Soaked

disarming

Urgency Day 37

500 Things Items 458-63: 6 Super Soakers (TM Larami Co.)

• History: From the last fabulous summer visit of the Brothers Bonney
• Value: $20? And/or priceless
• Parting pain: Yes, 6 era-ending markers
• Un-possessing: Gifts

FABULOUS way to wake up: Surrounded by friends at a truly spectacular lake-front home.

NOT FABULOUS way to wake up: Slapped with copyright infringement notices.

• I HAVE TAKEN DOWN THE DISPUTED IMAGE.
  
• I am chastened.
• I am worried.
  
• I am ready to scurry back to my hole.

Ah well, the Universe giveth and It taketh away. We had a lovely water-filled weekend, bursting with story-telling, belly laughs, clinking glasses and almost enough big fat still-warm-from-the-sun Michigan blueberries even for me.

And do you live somewhere where you could see That Moon Saturday night? That was the Universe giveth-ing.

If I hadn’t managed to time gasping over That Moon with breaking my clinking glass, well, I guess I wouldn’t be me. Yes, hide the stemware: I’m a glass-breaker.

Why am I the only one worried about this?

The 5 multi-hued Super Soaker water guns (TM Larami Co.) I am downsizing today come from the arsenal of the Self-Contained Unit and are being dispersed with his blessing. There were a total of 8 young men ranging in age from 15-23 at the lake house this weekend. There was not a single water gun battle.

Trademarked or otherwise.

Postscript: In referencing “scurrying back to my hole,” I had a past-life flashback. VERY past. I think I was one of those tiny mouse-like creatures that lived a perilous life; dodging enormous, rampaging dinosaurs by day; and at night, darting out to nibble on plants and tremble.

And worry.

Fifty

Illinois: capital, Springfield

Urgency Day 50

500 Things Item 450: Wooden States Puzzle

• History: My sister has the family original, so this spare can be shared
• Value: If Sam’s charge is a geography sponge, you never know…
• Parting pain: None
• Un-possessing: Gift to a young friend

The Big 5-0.

That’s where we are to-day. In 50 days, the Self-Contained Unit’s big adventure begins. And an era ends.

Fifty.

There was a collective toasting of our 50 States yesterday. Paul and I joined a fabulous group of, as it happens, 50 volunteers from Families Helping Families serving beer, wine and—because this is the Mid-West—pop! at Naperville’s annual Fourth of July extravaganza, Ribfest. Vegetarians, beware.

Vegetarian or not, I love pouring drinks at this corn-fed event with such a boisterous group. People watching from behind the tips jar is completely worth a sweaty décolletage and beer-soaked tootsies.

It took us a while to figure out why the mood was a little subdued yesterday, as compared to previous years. We reckon it was because the Fourth fell on a Monday. While most everyone was tickled to have a Monday off, there was the awareness that tomorrow was a work day.

Tomorrow is today.

And today, as the drumbeat of my 500 Things Project gets ever more insistent, I am downsizing a beloved wooden puzzle of our 50 States.

In my family, there is a long and improbable history of interest in domestic geography. As a young girl, my sister taught me the states and capitals while we washed and dried the dinner dishes at our grandmother’s house. Fifty states and capitals, in alphabetical order.

And it’s a darn good thing she did, too.

Years later, it was this very knowledge that confirmed my suitability as a partner to my darling Eagle Scout, who had also absorbed this information while performing mindless tasks. His was baling hay on a ranch in South Dakota (capital, Pierre). We figured this out over drinks at the party where we met in Virginia (capital, Richmond).

See kids: Study up! Your sixth-grade social studies teacher told you there would be a test.

Naturally, the geography geeks indoctrinated their progeny. The Self-Contained Unit had 50 States puzzles, 50 States coloring books, 50 States playing cards, 50 States plush toys—

Kids! Kids! Cuddle up with Rhode Island!

Well, it worked. Now he’s excited to teach one of his young charges about the States.

Fifty of them.

Fifty.

And it’s Providence, by the way.

