AliBlog

Name that band

It's Halloween night, so naturally they take the stage in costume. Or three out of four of them do anyway. One as Dolly Parton, one as Greg Maddux and one as a skeleton. Their stage banter is constant, urbane, giddy. At first I think they wear their fame uncomfortably but after a few more songs and a few more unrehearsed cracks between songs, I think: No. They're not wearing their fame at all. And that's only one of the biggest truths of the night.

Another truth comes when Jeromy says, "They're the cast of Seinfeld with string instruments," and I see it exactly. Elaine on the fiddle, Jerry on mandolin, George on guitar and Kramer on the upright base. Only, this George is an unusually quiet George. And this Kramer is silenced by a non-functioning mic. Actually, we learn, he's mic'd with the Secrets Among Friends Mic. Whatever that is. Did you know such a thing existed?

Another truth comes when I say, "You haven't lived until you've seen a skeleton clog." Still true. And this skeleton. He clogged until his bones dangled, ready to unhinge into a pile.

They play folk-infused pop, traditional bluegrass, Beatles cover songs and encore without shirts. George and Jerry (or Maddox and himself) (or if you want the truth, Chris and Sean) re-enter the stage bare chested. They are white, nearly hairless, untoned and clearly embarrassed. Chris says, "We realize this is in poor taste. But I think we can all agree on two things. One, Halloween is in poor taste. And two, Britney Spears is in poor taste."

Then they launch into a Britney Spears cover song. Accompanied by a screeching fiddle and a skinny white boy dance. It's her most recent song. The one she botched at the MTV awards. I don't know the title but Chris sings it better than Brit ever intended.

Then they play a few more traditional songs. And somewhere within the encore, they cover a Jackson Five song with Dolly/Elaine (okay, her name is really Sara) singing the lead for little Michael.

Damn, was it a performance. A wild ride. Not just a concert - but a show.

Can you guess yet who it was? It was Nickel Creek, saying farewell to a town they'd never even told hello ... and we miss them already.

Filling his head with good memories

Saturday before leaving for a hike

Robey: Mommy, remember that time me and Daddy and Monroe went for a hike and you met us there  with lunch?
Me: Yes, I do.
Robey: That's in my head.

Sunday while eating lunch at the counter

Robey: Do you remember the time Max was sitting here and he was kicking his feet underneath the counter?
Me: Mmmm-hmmm. I think so.
Robey: That's in my head.
Me: Those things you remember in your head are called memories. I like to hear about what's your head.
Robey: I like having them in my head too.

Yesterday was a bloggity good day

Remember when I posted that shot of myself 9 months pregnant with Monroe, and you all said I looked great, and I said, "Oh no, that's an accidental camera trick. I'm actually quite huge." Here's what I mean. That's me yesterday at five months pregnant (and trust me, I was much larger in that 9-month shot from the last pregancy).

But - beyond the self-obsessed observation of my size, the real news is that I met a blogfriend live and in person for the very first time. Annie is a whirlwind of energy, intelligence and compassion, just as you might expect from her blog. We met for dinner at Squid's in Chapel Hill, which I can't recommend highly enough. I made fast friends with Jamie, the general manager, when I had to call three separate times for directions before actually finding the place.

AND I relied on a real-life friend who's also a blogger to help too. Sarah rescued me by logging into my Facebook account and finding Annie's phone number, which I had forgotten. Given that Sarah has probably met hundreds of blogfriends in real life, I thought it seemed terribly appropriate that she helpd me on my way to my first blogfriend meetup.

After dinner, I got to meet Annie's husband, her five cats (or maybe just 4 of them, one may have been hiding), and one of her friends who helps out with J. Plus, Annie is introducing me virtually to another blogfriend of hers who will be a good contact for some of my business blogging adventures.

It turned out to be quite a nice night considering how crazed my day had been. Before heading to dinner, I had five back-to-back meetings, which all ran late, so I was running behind for each and every one. I kept meaning to get back to my computer to make a plan for the drive to Chapel Hill and even make it to my hotel room before that drive to change my clothes and brush my hair, but that never happened. That's how I ended up on the road with a grease stain on my shirt, and without good directions or the appropriate phone number.

But then the dinner was fantastic, as I've described, and when I finally did make it to my hotel room around 9, I WON AT BLINGO and had an invitation to join a book group at work to read Devra's book. Seriously. How's that for more bloggity goodness? What's Blingo and how can you win? Go register & start searching. After that, don't forget to read Annie & Sarah & Devra. Oh, and if you get the chance, eat at Squids!

T-shirts slogans that offend

Spotted Sunday at the Cleveland Hopkins airport on a slender, young co-ed:

Does my t-shirt make you feel fat?

Spotted years ago in a Southern cafeteria-style restaurant on a teenaged employee:

I hate everything

Both times I was more offended than I ever imaged I could be by a T-shirt. Have you ever been offended by a slogan on a T?

Owen turns two

We spent Saturday at DeeDee & Uncle Gary's place at the lake, for Owen's second birthday.

"I own about a thousand yo-yos."

"But no video games," said his mom.

"And no girlfriends ... and no social life," added YoJake.

He performed recently at our local library. Robey loved it. Me? I couldn't get past the yo-yo star's unlikely resemblance to our friend Greg and everyone's friend Ben (in a strange if-you-combined-the-two kind of way).

