Search Me

I always find it fascinating to see how readers come to find my blog. And thanks to my handy, dandy site meter, not only can I see not where people come from, but what they searched for before clicking on to my site.

There are days when a number of people search for Sporticus and come here. Then, there are those who search for LOL Cats and come here. And lately, many have searched for a picture of Violet Beauregard and so they've landed here, which is kinda funny because there's an extra step to actually see her picture. I can't determine whether or not the searchers stay and read or just bail after finding whatever it was they were looking for, but I'm amazed by the amount of people searching for the same, random thing. I'd be less impressed if I had blogged about, say, lyrics, which, according to Google Insights, seems to be one of the most popular searches within the last 30 days.

And while I'm on the subject of popular searches, here's a little bit of trivia, in case you're interested in seeing who's looking for what:

In the "books" category, Dan Brown's name has been a popular search term, particularly in Ohio, followed by Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Massachusetts, and New York. Dan Brown? Ugh!

The most popular search term in the "Beauty and Personal Care" category is hair. Even more interesting are the rising subcategories: hairstyles for prom; prom hairstyles 2009; and Taya Parker (oh, my, I just Googled her, since I'd never heard of her before. Shows you how behind I am!)

Interestingly enough, the number one search term within the "Computer and Electronics" category ISN'T i-Phone or i-whatever...it's Windows. However, among the rising searches within this category are about the "cornficker virus".

So there you go, fellow netizens. If you've come here searching for Dan Brown, Prom Hairsyles for 2009, Windows and the Cornficker Virus, or Taya Parker, you've come to the wrong place.

Thanks for surfin' by!

The Ears Are Always the First to Go

Though Easter was a few weeks ago, our dining room table is still cluttered with Easter baskets, boxes of stale Peeps, and plastic eggs.

We're not big on religion. In fact, we celebrate more for the candy than anything else. It also gives us an excuse to dress up in our best pastels.

I never really questioned the correlation between Easter and rabbits. I just took for granted they always lived hand in hand, until I came across some information about the ritual's origins. Turns out, we have the Germans to thank for importing the Easter Bunny into American folklore. He first appeared on the scene during the 16th century, when it was written than if little boys and girls made nests out of their caps and bonnets, the Easter Bunny would fill them with colored eggs.

The word, Easter, comes from the term Ostara, which is the name of the Spring equinox, and it's been documented, too, by the Venerable Bede that Easter comes from Eostre--the Germanic goddess of Spring.

This little lesson reminds me of one of the funniest essays I'd ever read by David Sedaris in his book Me Talk Pretty One Day. The essay is written about taking a French language class in Paris with students from various parts of the world. When it's time to explain Easter, each student, save for the Moroccan, who'd never heard of the holiday, jumps in to provide details. What makes this essay so pee-in-your-pants funny is the way in which Sedaris translates their awful attempt at French into English:

The Italian nanny was attempting to answer the teacher's latest question when the Moroccan student interrupted, shouting, "Excuse me, but what's an Easter?"

It would seem that despite having grown up in a Muslim country, she would have heard it mentioned once or twice, but no. "I mean it," she said. "I have no idea what you people are talking about."

The teacher called on the rest of us to explain.

The Poles led the charge to the best of their ability. "It is," said one, "a party for the little boy of God who call his self Jesus...oh shit." She faltered and her fellow country-man came to her aid.

"He call his self Jesus and then he be die one day on two...morsels of...lumber."

The rest of the class jumped in, offering bits of information that would have given the pope an aneurysm.

"He die one day and then he go above of my head to live with your father."

"He weared of himself the long hair and after he die, the first day he come back here for to say hello to the peoples."

"He nice, the Jesus."

"He make the good things, and on the Easter we be sad because somebody makes him dead today."

Part of the problem had to do with vocabulary. Simple nouns such as cross and resurrection were beyond our grasp, let alone such a complicated refexive phrases as "to give of yourself your only begotten son." Faced with the challenge of explaining the cornerstone of Christianity, we did what any self-respecting group of people might do. We talked about food instead.

"Easter is a party for to eat of the lamb," the Italian nanny explained. "One too may eat of the chocolate."


The essay goes on further about explaining who brings said chocolate. But when a dispute between the American version of a rabbit delivering the candy versus the French version of a bell flying in from Rome, it raises the question of why would the French have a bell? And further, why would it fly in from Rome when it would be so much easier to use a bell from Paris?

Curiosity got the better of me and so I looked up the origin of the Bell Theory. Turns out, the bell has a little more Christianity tied to it than our American counterpart. According to legend, all bells cease to ring on the Thursday before Good Friday, to mark the death of Christ. On Easter Sunday, the bells ring again to mark his resurrection. Apparently one of the bells goes to visit the Pope in Rome, who gives him (him?) a bunch of colored eggs to take back with him. So the bell returns to France and scatters the eggs everywhere for people to find.

