have air conditioning we have every fan in the house on pointing them at our faces.

I boiled some pasta for dinner while some of the kids were at the neighbors and Tovey was sleeping. There is just no reasonable excuse to cook dinner with everyone in the house on a dry 94-degree day. I threw together a pasta salad and some corn bread and then when I put it in the fridge to set and gather all it's flavors I also shoved my head in there for a quick couple of moments. Until I saw the strawberries sweating. Sweaty strawberries are even less attractive then a sweaty, full-grown mama of four so I crawled off that bowing little shelf next to the left-overs and tried to get pragmatic about it. At least I wasn't having to witness the "beauty" of all those wretched fall colors that old people and people with country kitchens wax nostalgia about. I find nothing fabulous about fall colors. Hello?! Fall. Is. Cold.

Who the heck cares about hot ciders and woolly sweaters and homecoming games? Ugh. Fall means winter and winter means snow and crawling around on Highway 94 in a white out at 19 MPH heading off to the hospital to catch some baby in the middle of a snow storm. One time it was soooo cold that I slammed my fingertips into my old VW hatchback, I didn't even realize it until I tried to walk away from the car but couldn't cause part of me was still in that ding car.

I do feel a bit like an 3rd world: lethargic from heat, a skinny baby at my boob and flies hovering around my face. And what exactly is it about that heat that brings out all those flies? But no sirree, I cannot say that I could swallow another Michigan winter. The milk and honey on this side is just as sweet, thank you very much.

Git tuh gittin' . . .

I know, I know, I whine bunches and gobs.

Thing is, if you end up totally satisfied with your life then what else is there to work for? Huh, huh, huh?

Since I've been in a bit of a hippy phase since I was 12-years old, I am more than familiar with all those songs out there about seasons changing and how it really means that babies get older. There's some peace and love in 'em, too. I do remember those parts. But it's the parts about the winds coming in from the West and blowing yer baby clear up in to personhood with legs that can walk and mushy cheeks that can talk . . . it is those parts of the songs that sting me like hot pokers.

You'd think that with all the peacing and loving we listen to in my little shack that my husband would go ahead and gimme another baby. He, apparently, thinks peace and love also means not overpopulating our planet.

Sometimes I try to get all Holy on him, seeing as that was his fire and brimstone upbringing, but instead he finds some diversion like playing "No Woman, No Cry" on his guitar with his chin pointed up to the stars. Hello? Anybody in there? He's gone and tuned out.

Tova may be our last Viking. I can't hardly believe it.

And then, you know what -- aside from me having all sorts of good baby names left -- you know what?

Today was Tovey Marge's first day of preschool.

The long walk to the front door, giving my baby away to the baby snatchers at our preschool.

Already busy with Montessori work.

Bye-bye, says Mommy.

Don't let the door hit you on your back porch on the way out, says Tova.

Two Down

She got hit in the mouth with a soccer ball, got some loose teeth, couldn't take it anymore so Daddy done pulled 'em out. First night, Tooth Fairy gave her a down payment so then Annike got to bring the teeth to school in a baggie for show and tell the next day. Second night, Tooth Fairy was apparently busy and didn't come back. Third night, $6 appeared and all was right with the world.

How do you make time fly?

(That's a joke.)

How do you make time fly?!?

You throw a clock out the window.

Or . . . you become the mother of the most amazing children in the whole world and you send them off to school.

And before you know it, three years go by.

The first picture was taken on the first day of new school right after we moved to California. Soren was 4 and starting preschool, Petra was 6 and beginning 1st grade, Annike was 2 and starting preschool and our little Tovey wasn't but a twinkle in our eyes. Now the kids are in 2nd, 4th, and kindergarten! Other than a few tears at the door, Annike's first day of school last Monday was a success.

Farm Girls

How are the chickens you ask?

Millie and Thelma celebrated 3-months of life on the 5th of this month. They're plump and juicy with only a few more months left of growing. Hopefully we'll get some egg laying action toward the end of winter 2011.

After a lil' Viking unlatches their coop in the morning, Mildred (a.k.a. Millie) will walk down the bridge to the feeder below while Thelma jumps out. They usually have a bit of breakfast under the coop, make plans for the day, clean their beaks on the cement and then head out into the wilds of the backyard.