I was in the 90th Percentile for Old

Here's how to feel old and out of touch: Go to a Christina Aguilera concert with a handful of teenage girls. When your friend and fellow chaperone mentions the name of the opening act, imagine she's talking about this group, not this group. Realize as soon as they hit the stage how completely wrong you were.

Am I the only person in the world who didn't know that the performers from the popular LA hot spot are also a touring singing group? That they have a CD? A hit single? A TV show?

Am I the only person who doesn't understand their popularity among teenage girls (and younger!). Look, I'm not offended by this type of thing. I've seen it all before. The dancing, the shaking, the grinding, the lack of clothing. It's lost its shock value. I get that.

But why do teenager girls look up to these women? That I don't get. Is it because it makes them feel older? Sexier? Emboldened? Or is it just becaue grown ups might not like it?

And are we really supposed to ignore the irony in an all-female group that says in one breath, "Be strong, ladies, and always remember that you don't need a man." But then, in the next (very heavy) breath, struts and shakes and grinds their stuff along a catwalk in a manner that is clearly intended to attract a man? Come on. I get the post-feminist empowerment schtick, but who are they fooling? Not me.

They Call Me Doctor Love

We're driving from here to there the other day and Jeromy says, "So what do you think that doctor does?"

"What doctor?" I ask.

"Back there. Look at the sign."

We're on a mostly residential road, a cross-road between two larger roads that are zoned primarily for business. The sign is in front of a small, one-story house. It's a professional sign. Large and sturdy with classy, detailed lettering. It says:

Dr. "G"
The Doctor for Adults.

What do you think he does?

Maybe this Town isn't as Conservative as I'd Thought

We saw the Second City comedy tour this weekend at a local theater and laughed at every single skit they performed.

I kept thinking people were going to get up and leave. The first long skit featured an actor portraying a twelve-year-old who kept repeating curse-words and other adult expletives she'd overheard, and I wondered - while I laughed - if any of the seats in the balcony were emptying out. But they didn't.

As the skits went on to lambaste Rumsfeld and the President, I thought certainly some of the more conservative audience members would be looking for the exit signs. But they didn't.

When the actors light-heartedly addressed small-town racism, hypocritical religious practices and repressed sexual fantasies, I was laughing too hard to worry about who might be offended - but I don't think anyone left.

Then, in an off-hand, improvised moment in the third act, one of the actors made fun - of all things - of women who shop at TJ Maxx. How could he? The nerve! The gall! The chord was struck. I took offense! But, shit, it was funny. I kept laughing and never considered leaving my seat.

Oh Yeah. Happy Halloween.

Neighborhood trick or treating (pictured here) was Thursday. Preschool trick or treating was Friday. After all that and a weekend in between, today's Halloween party was overkill. Why do we let even our minor holidays drag on for so many days?

Rock n Roll Dreams

Did I mention that we went to the Rock n Roll Hall of Fame last weekend for free? I know, a lot of business people get to do exciting things for free all the time, but I'm not usually one of them. This was a closed, corporate event with food stations, open bars and live music - and the group representing my company won second prize. I have pictures of the entertainment but none of the museum, where they have rules against that sort of thing. Big rules. And big security guards. Big security guards with ear pieces. Big security guards with ear pieces who will follow you from floor to floor and watch your every move if you happen to be carrying a bulky shoulder bag that displays the word CANON on the outside.

Has anyone else been to the Rock Hall? I'd heard so-so reviews and wasn't sure what to expect, but we loved it. Okay, maybe the free beer and free triple chocolate cheesecake helped, but the displays were entertaining, interactive and very insidery. I'm not the type to get excited about standing face-to-face with a voluptuous pair of Britney Spears' leather pants - but something about seeing Mike Campbell's worn, leather boots and Jim Morrison's footprint-stamped baby book made these people seem so much more real to me than they ever had before.

I'd guess that we toured about half of the museum, but I could have spent a whole day (or more) listening to the kiosks that played 500 influential rock singles from the 1920s to today. Can you imagine the range of music in that little machine? I kept sorting it alphabetically by song title and getting stunned at the disparity of songs that landed side-by-side on the same screen. 

My favorite display by far was the wall of Rolling Stone Magazine covers interspersed with marked-up story drafts and personal letters to Jann Wenner from John Lennon, Hunter S. Thompson, Annie Leibovitz, Charles Manson and many more. I know, I'm a nerd. But I never grew up dreaming of becoming a rocker or living the Rock n Roll lifestyle. No, I dreamt of writing about it, of getting inside the heads of those rockers and staying up late in front of a keyboard trying to bring them to life for millions of readers.

Instead, I'm one of the millions touring the museum and getting a rush from the displays - feeling for one fleeting moment like I'm part of the magic, part of the history, part of the world of Rock n Roll.    

Wedding Clothes

Go to Flickr for more photos of Willy D's wedding.

Out of the Bag

At some point near the end of August, I decided to stop unpacking and repacking suitcases - and just left them packed. I made four out-of-town trips in August. One for business, three for pleasure. One by myself, three with the family. One by plane, three by car. Altogether, I packed and unpacked at least a dozen suitcases before deciding to leave everything in the bag. All said, we traveled more than a thousand miles this month by car and close to one thousand by plane.

Also. This month. Jeromy's dad stayed with us for a week. I organized and attended a class reunion. We visited the doctor five times (primarily a result of a nasty cold virus-turned-infection that put two of us down for a week). Plus. There was work. The standard meetings and appointments. Phone calls and e-mails. And so many things left undone.