Personally, I'm siding with Sedaris who argues that the Easter Bunny is, at least, a character, where a bell "has all the personality of a cast-iron skillet."

Without the Easter Bunny, there'd be no chocolate rabbits; and without chocolate rabbits, there'd be no rabbit ears; and everyone knows, that's the best part.

Breaking up is hard to do

I've been going to the same hairdresser now for 12 years and while I only see her (I shall call her "Dee") every eight weeks for 2.5 hours at a time, I consider Dee to be one of my dearest friends. Those 2.5 hours are spent kvetching about dogs, kids, people, men...you name it.

We've been through a lot of changes together, too. From marriages to divorces to trying to get pregnant to adopting children, I'd say our relationship has run the gamut of every life event imaginable, except for maybe death. Unless you count the death of pets--then, yeah, it's pretty much everything.

Aside from our friendship, Dee does a wonderful job with my hair. I've gone through the short and sassy phase to the long and straight--and everything in between, and no matter how many different ways she does my hair, I've never had a problem with how it looked and have always gotten out of her chair feeling like a million bucks.

Since I live in Seattle, my natural blond has become a thing of the past--but only Dee knows my true color. Ten years ago, I attempted to bleach it on my own, royally screwing up my hair. Dee was there to give me shit and then she fixed it. She still gives me shit to this day--and I don't mind because she's masterful with color and I am not. With Renoir-esque strokes, she brightens my clouded-over locks, and blends the ever-present, encroaching gray hair I've seemed to sprout.

Dee has had her share of personal ups and downs, particularly in the relationship department. But a little less than a year ago, all of that changed and she found her true life partner. The good news is that he makes her happy. The bad news is that he lives in Utah, and so Dee has announced that she will soon be leaving Seattle, and me.

I try not to take it personally, but this is clearly one of the worst break-ups I've ever experienced. I know there are many hairdressers here in Seattle, but I'll never find another Dee.

Sniff, sniff...excuse me while I go cry in my Bumble and Bumble.

It Ain't Easy Being Green

On March 30, the City of Seattle added a mandatory food waste program to their weekly trash collection service. This means that all food scraps cannot be placed into a garbage can. Instead, food items must be thrown into a yard waste can, where it commingles with grass clippings and leaves. Before, our trash collectors picked up yard waste every other week, but with the new program, yard/food waste is collected weekly.

I think Seattle has always had one of the best recycling programs in the nation, and as far as I know, it's one of the most aggressive. Coupled with the new food waste program, our recycling no longer needs to be separated out between glass and paper and plastic. So long as everything is rinsed out, all recyclables can be placed into the same bin.

The launch of the new food waste program, however, has been a little difficult to adopt in our household. It's not that we're complaining about placing our food scraps into a compost bin, it's just one of those things that requires a little more thought beyond remembering not to throw egg shells and tea bags in our kitchen trashcan.

Last weekend, Pa bought a small compost bin that fits on top of our kitchen counter. To keep down the smell, the stainless steel bin has a charcoal filter on the lid, and there are small holes to help dry out the food scraps and keep them from generating a lot of icky-smelling bacteria. The only thing I have to remember is empty out the refrigerator once a week of those leftovers that never made it to repeat meals. I figure since they stay in airtight containers, it's better to dump them straight in the yard waste bin the night before our trash pick up.

So far, we've been really good at tossing our scraps into the compost bin; and surprisingly, the bin only needs to be taken outside and dumped into our yard waste can about once or twice a week. But yesterday, as I brought Lady La home from her first day of Pre-preschool, I noticed this underlying smell in our kitchen. It smelled like something was not full-blown rotting, just sorta, kinda rotting. I checked the handy-dandy compost bin, but as far as I could tell, it didn't seem to be the source. Then I checked around the pantry to see if I had any mushy onions or bananas--but again, nothing.

Then I stepped outside onto the back porch and noticed that the smell was coming from the yard waste can 10-15 feet away. Now, keep in mind, it's only springtime. With exception of a few 70 degree days, the average temperature here is still under 60. If the yard waste can is generating that much of a smell now, I can only imagine what our block will smell like come August! I'm thinking something close to Elizabeth, New Jersey on the smell register.
Thankfully, I bought some violets and impatiens from the store that I wanted to plant into a pot on the porch that was filled with lots of dead stuff, so I was able to dump a lot of that out into the yard waste can which seemed to absorb some of the odor.

So, you see, our new citywide trash collection service is now forcing me to grow a green thumb, and do more gardening, weeding, and mowing so the green stuff can hang with the food stuff and neutralize the smell. Personally, I think the new program is really an evil plot to keep our postage-stamp sized properties looking neat and trim, and free from dandelions.

I wonder when we'll have to separate out the dog poop and disposable diapers?