Traction

Urgency Day 80

500 Things Items 407-08: Watches

• History: Similar to my scarf obsession, I like novelty watches
• Value: New and working—maybe $40
• Parting Pain: None until I saw them together looking cute
• Un-possessing: Donations

I love the idea of traction:

Of feeling a sense of efficiency and commitment as all parts are pulling and adhering in unified coordination even over rough spots: Traction.

Yesterday, I fell off my bike. So much for traction.

That was a very literal instance of traction giving way to friction; I’ve got the bodily scrapes and bruises to prove it. Recently, I have also experienced a more figurative loss of traction. I haven’t posted in over a week. I’ve got the mental scrapes and bruises to prove it.

Every one of us is busy, but busy-ness ebbs and flows. I am just emerging from a very busy stretch which included the Self-Contained Unit’s graduation from high school and the attendant valedictory celebrations– obviously lifetime milestones– which I consciously prioritized over a simultaneously appearing opportunity to increase my Project’s traction. But hey, we all know parenthood involves some sacrifices.

A few weeks back, a wonderful local website, Go West Young Mom, graciously ran an interview with me about the genesis of the 500 Things Project. A few initial interview questions from talented editor Tara Burghart evolved into a far-reaching conversation about my family’s experiences with downsizing during The Great Recession; my highly personal thoughts on raising children based on the successful launch of the Self-Contained Unit; and how we managed the transition from Easterners to Mid-westerners with a child in tow.

In other words, all the things I’ve been blogging about for the last 420 days!

The publication of this profile was the perfect moment to capture some energy and invest my Project with increased traction. It was the perfect moment– except the timing was all wrong.

Instead of seizing this opportunity, I chose to huddle with family and friends in a cold windstorm and watch 785 graduates receive their diplomas with hilarious solemnity; I chose to attend award ceremonies and commemorative tributes in sodden wonderment; I chose to belt out lyrics personalized by my talented sister to the tune of “High Hopes” wishing Sam success in college:

I chose Sam’s moment over the Project’s future. And really, there was no choice.

Sam’s moment was about the future and about ensuring continued traction in his life. My Project, for all its traction and skidding, its zeitgeist and ephemera, is still here, a few days late, and it will be here for another 79 days.

As will the Self-Contained Unit.

Sam in the moment. (photo by Marianne Mather, Sun-Times Media)

Pressing Concerns

pressed out of service

Urgency Day 192

500 Things Item #305: French Press

• History: To see me thru Paul’s absences
• Value: Reinforced my lack of javablilty
• Parting Pain: Zilch
• Un-possessing: Gift for the first requester

How many cups have you had today?

I’m on my second cup of cafe de Paul. I’ve said it before, there are several things I simply cannot do. Coffee is my most co-dependent addiction.

Every evening, My Beloved prepares the automatic coffee maker: Hand-washing the parts, filtering the water, adding the whole beans. The entirety of my involvement?  Pushing the button at 6:04 a.m. Occasionally, I endure a withering hairy-eyeball, because I neglected to buy the beans, but it’s totally worth it. Fresh coffee, every morning, at the push of a button.

This is our ritual. And for the almost 15 months of Paul’s un- and under-employment, there was a comforting reliability to this ritual. A bit of continuity from our other life. Got coffee? Okay, on with the show.

When Paul was a traveling man, I usually resigned myself to tea. I do love tea, and I love that the Self-Contained Unit loves tea. (He has recently been completely won over by Kara’s fantastic Chai tea.) But on the days I just couldn’t manage without a cup o’ joe, I had a French press.

It is a wonder of efficiency. And that’s about it.

But maybe it’s me, again.

Not long after we moved to Naperville, I stumbled on a vastly, scathingly more satisfying way to score my coffee when Paul traveled. At the end of our street, the dry cleaner we use gives away FREE FULL-SIZED CUPS OF STARBUCKS COFFEE when you drop off and pick up your cleaning!

So, let’s say Paul would be traveling for 3 coffees– I mean 3 days.  Day one, I would drop off one shirt, get a free cup of coffee. Day two, pick up the shirt, get a free cup of coffee. Day three, latte rinse repeat.