I've neglected my house, my car, my friends, my blog, my marriage, my body, my spirit and even my children more than I'd like to admit this month.

What have I learned? I've learned that it is possible to be too busy. And I don't like it. That's not to say we didn't have fun. We had all sorts of fun. I have photos and memories and friendships to prove it. But at what cost? How long until I recover? How long until the laundry is done? How long until I catch up on everything I've neglected? How long until my bags are finally unpacked?

No Tears Shed for these Cowboys?

I watched "Brokeback Mountain" last night and didn't cry. This is somewhat of a confession, considering I've cried while watching sitcoms and commercials, and once even rolled myself into a ball and cried into the carpet for more than an hour while watching the saddest movie ever made.

So why didn't I cry last night in the theater? It's not because the story wasn't moving. It was. It's not because I couldn't relate to the characters. I could. It's not because the acting and dialog weren't good. They were. It's not even because the characters weren't believable. Again, they were.

What was it then? Why didn't this story of a life-long love affair move me to tears? Why didn't the main character's self-imposed heartache and repressed desires make me weep? And why didn't this depiction of a conservative, bigoted society that shatters families, friendships and dreams make me sob?

Two reasons: poor chemistry and poor character development.

Individually Ledger and Gyllenhaal are believable in their roles as two men tortured by an unexpected and all-encompassing passion for one another. But together, their shared emotional scenes are flat. Plus, the build up to their first love scene is missing something vital. That raw, indescribable connection that inexplicably and randomly draws two people together just isn't there. For me to believe in two characters' mounting and uncontrollable feelings for one other, I'm looking for something more magical than loneliness, cold weather, a pint of whiskey and a growing disdain for beans - and I really didn't see it.

I didn't see anything in their moments together on screen that I felt would sustain such a strong and complex attachment over four years of separation and then over decades of occasional, short-lived, passionate outings in the woods. In fact, the only scenes in the movie that really revealed the true depth of their longing and love for one another weren't scenes that the two actors shared. Rather, their sharpest emotions were revealed in solo scenes: Ennis waiting anxiously to see Jack again for the first time in more than four years. Jack retreating in his pickup after learning he's not the sole cause for Ennis' divorce. Ennis clinging to an unwashed shirt worn by Jack the summer their love emerged.

If even one of their scenes together had drawn out the same undeniable emotions, I might have been more convinced of their love. I might have been more torn up by their inability to make the relationship work. I might have been more sympathetic to their tragic situation. In short, I might have cried.

All this isn't to say that it was a bad movie. It's still worth seeing for some of those solo scenes alone, and for the universal message of lost dreams forever unfulfilled. And, of course, it's still groundbreaking for portraying a complex, loving relationship between two gay men. All of these things together make it a four-star movie, though, not five.

A five star movie would have made me cry.

"Oh No. Excuse Me. That Poem's on Fire."

Who says that?
Mid-poem?
In a candle-lit church?
Surrounded by hippies, creative souls and folk music fans of every age?

Linford Detweiler says it, that's who - an hour into his piano/spoken word concert, after the building's electricity cuts of and dozens of extra candles are brought in to light the sanctuary. The poem he'd just read had caught on fire.

He also says, "Italy could never have given the world Johny Cash."

And, "I've been on the road for 15 years. And these are the best refreshments I've ever seen at a show."

And, "I know it's not cool to make yourself the hero of your own poems."

I'll stop now since I don't want to give away all his best lines, and since I'm probably butchering these quotes anyway. But that's how I remember them, after sitting there in the dark on a padded church pew, head resting on my husband's shoulder, hands resting on my pregnant belly, listening to the words of a favorite songwriter.

Jumbo Petite

Once upon a time, a five-year-old boy we'll call Ben accompanied his father to the lingerie department to pick out a Christmas gift for his plus-sized mother. When the sales lady approached the two gentlemen to offer her assistance, Ben's father answered the initial questions until the saleslady asked, "May I ask what size your wife wears?"

Immediately Ben spoke up with the authority of a five-year-old in a candy store and said, "Jumbo Petite."

If such a thing as Jumbo Petite still exists anywhere outside of Ben's imagination, I think I need a few bras in that exact size. None of my bras fit. Not my pre-pregnancy bras, not my sports bras, not the bras from my first pregnancy and not the post-pregnancy nursing bras. Currently, the bras in my drawer range in size from 36C to 34DD, and they all itch, pinch, pull and hurt.

So, as I'm out and about this evening finishing up my Christmas shopping, I have a second and most important goal in mind - to locate a couple comfortable bras in the rare yet wonderful size of Jumbo Petite. Any suggestions on where to look?

Folk Music Fantasies

In 1993, as a sophomore in college, I wrote a Letter to the Editor about a band.

At the time, I was learning the ropes of Rock 'n' Roll journalism through the local, student-run music rag, The Slicing Edge Music Journal. The staff were sponsoring a show at The Nickelodean, one of the few 18-and-over bars in town. Over The Rhine was the act.

Here's what I knew about the band: They were hip, young musicians and amazing lyricists caught up in that awkward phase of reinventing themselves for the indy music world, yet still remaining somehow true to their small-town, liberal arts, Midwestern roots. And they were really starting to "make it" beyond even the highest Ohio music standards. By that, I mean, they were getting gigs outside of the state, living as starving artists and still running after the dream: singing and rockin' and writing and living while most of their peers were working and toiling and dying at day jobs.