BREAKING NEWS: TV Sucks

I'm not much of a fan of TV these days. I mean, there are some shows I absolutely must watch, like Lost, Mad Men, Greys Anatomy (don't laugh), Dexter, The Tudors, 30 Rock, and Weeds; but everything else, I can live without, except, maybe Jon Stewart. I love watching The Daily Show but if I let it accumulate on my DVR, I just delete it because it's old news. But I digress. I'm quite happy with my Netflix subscription, and trusty DVR. Besides, if I make it through one show in the evening, after a day of parenting, I'm lucky. So my choices are limited by what little free time I have without being unconscious.

We curb our kids' TV time, too. It's easy for Lady La because she barely watches TV at all, except for a couple of Baby Einstein videos. Mr. Na, though, has become a TV junkie, and in order for him to watch any TV at all, he has to earn credits by doing his chores, homework, piano, and reading. We've banned him from watching Sponge Bob because his last two consecutive report cards said that he talked too much in class, and he won't be getting Sponge Bob back until that's rectified.

We have Direct TV, which is kind of silly, given our minimal viewing habits, but Pa watches soccer and I like having Noggin and Sprout for the kids, so we've been happy with it. We've also had a DVR over the last ten years or so, which I think has helped us cut down our viewing time tremendously. We rarely surf channels to find something entertaining.

Yesterday, I was at the gym (yes, I caved), and there was a bank of three television screens in front of me as I ran on the treadmill. I was listening to music on my phone, but I couldn't help but look up to scan the screens every so often. One TV was tuned to CNN, the other to our local ABC affiliate, and the third was on "E!"

Since CNN was on right in front of me, I gazed up at that TV more than the others, and I was immediately struck by how much CNN, nowadays, is tooled for those with severe attention deficit disorders. There was nothing earth-shattering happening in the world, and yet every piece was "BREAKING NEWS". I'm talking about tidbits like what Michelle Obama wore during the spouses' dinner next door to the G20 Summit dinner in London; or the protesters in the streets of London, smashing windows and carrying signs that read "EAT THE BANKERS!" The next news piece I saw was about a man's "DREAMS REALIZED, THEN SHATTERED!" Evidentally, UC San Diego erroneously sent a batch of acceptance letters. And while I think that's a huge bummer, I didn't realize that, too, was BREAKING NEWS. It hardly seemed on par with previous "BREAKING NEWS" pieces like, say, the day Reagan was shot or three airplanes were high-jacked, two of which slammed into the World Trade Center towers. Yet there it was, splashed across the bottom of the screen.

The middle TV was the one airing our local ABC affiliate. Prior to our Seattle newscast (BREAKING NEWS: SNOW ON APRIL 1! NO BIG SURPRISE GIVEN THAT IT SNOWED ON APRIL 18 AND 19 LAST YEAR AND IT WAS 79 DEGREES THE WEEK BEFORE), there was some sort of show which looked like it featured a panel of doctors discussing various ailments and treatments. Other than the BREAKING NEWScast, it rarely caught my attention.

Over on the far right TV, "E!" was on. Now, I'm not gonna lie to you and tell you I don't follow celebrity gossip. I subscribe to Defamer, Pajiba, E! Online on Bloglines and I get my daily dose of media celebri-snacking. But the one trend I've noticed in television, is the use of multiple personalities (i.e. "experts") who comment on shows like "TOP 100 CELEBRITY OOPS!" or "100 BEST EVER ANYTHING ENTERTAINING OR WHATEVER" One such show was on "E!" and after seeing photos of Gwyneth Paltrow and one of her kids, followed by a picture of a green apple, followed by some...person nodding her head, gesticulating with her hands and smirking, I surmised this particular segment was about "100 OF THE WORST BABY NAMES CHOSEN BY CELEBRITIES". I couldn't help but wonder who in the world was on there, as an "expert," weighing in her...expertise. I'd never seen her before, and I was certain the snark came from the fact that Gweyneth has the natural beauty this heavily made-up person lacks. Since when did nobodies become "experts"? Moreover, who the hell watches this stuff?

In any event, it reminded me of how much I loathe TV--or, at least 99.999% percent of it. Oddly enough, though, when our trusty TiVo died last month, and we had to wait several weeks before Direct TV provided us with a new DVR, we had this crazy notion that maybe we should do away with TV altogether. But, who are we kidding? Pa and I were both raised on television and, despite the crap, it's just something we can't live without. Kinda like our land line--there's just something eerie about not having one. I can't stand it, rarely ever answer it, but won't get rid of it because it's been a staple in my household since before I was born.

Tall Tales From A Wanna-Be Mousekateer

When I was seven, I tried convincing my neighborhood friends that I had been invited onto the Mickey Mouse Club to dance and play piano. I borrowed an ugly pair of white, patent-leather shoes from my sister and I gave them a show in our foyer. Then, I led them to our piano where I played Fur Elise.

My friends, much to their credit, were not convinced. Even as I tried to "prove" my lie by showing them the Mickey Mouse ears I got from Walt Disney World, they refused to believe I was ever on television, let alone on the Mickey Mouse Club.