Bye bye, French press.

One coffee-related point Paul and I both very much miss, our favorite independent coffeehouse in our old stomping grounds of Fredericksburg, Virginia:  Hyperion. It has everything you want and expect in a great locally-owned coffeehouse, and it has dear friends running it and running in and out of it.

There was a piece by western-suburbs blogger Tara Burghart in the Triblocal today that caught my attention:  “5 Great Locally-Owned Coffeehouses.” Her reviews have me plotting some fun weekend outings. The closest of the five is about 20 minutes away, so none of these is likely to become our new Hyperion. But one, Arcedium Coffee House in St. Charles, is right off of our favorite half-century cycling route.

Oh man, I am suddenly looking forward to mile 29!

Sizing Up Regret

past-lights

Urgency Day 197

500 Things Items 292-96: Five Failing Flashlights

• History: Why do flashlights never light when needed?
• Value: Misplaced peace of mind
• Parting Pain: Replacement costs
• Un-possessing: Recycle

Okay, locals. What did you buy for the snowpocalypse that you regret?

After Paul and the Self-Contained Unit shoveled our driveway and helped dig out several neighbors’ drives and as much of our cul-de-sac as humanly possible– and mind you, my guys were working without snow blowers– Paul and I walked the neighborhood. There was a great deal of bon vivant.

It was Day One.

A couple we spoke with observed that even though none of us was likely to be driving anytime soon, they would be just fine. They had

• bread,
• toilet paper,
• and wine.

They. Were. Just. Fine.

I am an East Coast girl by birth. More specifically, a Washingtonian, Virginia suburbs. If you’ve heard but scoffed incredulously at the reputation that region has for snow preparations– i.e. that school is cancelled before the first flake even falls, if it ever does fall– as a native, I implore you to adjust your opinion. I want you to multiply your scoffing by a factor of 100. Absurd. No, pitiful sums it up.

When I thought about the provisions this ex-pat Easterner had laid in for our recent storm, I felt pretty smug. No crazy trips to the store— tearing the last loaf of Wonderbread, the last can of deviled ham, the last ten eggs (because two were cracked but you bought them anyway) so your family would survive—not here in Chicagoland. A little extra wine, yes, but that could be justified by any number of Impending Events. A Tuesday night, for example.

Putting aside my Midwest-transplant smugness, here’s the thing I bought that was pure East-Coast apocalyptic impulse:  Extra size C batteries.

Why size C? Double A’s, sure. Every gadget in kid-land runs on double A’s, but why the heck did I impulsively grab extra C’s?

NOAA: The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. I had a vague memory that our NOAA radio runs on C’s. A sudden concern flashed into my brain while waiting on line at the grocery store:  If the blizzard knocked out the region’s power grid, we should track the storm through our battery-operated NOAA radio. Ominously eyeing the half-full racks of batteries at the check out, the ability to track the storm, if the power went out, suddenly seemed imperative. I grabbed 3 packs of C’s for the radio. Six zippy back-ups:  Check.

I love my NOAA emergency alert radio. It chirps every Wednesday at 10:00 in the morning just to reassure me that it’s still standing sentry; monitoring everything from climate emergencies to volcanic eruptions, from boil-water notifications to approaching-iceberg warnings.

Shortly after we moved to Illinois, I began to notice that a lot more tornadoes occur in this part of the country than in Virginia. This was especially inescapable with the routine tornado sirens that go off every Tuesday morning in our township. It seemed sensible to this skittish Easterner to have an even more localized emergency alert system, say one next to my side of the bed.

Perhaps buying some last minute extra batteries to ensure the working of my emergency alert radio may not seem like such a panicky precaution to take before a predicted Apocalypse. And it wouldn’t have been, truly.

If I had bought the right size batteries. In the right number.

(Our power never went off.)

Dressing for the Apocalypse

Today, half the Pumpkin is buried in snow!

Urgency Day 198

500 Things Item 291:  Pumpkin Coat

• History: First purchase during first Illinois winter
• Value: $125 and still priceless
• Parting Pain: We’ll keep in touch
• Un-possessing: Auction

When the Apocalypse comes, what will you be wearing?