I liked their music, and I knew they were going to gain recognition, and I knew without a doubt that many of us would regret it in 10 years when we "discovered" this new band Over The Rhine and realized we could have seen them back in the day in a small, slimy college bar in Athens, Ohio but missed our one and only chance.

So I wrote a letter to the student-run paper, The Post, reminding readers that Toad the Wet Sprocket and Phish and other nationally-known bands had played in Athens before they were big, and don't you wish you could have been there? Well, this is your chance, I said. This band is going to be big and if you come to the show, you'll be able to say, "I saw them when ..."

Turns out, I was writing that letter to myself.

Here's what happened: The annual Palmerfest block party was scheduled for the same night. Then one of the bartenders where I worked decided to throw a party that night too. I made plans to spend the night traipsing around town on foot from party to concert to party and back. My friend Rachel was more than happy to spend her night in the same fashion, so we added another party, thrown by one of her co-workers, to our list and bounced around the brick streets of Athens becoming more and more blasted and boastful, and feeling quite popular what with so many pressing social commitments for a couple of meager, non-Greek sophomores.

We did stop in for the concert, but we were so full of ourselves and our successful party-hopping at that point that we decided - after just a few songs - to hop along to the next party on our list. The night ended with us tucked into stacked bunk beds at another friend's house where the guys who lived there were noble enough to sleep on the couches and not take advantage of the two, wasted 20-year olds who showed up at their doorstop at 3 a.m. looking for a place to crash (and thank God for good people like that).

Over The Rhine was quickly forgotten in the blur of that long night of fuddled fun and tucked away serenely in the back of my mind like a drunken co-ed in a bunk bed ...

Until 10 years later when I bought their latest CD and fell in love with their music all over again.

For the past two years, I've been monitoring their concert schedule and trying to make plans to attend a show, without luck. They still play often throughout Ohio, but it's hard to make plans for a night out and an out-of-town stay when you have a toddler at home (ohhhh, how I sometimes still long for the days when you could pick up and walk to parties and shows and friend's grimy houses without making complicated plans with babysitters and relatives and out-of-town friends).

Last Saturday, our plans finally came together. Jeromy and I spent an evening listening to Over The Rhine with 200 college-aged devotees at Little Brothers in Columbus, where the band played songs we knew and songs we didn't know and songs we'd love to know better. They returned to the stage for three encores and thanked the crowd sincerely for their rapt attention after a long night with an awful crowd in Indianapolis the day before. We sat with another couple throughout the show - one of the few other 'older' couples in the bar that we had met after standing out in the cold for 30 minutes to assure ourselves of one of the five wobbly tables on site.

We clapped and shivered and laughed and sang along and bought CDs. We daydreamed about telling this growing hope of a baby about the small, folk-pop concert he attended while tucked away inside my womb. We were reminded of all the shows we had attended in Tucson when Robey was in my belly - including Santana, Kathy Mattea, Sheryl Crow and Stomp. We were reminded of young Air Force friends - city boys and R&B fans - who we tortured like hostages by playing folk music over and over again while driving our beat-up Isuzu Trooper through muddy, four-wheel drive, state-park trails in Southern Mississippi. We were reminded of our common love for roots music, for harmonization, for long, instrumental openings and good, old-fashioned acoustic guitar pickin'. We were reminded of our youth together and our future together and our continued longings for nights out together having a good time.

And, finally, I was reminded of another fantasy that I've had for the last two years. It's the type of romantic wish that you never express out loud with the hope that it will come true someday on its own, while knowing full well that no one else but you would ever dream it up in their own silly head. So, I'm making the wish here. While I may be ruining any possibility of a surprise, I hope I'm opening the door to the possibility of a fantasy fulfilled: This Christmas, or maybe next Christmas or next birthday or even next Valentine's day, I'd love to receive nothing but a stack of Over The Rhine CDs - every single one available, all piled up and tied together with a red bow and an invitation to enjoy many, many happy hours of singing out loud in the car.

Man. When did I become such a romantic?

Ohio Poetry

Unless you're a strange bird like me, you probably don't mark your calendars for upcoming poetry readings. In fact, most people would sooner watch their roommate's home movies, attend their nephew's detention hearings or even sit through two days of mandatory driver's education courses before attending a poetry reading in a small Ohio town.

And that's why Jeromy deserves 600 good-husband points for escorting me to a poetry reading last month.

When he agreed to go, I'm sure he was picturing a back-lit stage in a musty coffee house peopled by pale men and women with dark clothes, tall boots, horn-rimmed glasses and short-short bangs. They would take turns on a loan bar stool, expressing overwrought emotions for bleak landscapes, empty houses, old tires and worn-down strangers. They would nod their heads and clap demurely for each other but remain otherwise silent and uncommunicative towards anyone else in the room.

Isn't that what you pictured when I said we'd attended a poetry reading? Well, you were wrong. Let me tell you something about poets today. They perform. The good ones take the stage with more presence than rock stars and transform themselves from everyday teachers, biologists and housewives into powerful voices with something to say.

The best ones draw you in with descriptions of the everyday - a broken keyboard, a defiant bra strap, a set of new hand towels - then challenge you to look at the world in a new way. They take on the voices of lost children, wounded soldiers, grieving mothers and haunted heroes. They shout. They whimper. They spout. They demand your attention with words and images and ideas you've never considered. And you leave feeling stronger, smarter and more creative than ever before.