This lie was wrong on so many levels. First off, this was a few years before the "new" Mickey Mouse Club, starring Lisa Whechel (otherwise known as "Blair" from The Facts of Life), so the only Mickey Mouse Club shows that were on the air were the black and white re-runs from the 50s, with Annette and Cubby. Second, I did nothing more than scuff my mother's foyer floor as I bumbled my way through a self-choreographed dance routine. But I could play Fur Elise as well as any seven year-old with no formal training could.

I have some theories as to why I concocted such a lie. I actually DID learn how to play Fur Elise, by ear, from watching one of those talented Mousekateers play it on the Mickey Mouse Club. But I think the main reason for my lie was that there were a lot of kids in my class who got to be on a local show called Wonderama, and I was green with envy.

Wonderama was a three hour-long variety show that aired on Sundays. Part game show, part exercise show, part American Bandstand-esque, it was a show made especially for kids, hosted by a guy named Bob McAllister who assured us with his closing song that kids were people too. Every Monday at school, it was obvious which kid got to be on Wonderama the day before, from their personalized, shellacked Lenders Bagelette necklaces. And even if they didn't bring in their goodie bags, we knew they had been rewarded with Fruit Stripe gum, RC Cola, Twinkies, an Oral B toothbrush and an issue of Dynamite Magazine. I figured, in my little seven year-old brain, that if I had told my friends I was on Wonderama, I'd have to pony up my Lenders Bagelette necklace. But since I had Mickey Mouse ears and saw that guest Mousekateers didn't receive any lovely parting gifts, I was safe in telling my fib.

I think seven year-olds are the world's worst liars!

I leave you now with a clip from Wonderama. C'mon, take a look, and tell me you're not convinced YOU'D have wanted to be on that show!

Falling Down, Getting Back Up

I was pretty eager to get out of bed this morning and go for a run. I hadn't run since the Mercer Island half marathon on Sunday, and I was ready to jump back into the saddle. I'm hoping to be able to pace the inaugural Seattle Rock 'n Roll Marathon, but that's entirely up to this guy. Since it's a new race and he's dealing with a new organizer and their pacing structure is vastly different from the other local marathons we pace, there are fewer slots available. In any event, I'd like to train for it, even if I'm not chosen to pace. I may just run the damn thing if I don't pace.

I am pretty stoked since I found out this week I got into the Nike Womens' Half Marathon in San Francisco this October. I haven't received official notice yet but they charged my credit card the $110, so, um, I'm assuming that means I'm in. If not, they certainly have a lot of explaining to do.

Anyway, so getting back to my run this morning: the sun was out (miracle!) and I put on my new Asics Gel Nimbus 10 (they were free and THAT is why I pace!), leashed up the pooch, and set out toward Green Lake.

When I made it to the paved part of the lake, I kicked it up a notch and began my tempo run. Scout dutifully followed suit, and we were going a good click when I passed a man walking his dog. The dog was on the man's left, but as soon as he spotted Scout, he lunged out past the man and right in front of Scout's path. This caused Scout to jump right in front of me and I tripped. For a split second I thought, "I can recover. I won't fall." But alas, my reflexes failed me and I went down, HARD on my knee. I think god I was wearing tights because I would have ripped the shit out of my leg. I sat on the ground for a moment, gathering my wits and listen to the man bumble an apology ("He lunged forward, I didn't even see it!") I figured I was ok since I didn't rip my tights (damn those are good tights!), and I walked it out for a little bit, eventually breaking into a stride. I could tell I hit the same spot I injured two years ago, but I wasn't about to inspect the damage. Besides, I couldn't unless I pulled down my tights and...well, I'm not into public exposure, ya know?

It wasn't too bad, actually. I mean, I have a skinned knee, but luckily, it's not too deep. I'll live to run another day. And my kids will be grateful.

Little Boxes Made of Ticky-Tacky

Growing up, I lived on a cul-de-sac located in what my parents referred to as "the development". It was about as vanilla as it sounds, with 50 colonial-style, split-level homes built in 1970, each sitting on a half acre of land. Despite its mundane, tract housing features, growing up in the "development" did have some advantages. The biggest one was that there was only one way in and out of the grid, keeping traffic down to a minimum; and each house had at least two kids who were all roughly the same age, give or take 5 years. This made for having a lot of built-in friends and places to ride bicycles safely, or hold an impromptu game of kickball. It was a quiet place to live, save for the obese Sicilian lady who lived across the street and would throw open her bedroom window to fight with her husband down below or call her son Anthony in for dinner.

Of course, living alongside 49 other neighbors occasionally had its disadvantages, too. Aside from the fat lady, neighborhood gossip was abound. We knew when so and so's husband committed suicide or when such and such's wife had an affair. Given that it was the swinging 70s, my parents heard of miscellaneous "key" parties, where the men were invited to drop their keys in a fish bowl so at the end of the party, the women would randomly grab a set of keys and take the owner home.