For the most part, Maggie is fairly ambivalent about them. But, around 7:30 in the morning they'll start pecking on the slider, begging for treats and that's when Maggie typically jumps into action. I usually send the kids outside to scatter organic oats and flax seed, they usually let the girls peck some bites from their hands before throwing it onto the grass. Sometimes we feed them parsley, apricots, apple cores, corn on a cob, even bread. They love it all.

Maggie loves to help them, and they let her without giving up their own position in the pecking order. It seems Maggie's just another one of the hens to them.

And that's how they spend their day, picking at worms and bugs, sharing oatmeal with Maggie, chirping at each other and pecking at our windows. At dusk, they head back up the ramp to their coop on their own volition and snuggle up on their roost. By dark, Lars has the door latched and the girls tucked in.

It's a good life for my animals -- cowish doggies, sea monkeys, hens, Viking children and bearish husband.

The Ship Came In

My new cell phone arrived today, I've activiated it and it's set to go. Could you do me a favor and text me so I can put you back in my contacts. Make sure to say who you are.





Oh, and I do fully understand that I could just transfer info from my old sim card to my new. Feel free to pull the old one out of my besieged phone, step right up.

Stories of a Viking Matriarch

This is a true story.

You will read it and hope it's not true but it is.

It all started on Friday. Maybe it started on Thursday.

It all started on Thursday night. I couldn't find my cell phone charger for my cute little green Samsung. It was plain gone, not anywhere. Vaporized.

Back to Friday now. Friday I began my day with my usual -- lip gloss, hair in a bun, heels on feet, a quick check in the mirror, brief case over right shoulder, car keys in hand and kisses to the kids. I cloppity-clopped down the walk to the driveway with my dying cell phone in my bag, and except for keys my hands were empty. Lars hadn't made the coffee that morning, I was going to have to shell out some cash for my usual SBux that day. I hopped into Hope's little sports car, as per our usual car trading when she has more than one of my children at a time.

Work was anemic with a puny patient load that had me cutting out of the office early and a little cranky. Before I ran home, the next stop was Starbucks and Best Buy. Well, probably Best Buy and THEN Starbucks. It's not like you want to have an incident where you get some electronic equipment all frizzled out because your shakey hands dribbled coffee onto the Nokia display.

After getting a ridiculously priced replacement charger for my cutie pie phone, I headed to Starbucks. Because I'm a nice employer, I made sure to call Nanny Hopey first to get her order too. Hope advised me that she and most of the kids were at the beach, and could I please pack everyone a picnic lunch to have before I met up with them? Suddenly, it was my turn to place my order . . . oops, instead of ordering a half-caf, non-fat, tall vanilla latte I just ordered a non-fat, tall vanilla latte with all the caffeine that SB has to offer. Oh well, I needed a pick me up, or something like that.

I rushed home to throw a lunch together, tossed towels and swim suits into the beach bag and then zoomed off to get Annike from her gymnastics boot camp by noon. Made it to Annike in time, still sipping on my latte with my empty stomach. Felt a little jittery, but finally managed to parallel park at lifegaurd tower no. 30 -- only 2-towers away from Nanny Hope and the kids. I finished the latte just in time to feel all that caffeine settle into my bladder.

Annike and I bounced toward the beach with all our gear, including my brief case which held my now semi-charged phone that I had plugged in for a few moments while making lunch at home. Man, did I have to pee. After plopping our stuff onto the beach, I got my car keys from Hope and then schlepped over to my car with my briefcase among other things that didn't necessarily benefit from being on a sandy Pacific beach in the hot sun. On my way to my Bus, I passed a port-a-potty, it made me shiver but at least I fully understood what my options were. I dropped my briefcase into the car and grabbed my cell phone out of it. Then, on the way back down to the beach I decided that I would indeed absolutely need to rendez-vous at the port-a-potty.

Before stepping in to that blue little silo of depravity, I took a deep breath, held it, then burst into the stall.

And success.

Almost.