That's a good poetry reading. And that's what we saw last month, along with raconteurs and drum circles and general storytellers to boot.

I enjoyed it enough to come home and Google a few of my favorite performers, and was happy to find that at least one of them - Rose Smith - has a blog. If you live in Columbus or any of the other many cities where she travels to perform, go hear her slam. I promise - your notions about poetry readings will never be the same.

Not a Very Brave Greaser

Last year Robey was a lion for Halloween, and he trick-or-treated bravely: carrying his own candy basket, walking up to strange doors and grabbing handfuls of candy before roaring and heading to the next house.

This year, I bought a monkey suite, and he liked it. But it was too small. So Grandma Nan bought a Cat In the Hat suite, but he was afraid of it. "Id care me," he said and hid in the corner when he saw the hat. My backup plan was to dress him as a 1950's Greaser in black shoes, white socks, rolled-up jeans, a white T and a Harley Davidson leather jacket. He won't wear the leather jacket.

Also, he won't trick-or-treat. Thursday we went to Grandma's house ready to dress up and go knocking, but he was scared. Grandpa sat him on his lap in front of the computer, pulled up the pictures from last year and talked about trick-or-treating. He acted like he remembered, agreed it was fun, but maintained that - no - he didn't want to do it this year.

So we didn't. He was too scared even to help hand out candy. Instead, he sat in Grandma's kitchen, watching the witches and zombies and princesses approach the house, announcing with each one, either a) "Id care me," or b) "Id not carey."

Even Tigger scared him. A baby Tigger at that. As a three-year-old Pooh walked away from the house, his mother followed with Tigger in her arms, and Robey said, "Id care me." I looked up, surprised not to see any goblins or werewolves and said, "What scares you, honey."

"Roarrrr," he said in reference to the baby tiger.

Have you ever heard Tigger roar?

Autumn Fun on the Farm

Well, it was 80 degrees outside on Sunday, but we acted like it was fall anyway. Brett, Saren, Alec, Robey and I joined other families from church for a hayride, a corn maze, a dark maze, a pumpkin patch and lots more. See more photos here.

Birds!

Once while jogging a back road in Georgia, I was nearly attacked by an emu. An emu! Last week during a walk on a back road here in our country neighborhood, I was nearly attacked by a hawk.

The hawk was circling overhead as I headed down my favorite back road, approaching closer and closer and acting strangely as if he was waiting for me to fall into the ditch and die so he could swoop in and start picking the fat from my bones. Finally he perched in a tree on the opposite side of the road and let me pass.

I walked a half mile further, then turned around and headed back toward the hawk. As I approached the spot where he had been circling, I saw that he was indeed picking at something in the ditch on my side of the road. So I crossed back over into the yard on the other side, walking with traffic instead of against it but hoping to avoid angering this animal intent on claiming his prey.

He kept his eyes fixed on me, tracking my every move. As I walked closer, he flew up into the tree directly above the dead animal in the ditch. I thought maybe I had won at this point, that he was going to let me pass. But then I took a few more steps and he flapped his wings in a definite sign of aggression.

I couldn't turn around. Turning around would mean walking at least three miles further before I could catch another road that would take me back toward our house. So I ran further into the huge, manicured yard of a total stranger and made it perfectly clear to the hawk that I had no intention of stealing his dinner. I continued walking through the yard at a safe distance, talking to myself and the hawk that it was okay, I wasn't trying to disturb him or his prey, and kept talking until I passed him, then rounded my way back to the road as my heart rate slowly returned to normal. 

I think I'm developing a fear of birds comparable only to the fear I used to reserve for spiders.

The emu encounter occurred in Toombs County, Georgia, where some friends of ours were living at the time. Their house sat on a paved, two-lane road but was surrounded by dirt roads of hard, red clay. We were visiting for a long weekend, so I woke up on Saturday and laced up my shoes for a run.

As I was discussing the route I'd planned to take along the dirt roads, our friends warned me about the dogs that run loose in the neighborhood. They said I could run a good two-to-three mile block straight around if I wasn't stopped by the dogs. Not a problem, I figured. If they seemed too vicious, I'd just turn around and head back the way I came.

Well, there was a pack of them about one mile into the run, growling and barking and generally acting like they had no intent in seeing me pass. So I turned around and headed back, leaving the dogs in the yard to protect their territory.

It was a good run. Dirt roads absorb the shock of your strides much better than pavement. And the surrounding woods helped shade the road, keeping the Georgia heat at bay for a few extra hours in the morning.

I was starting to see their house in the distance and I was just about to pick up my pace and finish the last quarter mile in more of a sprint ... when out of the woods, through a large hole in a wire fence, hopped this giant, 7-foot bird!

I had seen emus at a distance and had even tended bar once with a guy who raised them. But I had never been within a few feet of one loping towards me on a strange road with no escape route in site.

I panicked. I started to run back in the opposite direction but remembered the dogs and knew I wasn't up for another three miles even if I did make it past the dogs. So I headed back toward the emu but saw he was now standing on guard in the middle of the road, intent on blocking my path.