As a family, we weren't without our share of gossipy activity, too, since my older sister had a penchant for inviting boys over for beer and pot parties by day; and by night, someone would almost always catch her climbing out of her window. But I had a solid group of friends so long as, upon their parents' insistence, they stayed outside of my house or I went over to theirs. Staying outside was easy to do, too, since we had lots of room to roam even beyond the grid. Behind my house was an extra five acres of woods that butted up to a reservoir. The woods were a magical place where pine trees created canopies for clubhouses and forts, and hills made for perfect sledding in the winter.

My neighborhood friends and I didn't always get along, and sometimes, someone would inevitably stomp off in a fit, swearing, "I'll never be your friend again!" It was especially hard at times because I lived in-between a large, Italian family whose children were cousins. Oftentimes, I would get insanely jealous when the two girls would go off and play without inviting me along, or I'd hear them in the swimming pool next door when I was outside playing in the sweltering heat. But we had many great memories, too, and played endlessly from the time we got up in the mornings to the time my friend's mom turned on the lawn light signaling her time to come inside.

Today I live over 3,000 miles away from the "development" in a funky Seattle neighborhood. The houses here are 100 years old, and while they have similar bungalow qualities, each one is unique and built to last. I love my neighborhood as it's easy to walk up to rows of shops and coffee houses, but it's far from kid-friendly. My street is noisy with traffic and the occasional crazy person walking up or down, muttering profanity. While we don't have a large lot with an ample place to play outside, we do live close to a playground where the kids can swing and slide and the dog can chase his ball. But the one thing I miss the most is that my children have no "neighborhood" friends. Even though Mr. Na's school is close by, there aren't many children living within a few houses in any direction. Oddly enough, we tend to "live" at the playground nearly every day during the summer months, but I rarely ever see Mr. Na play with the same kid twice. In my opinion, scheduling playdates, takes away the spontaneity I had as a kid, living in kid-grid-ville. If Mr. Na is bored, I don't have the luxury of sending him outside to see who's around to play with. And even if I pack everyone up and walk to the park, there's no guarantee that anyone else his age will be there.

Given the option, though, there's no place I'd rather live. Mr. Na and Lady La live in an area rich in cultural diversity, unlike any other place I've lived. And though they can't step outside and take a stroll through the woods, our city provides panoramic views of mountains, lakes, and the Sound--all within reach by car.

It'll be interesting, someday, to hear their take on growing up in this house, in Seattle. Will they gripe about their "old house" with it's postage-sized lot and surrounding hills that make it almost painful to ride a bike? Or will they recognize that their childhood home has one aspect any newly-built tract home lacks: a soul.

When 12:15 in the a.m., during a massive snowstorm, is the only time I get to write about ME

I'm not complaining, really. I love my children dearly. Given that I've traveled halfway around the world to find them, I'd say I pretty much wanted kids.

It's just that, at the end of the day, I'm usually so friggin' exhausted, I hardly remember what it feels like for my head to hit the pillow. I'm not exaggerating, either. I went from having difficulty with getting more than 6 hours a night of sleep to being damn near narcoleptic.

So, what happens is that my free time is compressed and I have to make concessions, and unfortunately, writing has been the one getting axed every day, unless you count the stupid, mindless shit I'm putting together for the PTSA at Mr. Na's school. Rah!

Tonight is one of those rare moments where I'm actually awake while the rest of the house is asleep. Maybe it was the afternoon coffee, or the fact that there's not a damn thing I can do since we're snowed in here, so sleeping in is actually an option and I don't have to worry about rising at the crack of dawn.

I don't remember being "this" scatterbrained when Mr. Na first came home, maybe it's just so long ago it had been conveniently forgotten. But now it's like I can't even organize my thoughts or finish a sentence. I can see how easy it is for people to lose themselves when they raise a family.

Thankfully, running is my anchor--though lately, it's been tough to get outside when there's a foot of snow on the ground. I've resisted joining a gym because I really prefer running outside rather than inside, stuck on a treadmill. And since our winters here are relatively mild, except, say, once every 12 years when we get a major dumping, there's really no need. But I've definitely noticed that I get into these terrible funks if I don't exercise. It doesn't give me time to decompress and take a break from all the noise around me.

Oddly enough, for the longest time, I absolutely HAD to run with music in my ears. I felt like it was the only motivation and the only way to tune out. But ever since we brought Audri home, I prefer running without any music. Even if I do my long runs alone, I don't want anything (else) inside my head.

It's nice, too, because I can actually hear myself when I run, which reminds me of what this talented young lady wrote in her latest blog entry. (Which, by the way, I look forward to reading Murakami's book, curse you, Geoff Dyer!) It doesn't matter if my thoughts are cohesive while I'm running, at least I can hear them. At home it's like, "Wait, did I say this?" or "Did I finish that?" I'm seriously thinking of turning on the voice recorder from the moment I get out of bed to the moment I pass out at night, just to be sure.