As I reached for my cell-phone, gingerly resting on the sloping lid of the toilet paper dispenser my body refused to forget that fully caffeinated latte I had poured into it that morning. My jittery and shakey left hand did not firmly close around my adorable, green celly. As I whirled around to step out of that azure tower of terror my fingers released . . .

and my cell phone went flying . . .

with a sickening 'kerplop' (lots of emphasis on 'plop') . . .

it landed into the juicy goo below.

Yes. It landed into the toilet.

In it.

OMG.

I stepped out of the port-a-potty. My heart racing. What to do?

Leave it. Just leave it.

Oh no! I just bought that charger! That expensive charger. And now, come to think of it, I remember the guy at the AT&T store telling me that if I ever break or damage another cell phone all I needed to do was bring it back in and they would replace it for me.

Talk about OMG. There were no other options. I went back in.

I stared down into the abyss, surveying the landscape. The toilet was filled with a blue solution that smelled like an elementary hallway just after the janitor cleaned up puke off the floor. I couldn't gauge depth, but I could definitely tell that my darling phone wasn't alone down there. It had plenty of company, if you know what I mean.

I cried a couple of tears. Then I transferred my bracelet to my right arm, mysteriously forgetting about my wedding ring on my ring finger. I rolled up my sleeve of my tres chere Banana Republic blue-and-white-striped oxford. Just to be safe I rolled it up to my underarm. And since deep breathing seems to be a habit of mine lately, I filled my lungs with putrid, rank, blue-goo, port-a-potty air.

I plunged my left arm into the center of the toilet. Objects burst away from my extremity from the force, only to bump back towards me, lightly tapping my forearm. I quickly tried to remember anything I learned from Mr Troost's AP physics class, recalling equations involving trajectory and points of initial impact. Bingo, search the left Kelly, stay to the left.

In the left corner of the hole, my finger tips found my cell-phone, fully submerged and resting at the bottom of the unit. I pulled it out, flicked off a bit of saturated toilet paper and then with the phone tightly in my fingers I ran from the port-a-potty as fast as my former track star legs could go. At that moment Hope turned to see me running toward her, but instead of stopping at our beach blanket I continued my sprint all the way to the chilly water. I plunged my left arm over and over again into the water. I dropped to my knees and with my right hand I grabbed fistsful of sand and scrubbed my left arm under the waves.

Hope's initial look of alarm turned into muted laughter, her mouth frozen in a wide-open lockjaw, eyes squeezed shut as she gasped for air. Apparently, other beach goers found me alarming -- my crazy run down the beach, my screaming, the vanilla latte pouring from my nostrils in my emetic coniption.

The kids were paralyzed, questioning looks on their faces. What the Hell is wrong with our mommy?

Finally, slowing my breathing down to a mere 50-breaths per minute, I walked back to our blanket. My hands white and shrunken from the water, I finally let go of the cell phone, chucking it into the sand angrily. I silently poured an entire bottle of hand sanitizer onto my arm, sniffing and feeling the pain of e. coli and listeria permeating through my skin. I relayed my tale to Hope, gesticulating wildly when half-way through my story I felt my wedding band fling off my finger and land onto the sand.

"Don't move," I screamed. "Nobody frickin' move."

The kids looked at me with horror in their eyes, our neighbors clicked their tongues at my monstrous language use. Hope, near hysterics with her legs crossed to keep her bladder from failing her, spotted a man 50-feet down the beach with a medal detector. She brought him over to our site and he set to finding my wedding ring.

We eventually found my wedding ring. The day eventually, mercifully ended.

When I got home, I tried again to sanitize my arm with rubbing alcohol and then Scrubbing Bubbles spray. When I felt quasi-reassured that I had killed every agent still living on my skin, I got into a scalding hot shower. After that, one final application of rubbing alcohol.

That evening we delivered my cell phone, sealed in a zippered sandwich baggie, to the AT&T store. It turns out the insurance plan does indeed cover port-a-potty incidents. Tomorrow, a third party will deliver my new phone. Niether cute, nor green but definitely de-shat and safe for human use.

Sadly, this is a true story. It will follow me always. It will never leave me. I am forever altered.

The moral of this story (it has nothing to do with Starbucks coffee or bringing one's cell phone into dirty environments): piss yourself, it's more convenient then a port-a-potty.