Dogs? Emu? Dogs? Emu? I shuffled back and forth trying to decide. I picked up a rock and through it toward the emu (not at it), hoping to scare him off. Instead, he flapped his wings and started toward me with huge bird strides. I backed away and began talking him down, softly, gently, kindly letting him know that I wasn't going to hurt him, that I just wanted to get past, return to that house in the distance and see my friends. If he could just let me by, I'd really appreciate it. As I was talking, I began walking slowly, slowly, softly toward him. And finally, when I was back within a stones throw of this gangly, gray-feathered monster, he hopped off into the woods where he came from.

I picked up my pace and high tailed it back to the house, where I admonished my friends for warning me about the dogs but failing to mention the ATTACK EMU right down the road.

"Ho, Ho, Ha, Ha," they laughed, "We forgot all about him. There's just one emu on that farm, but he gets loose all the time."

Needless to say, I didn't go for a run on Sunday.

We're Going to a Red Wings Game!

Um. They're playing some team in Columbus.

Chad's got free tickets. We've got money for beer and greasy game food. Report & photos to come.

Reunion Talk

Reunions thrive on the asking and answering of three basic questions:

1. What are you doing?
2. Where are you living?
3. Do you have any children?

They are the safe conversation starters, the glossy surface talk that covers the act of reacquainting ourselves with old friends. And you can make it through a reunion cheerfully with nothing but these three questions in your pocket and stock answers for each at your hip. That part is easy. But it's the followup questions that matter.

I had a wonderful time at Jeromy's reunion. Since I graduated one year behind him from the same small high school, these are my people too. I was happy to see each of them, interested in their recent struggles and accomplishments, anxious to meet their spouses and kids, and eager to hear about their extended families as well.

But I don't think I succeeded in pushing past the surface conversations with many of them. Is that my fault or is the culture of happy mingling at these types of events also to blame? We really aren't expected to delve too deep at a reunion where just making time to shake hands and say hello to every familiar face can be hard, and asking probing questions can lead to awkward silences or lengthy monologues.

I do think most people come to reunions with a genuine interest in the lives of those they grew up with and a subconscious desire to re-examine themselves in the light of those with a similar past. Some may come to prove a point or to keep up appearances - whether it's to look skinny or successful or beguiling - but they're in the minority. Most come for the fun and the connections and the excuse to reunite.

At this reunion people came from cities across the U.S. including Anne Arbor, Kansas City, Chicago, Baltimore, Greensboro, Las Vegas and somewhere in the big ol' state of Texas. Others traveled from various Ohio hot spots, and many more than I'd realized are living right here in our own home town. Why don't I run into them at Target or Meijer or at the gym? Honestly, I don't get out much, and when I do, I forget to look for familiar faces. I'm so used to living in strange cities, I forget that here in the town where I grew up, I may run in to someone I know.

I will have to wait another five years before I see many of these friendly faces again. Others are friends I've still been in touch with and will continue to see as usual. Yet there are a few others that I would like to call on for dinner or drinks or playdates. Maybe then we'll scratch past the surface and answer the harder questions about our hopes and dreams and lifelong fears. Maybe then we'll really re-unite.

(P.S.: as promised, more photos from the reunion can be found here.)

Jeromy's 15-Year H.S. Reunion

It started out like this:

And ended up like this:

You get the picture. More photos coming soon.

Images of Our Weekend

If I had remembered to take my digital camera with me to the lake this past weekend, the images I would have hoped to capture are listed below:

• Robey during the car ride there talking incessantly about going to Max's house. In his voice, it sounded something like this: Backs how. Backs how. Mommy, Daddy, me, Backs how, go.
• That same excited kid throwing fits all weekend long because he can't bring himself to share beach balls, toy boats, tricycles or sometimes even breathing space with Max (if anyone has advice on how to deal with a stingy toddler please share it here).
• Max and his daddy together at the helm of their family speed boat aptly named Piece of Cake.
• Max on Marcy's lap covered from head to toe in a beach towel.
• Robey falling asleep in my arms while we cruise along the lake at top speeds.
• All of us taking a dip in the lake from the back of the boat. Especially Max's brave solo swim out to me in the deep water.
• Robey and Max facing backwards on the boat singing, "Daddy, daddy, daddy," as we race along.
• Colin pouring water from a bucket over the heads of Max and Robey in the baby swim pool.
• Hunter, an adorably chunky one-year-old, busting the seam in one of Max's swimmy diapers that are designed to be worn by kids twice his age.
• Jeromy returning from a walk to the store with two cases of cold beer, one can mysteriously emptied from each.
• Kristy winning everyone's money in poker.
• A shot of the Roth's lovely, two-story beach house creatively framed to include the boat docked in the foreground.

Sum-Sum-Summertime

We had planned to go here this weekend, but now we've been invited to go here (or thereabouts). And long before that, we thought we'd go here, but of course that's not happening (though I've been getting tons of google hits on that post lately).

Summertime offers so many options for fun. What are you doing this weekend?

Memorial Day Weekend in Photos

We spent the first half of the weekend in Athens camping out in Jen & Carey's back yard, then came home Sunday night for a bonfire at our house. Monday we took the Toon Boat out for a few  hours with Mich and Stan, then went to Grandma and Grandpa Lust's house for a picnic.

Robey is a born camper and outdoorsman. He sorted firewood, stocked coolers, set up tents and slept in the back of the van with Mommy and Daddy. Even though we completely disrupted his naptime routine all weekend long, it didn't catch up with him until Monday night when we decided to leave the family picnic a bit early because he was so tired. He cried, "No bye-bye, no bye-bye, no bye-bye" the whole way home, poor guy. He just didn't want the fun to end.