So, I traded my early-morning run tomorrow for a late-night session of writing tonight. I don't mind the occasional trade off, though I have to say that writing has become less therapeutic than running. I wish I didn't have to choose, but as long as my little girl is awake, clinging to my leg, going "meh? meh? meh?" (she's not talking quite yet), or having a tantrum because mommy's at the computer trying to type a 6-word e-mail, the choice is clear.

Happy 40th, All You Zombies

I'm proud to say I share the same birth year with George A. Romero's Night of the Living Dead. It's a classic that I love watching year after year--mostly because it's one of two movies that still scare the bejeezus out of me (the second being The Exorcist). What could be more frightening than going to a graveyard and getting grabbed by the undead--only to find out the whole world's been turned upside down and there's thousands of them out there that want to eat those still alive? Being stuck in a house surrounded by zombies, that's what...and Romero's film delivers the suspense and crazy-by-the-thousands-zombie-walkers masterfully.

If you love the film as much as I do, I suggest you check out these articles pulled together by PopMatters from various writers who take its theme, its living and its dead characters and compare them to humanity. We are all relatively rational people living with many irrational fears--and Night of the Living Dead preys upon those fears, which makes it a perfect horror film.

Squirrels Ain't Got Nothin' on Me!

This is my 12th year in Seattle, and as such, I've become all-too-familiar with the gloomy weather that casts its net over the Puget Sound sometime around mid-October and doesn't leave until the following Fourth of July. It messes with my psyche, which is why I think I enjoy running so much. A good hit of endorphins three days a week keeps the blues from the blah weather away.

It's funny, too, but I used to take sunshine for granted--which is easy to do living in Southern California. Nowadays, my mood can change drastically from one day to the next, depending on how gray it is outside, and I understand why caffeine is such a big hit here. On those seemingly endless dreary days, I feel more sluggish and less motivated to do anything, and oftentimes, caffeine is my only saving grace.

With only a few more days of gorgeous weather, I find myself longing to be outdoors more, either with the kids or alone with my thoughts. I even spent two hours on the garden last weekend during a sun shower just because the air quality was so much better than the stuff I sucked in every day for a month in Ukraine. But also, it's almost as if I'm soaking up the last of the remaining sunshine of the year before the weather turns to crap.

Today was one of those monumental "this is why I live in Seattle" days. The sun burned away all the morning clouds and by noon it was a pleasant 70 degrees with a slight breeze. I took La La (this is what Audri calls herself) for a leisurely ride in the bike trailer until she started getting fussy because she ran out of Cheerios. But the best part about today was at dusk, when Scout and I ran a 6-mile loop around the lake, and watched the bats zig zag overhead and the squirrels fight over acorns.

Yup, it's days like today that I try to summon from my memory when I get sick and tired of the same ol', same ol' monochromatic 9-month season.


Scaredy Squirrel by Melanie Watt

Settling in...

I'm amazed that it's 9:40 p.m. and I'm still awake. Ever since I got home from Ukraine, I've been asleep by 10. I'm no longer the night owl. Now I get up at 6 just so I have enough time to make and drink coffee before the little buggers get up.

Life's been grand since we've been back. I'm finally fully recovered from the Ukrainian Super Flu or whatever it was that knocked me flat on my ass. Now if only I could muster up running more than 3 miles at a stretch, I'd be a happy camper.

Speaking of happy campers, I have to tell you about these adorable little plates I bought at Fireworks the other day, under the guise of "they're for my kids!" Check 'em out online.

I got myself the Funky Monkey, of course!

Owie!

I don't know what the hell's the matter with me, but I've become a total klutz. I can only chalk it up to being utterly distracted by everything else going on...either that or I'm getting fuzzy in my old age. Hmmm...



Anyway, I got this bad boy on my arm the other night and I can't explain exactly HOW it happened. Isn't it pretty? One minute, I was in the den, holding the central vac hose with one hand, trying to turn my slant board with the other, and then I just...fell...over. But not just over, over either...it was more like, I knocked into the side table and then landed on some free weights and then kinda wound up in a fetal position on the dog bed on the opposite side of the room. I skinned my knee, too, and it was in the same spot where I tore my knee open last year, when I fell on the sidewalk. (Yeah, this is becoming chronic, huh?) That time, I was running along, and BAM! Tripped over a crack and split my knees wide open. I felt like I was five again.

So anyway, back to this nasty bruise on my arm...I'm a little bummed because it looks kind of ugly and...see, I've got this big appointment coming up next week in Ukraine where I have to appear adoption friendly, and since it's like 100 degrees in Kiev, I was planning on wearing a sleeveless dress...and this thing looks like Pa punched the shit out of me, not just once, but a kajillion times.

Makeup anyone?

Muddy Runs -- The Cure for What Ails Ya

Man oh man, I had a shitty morning. 99.999% of it is because of our trip. You can read all about that on Privyet.

I did, however, push myself out the door for a run and I've got to say, it helped tremendously. The run, itself, wasn't all that great (it was hot, too late in the morning, I missed my running group, and I was a sluggish) but mentally, it did wonders.

As I rounded the Montlake Cut and headed to Foster Island via the trail that runs behind MOHAI, it became pretty mushy. I couldn't figure out why, at first, because it was a warm day and it hadn't rained in a few weeks. And yet, the mud got deeper and deeper. Here's a picture of my shoe as I'm navigating the trail by way of stepping on branches:








Teetering my way through actually forced me to stop, which is why I took out my phone and started taking some pictures. Despite the mud, the scenery was gorgeous:



These are water lillies. Sorry, the camera on my phone sucks. Frickin' Blackjack. If you click on them though, they're a lot clearer.





Then I realized...DUH...I'm in the middle of marsh here...
of COURSE it's muddy. Silly me:
Yup, that's water underneath that green stuff!















A boat on Lake Washington


This is where the trail turns into a floating bridge:









Anyway, I ran through the Arboretum to Lake Washington Boulevard; hung a right and ran up Interlaken. It was a good day to stay in the shade.

I feel much better now. I mean, my stomach is still in knots over this trip, but I feel calmer now. Yay!

Hot Dog! Mr. Na's a Bicyclist!

Last year, we bought Mr. Na a sporty little Trek bike with the hope that it'd last him a few years. It will, too, because it's just a hair too big for him right now. When we bought it, we opted to put training wheels on it because of the size; but during the few rides we'd taken so far this summer, Na's been balancing all on his own. I think riding a Razor scooter to school every day had a little something to do with it.

So on Monday, as we rode to Husky Stadium and back, I told him that I thought he was ready for the training wheels to come off. He wasn't too thrilled, initially, and secretly, neither was I. I wasn't sure if I was up to the task of scraping him off the ground six or seven times before he "got it". But as I watched him ride home in front of me, I noticed that most of the time, the training wheels never hit the pavement. I figured...he was ready. And worse case, I could always put them back on.

This morning, as Na was brushing his teeth and getting ready for his day, I went to the garage and did the deed. The wheels came off quite easily and so I still had time to run down to the basement and get all of the padding I could find for him: I grabbed knee pads and elbow pads, along with his helmet because, by gosh, if Na was gonna fall, he was gonna be ok with it...and so was I. I think if Pa had his old football gear, I'd have used that too.

I spent some time with him on the driveway at first, showing him how to put his foot down whenever he felt he was leaning too far one way or the other. Then I made him sit on the seat and, without touching the pedals, I grabbed the back of his seat and rolled him. Then I made him put his feet on the pedals and I wheeled him to a nearby school parking lot. Along the way, I lessened my vice-like grip on the back of his seat and grabbed it again when I thought he'd do a header.

When we got to the smooth, level parking lot, something told me to just let go...and that is exactly what I did...and I shit you not, Na took off! He rode faster and faster around the parking lot...and I had to run behind him just to keep up. When he stopped, I gave him a huge hug and cried, "You did it!" That was by far, the fastest time I've ever seen someone learn how to ride a bike.

Unfortunately, our parking lot time was up when someone came out of the school and told us a lot of trucks were going to be coming in and out. So we went to our playground and Na rode around the gravel outer path of the field. He'd fall every now and then--mostly because he stopped too fast or he made too sharp of a turn, but he'd be all sprawled out and raise his arm in the air to give me the thumbs up!

Later this evening, as we drove to his swimming lesson, Na said,
"That was a lot of fun today, Momma, but do you know what I want now?"
"What's that, sweetie?"
"A motorcycle!"

Adoption News - Take Two

Ok, so the wonderful folks at Today.com aren't willing to comply with my request to filter ads for my family blog...so I've taken the liberty of changing the adoption blog to here:

Privyet!



It's unfortunate that I have to pull the blog from Today, but it's highly embarrassing to have inappropriate advertising featured across the top banner of a blog that covers our family's adoption journey. I should have gone with Blogger to begin with, but I was lured with the idea of being a paid blogger. So much for that!

The Dog Days of Summer

Well, despite my freaking out over our trip being less than two weeks away, I'm enjoying the Seattle summer sunshine with Mr. Na (and I've got quite the sunburn to prove it!)

We took the dogs to an awesome off-leash area today (Magnuson) which also has a "dog" beach off of Lake Washington. Mr. Na, being 6 and all, went right in with the dogs, and all I could do was stand there and cringe, wondering what sort of organic floaties were touching his skin. Of course, afterwards, under the guise of "wanna play in the sprinkler?" I hosed all three down in the yard--and then stuck the child in the tub.

It's good to have him home again; but my staycation was kind of an awesome way to regroup and appreciate him all the more.