I'm guessing the girls in Athens were saying the same thing today themselves, since they were planning to keep on camping straight through until Tuesday afternoon.

You can see all the photos from our three-day weekend here.

One Night, Two Very Different Rides

After you've seen any variation of Cirque, the big top is a bit of a letdown. But the old-fashioned, roasted-peanut-selling circus was in town, and Robey makes this awesome elephant sound, so we had to go check it out. Brett, Robey, Grandma Nan and I attended the 4:30 spectacle.

We arrived just in time for a quiet, impromptu clown act as the management attempted to fix the generators that powered the sound and lighting systems. Once they were turned back on and everything swung into motion (literally, the lights went out during the trapeze act), Robey most enjoyed dancing to the music and watching the crowd. Then he became fascinated with crawling around through layers of goop on the rickety  bleachers that may or may not travel from town to town carrying fresh germs across the country as they go (ladies and gentleman).

We stayed just past the intermission, which featured Elephant Rides half way around the ring. Brett and Robey hit the front of the line and climbed right on. It's a blurry picture, but there's my little guy: the fourth rider back on top of a massive, 1-ton animal.

When we returned to the house, we found a note from Jerm, saying "I'm on the boat." That's the Toon Boat that he just put in the reservoir down the road last week. So we packed a few sandwiches and met him for a sunset boat ride. Robey spent most of the hour cleaning leaves off the floor of the boat and throwing them into the water. We shared our sandwiches, anchored for awhile, then headed in. 

Elephant rides, I know, are few and far between. But as for me -- I'll choose a quiet retreat on the water any night of the week.

Rock On All You Crazy Doo-Year-Olds

Yesterday, for Robey's second birthday, we rented a room at the Rock n Roll hall of fame and hired ex-80s rockers Axel Rose, Brett Michaels, David Lee Roth and Lita Ford to dress up as Sesame Street Characters and sing popular children's songs. Robey ended up wearing Axel's bandanna and drawing dark shapes on the walls with Brett Michaels' eyeliner. Max spent most of the night on Lita Ford's shoulders.

Grandma Nan kept telling jokes about her axel being slashed, and Grandma Dee twice referred to the entertainment as "Crazy Axel and the rest of those silly girls." As for Robey's grandpas -- they mostly rolled their eyes and mumbled back and forth about being careful not to turn these boys into pansies. But everyone had a blast.

You guessed it: Happy April fool's day everyone. Stay tuned for photos of Robey's actual (very tame) birthday party, which I'll post soon. After that, I promise I'll stop talking about birthdays for at least a few months.

Max & Robey say Happy Easter

Photo 1 is at the church breakfast on Sunday. Photo 2 is from Saturday night, when the boys painted eggs for the first time.

LaLaLaLaLaLaLaLa

Wednesday Robey attended Sesame Street Live with Grandma Nan, Marcy and Max. Grandma says he sat on her lap throughout most of the show and loved every minute of the performance. Before the show, Marcy bought him an over-sized program booklet that he's hardly put down since. Wednesday night he had to sleep with it. Today he insisted on taking it to daycare. If you ask, Robey will gladly sit on your lap and show you every page of the book, as long as you participate by discussing the colors and numbers and asking him to point out his favorite Sesame Street characters. If you ask what Elmo says, Robey sings, "lalalalalalalala," as fast as he can. If you ask what Cookie Monster says, he puts his little hands to his mouth, miming a cookie-eating frenzy and mumbles, "yum, yum, yum."

Lessons Learned at the Grocery

1. It is not a good idea to take a hungry toddler to the grocery store.
2. It is a very bad idea indeed to put marshmallows into a grocery cart that is also carrying a hungry toddler.
3. Hungry toddlers are not appeased by bread or bananas when they can see multi-colored marshmallows in the cart just outside their reach.
4. You cannot reason with a hungry, marshmallow-crazed toddler screaming at the top of his lungs.
5. Threats to implement an immediate time out in a public place where a time out cannot reasonably be carried out are completely futile.
6. Once you get into your car and no one else is listening, you can scream right back at said marshmallow-crazed toddler, but that won't stop the fits either.
7. I am officially one of those mothers with one of those kids at the grocery store.
8. The trauma of being one those mothers with one of those kids at the grocery is indescribable.

Super Bowl Weekend in Athens

JP, Chad, Carrie, Jen, Alison and Jeromy before taking a cab into town Saturday night.

We went to Athens for super bowl weekend, but ended up driving home during the super bowl. Our plans were to stay Saturday and Sunday nights, but us oldtimers (by Athens standards anyway) just can't handle two nights of drinking in a row anymore. Plus we missed the boy. So we headed home Sunday night just as the game was getting started.

Here's another fun "pop art" picture taken just before leaving. Click on it to enlarge. Highlights from Saturday night include:

• JP: "I know all the words to this song" as she and Jen proceed to rap the entire length of some 80s R&B song.
• Shawn: "Everything mixes with red bull."
• Jen: "Y'all two need to ..." (I can't remember what she said after that. It was just so funny that she said 'y'all two')
• Carey: "Memo: if you're with Jen-Jen or Alison, you must wear marroon"
• Chad: "We're all leaning in. Not necessary."
• Jeromy: "1, 2, 48. Yep, you're over capacity."