Don't Mess with My Liberty!

Source: Seattle P-I
During our morning run yesterday, Scout and I were heading toward Gas Works Park when I saw this gigantic Statue of Liberty head situated on the edge of Lake Union. Underneath the ridiculousness of it, there was something about it that creeped me out. Call me warped, I dunno, but rather than feeling all patriotic and gung-ho for the Fourth, it instantly reminded me of the scene from the last Planet of the Apes movie, when Charlton Heston finds a third of the Statue sticking up out of the sand and curses the apes for blowing it up, crying, "You maniacs! You blew it up! Damn you all to hell!"

My second thought was that it reminded me of that Cloverfield movie, where the monster rips off the head of the Statue of Liberty and throws it down Broadway like a bowling ball.

How could the Family Fourth of July event organizers be so irresponsible! Damn you all to hell, you maniacs!

Memories of Maroon and Gray Color Wars

I had the most random conversation with a guy from my running group last Saturday and as it turns out, he and I went to the same camp at the same time over 30 years ago in New Jersey.

We were talking about the heat, which led us to talking about the humidity on the East coast, which led him to ask me where I grew up, which led me to tell him I spent part of my childhood in Bergen County, New Jersey, which led him to say, "No way, me too!" which led me to ask him the name of his town, which led him to tell me he lived in Ramsey, which led me to tell him I lived in River Vale which led me to add that I went to camp at Knights Day Camp in Upper Saddle River, which led him to say,

"HOLY SHIT! I DID TOO!"

Bizarre, but true. We spent the next hour or so reminiscing about the camp and lamenting over its demise and the death of Uncle Maurice--a man who not only founded the camp, but created such a fun, memorable atmosphere that 35,000 happy campers, over a 25 year period sang "We Love You Knights Day Camp" every morning on the bus ride in.

Turns out, my friend and I were both there in 1977, and we were both nine at the time, though we don't remember one another. I told him that was the year when, during a game of Hares and Hounds, I managed to step on a fallen yellow jackets nest and was stung by 13 bees. I was surprised he didn't remember someone with long blonde hair running up to the infirmary with a cloud of bees following closely behind like something out of a cartoon. I had a pretty bad reaction from the stings, too, and I swelled as bad as Violet Beauregarde in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. I had to be taken from the infirmary to a nearby doctor who removed the bee stings one-by-one. Uncle Maurice came to the doctor's office and drew a Purple K on my (good) hand for being so brave and later that night, he called my mom to see how I was doing. Still high on Chlor-Trimeton, I went to camp the very next day, since I didn't want to miss out on any of the fun.

That was the summer, too, when I wore the highly fashionable Wonder Woman bathing suit, and got mad when another girl in my group had one as well. I also got mad because when I got my Junior Lifesaving pin, I wore it and it left a rusty mark on the suit. My friend told me he'd talk to his parents to see if they could dig up the pictures of camp that year. He distinctly remembers seeing pictures of him in his group, The Exterminators, during the "Buddy System" in front of the Plake (the camp's pool/lake combo). He said he'd be on the look out for Wonder Woman (or her imposter).

Each camper received two or three gray Knights Day Camp t-shirts, with an illustrated Maroon-colored knight in the upper right hand corner and we took pride in the shirts--wearing them everyday with our Adidas shorts and tube socks. I think I asked my mother to find tube socks with maroon and gray bands so I could be color coordinated.

My friend has a lot keener memory than I do. He remembers "Sloppy Slurching" where we trudged in the muddy water behind the cemented Plake and his parents even have his old banner with the merit badges he earned. I wish I had saved something...anything. Sigh!

Every year, we had one overnight at the camp, which was the highlight of the summer. This is where we learned of the legend of the Purple Knight who would come to the camp once everyone was asleep and leave his trademark Purple K on an unsuspecting, but lucky, camper. None of us got to see the Purple Knight in person (it wasn't Uncle Maurice), until the very last day of camp, when he made his appearance on horseback as the buses pulled away.

We also discussed the annual "Color Wars", and as it turns out, he was on the Maroon side (I was on the Gray team). Color Wars was a week-long competition at the end of the summer. The competing teams earned points with various activities including archery, swimming, and the ever-popular volleyball-esque game called "Nuke 'em" where players had to catch the ball or lose a teammate. I can remember we also had a sing-off and cheer-off competition to see which team had the most spirit. That year, the announcer played a trick by calling the Maroon Team winners...only to psyche everyone out and give the win to the Gray Team. My friend insists on doing a re-match.

I'm up for the challenge...so long as it doesn't involve running! My friend ran Boston this year and I've yet to earn a respectable qualifying time to do so.

It'll have to be Sloppy Slurching!

Looking for Adoption News?

Some of you visiting this site have been brought here, inadvertently. And while I appreciate the readership on Canned Goods, you can find more information about our Ukraine adoption here:

privyetukraine.blogspot.com

Happy Reading!