And what can we say about Athens? It's the same, of course, but different too. No one had cell phones when we were there. And there were fewer fist fights. And (one of the many store-front changes on Court Street) there used to be a carry out in front of Lucky's.

Do You Bonnaroo?

We thought about attending this concert last year, but realistically the time commitment was impossible. This year we'd like to think about it more seriously. The lineup sounds like a dream - a perfect combination of some of the best shows I've ever seen (Alison Kraus, Keller Williams, Ozomatli, Ollabelle) along with others I've been hoping to see for years (Dave Matthews, Bela Fleck, O.A.R., Allman Brothers). JP says this should be The Year of The Concert, because we've all been slacking on show-going of late. She wants to rent an RV and make a weekend-long party of it. What's everyone think? Are you on the bus or off the bus? Incidently, we'll be celebrating my birthday tonight in "the big city" - dinner at Ruth's Chris then perhaps out for some local music.

Jeromy's Face

I did grudgingly get Jeromy's permission to post this poll, but now he thinks I'm a big dork. Who am I kidding? He's thought that for years. You'll see the results as soon as you vote. Check back next week to find out what Jeromy has decided on this hairy issue.

The Lion says Roarrrr

I have so many great Halloween memories, but trick or treating was never this much fun. Robey collected candy Thursday in Grandma and Grandpa Engle's neighborhood until his basket drug on the sidewalk. He ran from door to door, grabbed huge handfuls of loot and waved bye-bye before moving on to the next house. When he'd had his fill, he went back to help Grandpa Bruce hand out candy to all the other ghosts, fairies and super heroes. Grandma Dee took so many great pictures that we had to make another photo album: Halloween 04.

Tallest, fastest, steepest

Can we give you one more good reason for moving back to Ohio ... Cedar Point! We went this weekend for the first time in more than ten years, and we've already decided that next year we're buying season passes.

Jeromy's cousins Amy and Jenny, and their husbands Eric and Billy made the plans, and we tagged along for the day. Everyone's kids stayed with grandparents, so we rode the roller coasters all day long. My favorite is still the Raptor, but I didn't ride everyone's new favcrite, the Dragster.

This ride is a thrill even to watch. Jeromy rode it with Billy, and their car took the straightaway at 123 miles per hour, then spun straight up into the sky at 90 degrees, eeked over the top turn and spun straight back down to the bottom by the sheer force of gravity. I've never seen a ride draw such a crowd. And this is October. Seriously, are there any other coasters out there with bleachers for the spectators?

Max & Robey

These two are so cute together. Yesterday they played in the field and picked dandelions for their mommys at the Malabar Farm Heritage Days Festival. They also helped Jeromy eat a huge apple dumpling with ice cream. Later that evening we went to Willard for Jerry Allen's birthday, and Robey played with Jerry & Jenny's kids. Today we're taking it easy. After a few days on the road and a lot of running around yesterday, I'm ready for a day at home.

Weekend Recap

Robey loves wagon rides. Here he is in the wagon with the Smith kids this weekend. Robey shared all his toys with lots of kids on Saturday and the wagon was everyone's favorite. Sunday Robey swam in Lake Erie for the first time and spent the evening with Grandma Nan and Dee Dee (and lots of other Garver friends) while Jeromy and I went out with Rob, Marcy, Jen, Rich, Kristy & Ronie to Kelly's Island. Rob drove us there in his fast boat, which also provided accomodations for the night. I think we're still catching up for the lost sleep, but it was worth it.

She Wasn't Good ...

... but she had good intentions.
-Lyle Lovett

These days, it seems the harder a musician is to classify, the more I like him. Take a little bit of country, folk, gospel and swing, throw in some blues or jazz here & there, and I'm hooked. Lyle Lovett, Over The Rhine, Michelle Shocked, Maria McKee, Wilco, Shelby Lynne . These are just a few of my current favorites.

Lovett performed live last night in St. Louis at another Celebrate 2004 event, and we had great seats near the river. I have to admit that I was among the skeptics when he and Julia Roberts wed years ago, but after seeing him play live, I'd think twice about running away with him myself. His voice conveys such gentle strength and honest depth. And the songs he writes make you want to be a part of his simple, murky life. He sang for more than two hours and concluded with three awesome songs with True Spirit, a local gospel choir from St. Louis that had the whole crowd clapping and swaying and praising the lord.

I went to the show with our neighbor's family, Viola and Jani, who are visiting from Germany. Jeromy and Robey stayed home. We sat along the riverfront this time, instead of up on the grass under the arch, so the sound and the view were much better. It was the perfect night for a show, and it seemd that nearly half of St. Louis agreed. The crowd continued to grow right up until the start of the laser light show.

Our cupboards are bare ...

Last night we set out to get groceries and ended up in downtown St. Louis, in the grass directly under the arch, listening to Big Head Todd and the Monsters live. Robey stayed up late, danced and ran around the park, flirted with all the pretty young girls and clapped at the concluding fireworks. So we never made it to the grocery store, but I did finally make it to one of the Celebrate 2004 events (it rained the night of the raggae show I planned to attend a few weeks ago), and I can tell you that the laser light show and the giant water screen really were spectacular. The only bad part of the night is that it took us nearly three hours to drive home. Just your standard Thursday nights traffic jam in St. Louis? Who knows. The Cards were playing. There's construction on the highway. Needless to say, we're all tired today. And we still need groceries.