I never really gave this much thought—any thought—until last night when the Apocalypse came. I was wearing seven layers of polypropylene and wool. Turns out, the world will end in ice, and you can’t possibly be wearing enough polypropylene and wool.

So why on earth am I un-possessing this gorgeous LL Bean full-length down coat in the middle of the Apocalypse?

Because I’m not a soccer mom anymore.

This coat was magic, sitting on the sidelines of soccer fields on the plains of Illinois. Remember the line from Oklahoma?

Where the wind comes sweeping down the plain!

I think maybe Messrs. Rogers and Hammerstein couldn’t rhyme Illinois, so they settled on Oklahoma instead for their musical. The wind sure does BLOW here. Chicago is the Windy City, after all.

FUN FACT: Chicago was originally called the Windy City, because we Chicagoans are a bunch of blowhards, full of hot air. But it is windy here. Probably the windiest place on earth.

At least our soccer fields are the windiest.

This coat, the Pumpkin Coat, wrapped me up good-n-snug during those crazy days of sitting in canvas chairs or on metal—METAL!– bleachers, bundled up in as many layers of down and wool as I could warp [sic.] around me and still root on boys who were running around in shorts.

Our kids are the toughest.

Here’s what the Pumpkin Coat is not good for:

• Getting in and out of cars.
• Walking though snow.
• Walking period.

For driving, for getting in and out of cars and scurrying back to my so-far-still-heated home  (Deo gratias!),  I much prefer my Michelin Man, high-tech, wind-destroying parka.

The Pumpkin Coat will not be what I’m wearing for the next Apocalypse.

 

Urgency Day 198

500 Things Item 286: Pumpkin Coat

• History: First purchase during first Illinois winter
• Value:  $125 and still priceless
• Parting Pain: We’ll keep in touch
• Un-possessing: Auction

 

When the apocalypse comes, what will you be wearing?

 

I never really gave this much thought—any thought—until last night when the apocalypse came. I was wearing seven layers of polypropylene and wool. Turns out, the world will end in ice, and you can’t possibly be wearing enough polypropylene and wool.

 

So why on earth am I un-possessing this gorgeous LL Bean full-length down coat in the middle of the apocalypse?

 

Because I’m not a soccer mom anymore.

 

This coat was magic, sitting on the sidelines of soccer fields on the plains of Illinois. Remember the line from Oklahoma?

 

Where the wind comes sweeping down the plain!

 

I think maybe Messrs. Rogers and Hammerstein couldn’t rhyme Illinois, so they settled on Oklahoma instead for their musical. The wind sure does BLOW here. Chicago is the Windy City, after all.

 

Fun fact: Chicago was originally called the Windy City, because we’re a bunch of blowhards, full of hot air. But it is windy here. Probably the windiest place on earth.

 

At least our soccer fields are the windiest.

 

So this coat, the Pumpkin Coat, wrapped me up good-n-snug during those crazy days of sitting in canvas chairs or on metal—METAL!– bleachers, bundled up in as many layers of down and wool as I could warp [sic.] around me and still root on boys who were running around in shorts.

 

Our kids are the toughest.

 

Here’s what the Pumpkin Coat is not good for:

• Getting in and out of cars.
• Walking though snow.
• Walking.

 

For driving, for getting in and out of cars and scurrying back to my so-far-still-heated home, I much prefer my Michelin Man, high-tech, wind-destroying parka.

 

The Pumpkin Coat will not be what I’m wearing for the next apocalypse.

Molte Grazie!

Bonus!

We are garden-sitting. It’s heaven.

Our lovely neighbors are in Eat-aly for a 50^th birthday celebration. They asked us, please, to tend their garden while they are traveling. “Tend” by picking and enjoying the bounty of tomatoes, basil and peppers they’ve endlessly nurtured all summer.

Perfetto!

Oh, the pesto. Oh, the fresh pasta sauces. Oh, the joys of biting into a juicy, sweet tomato still warm from the sun.

I don’t know how we got so lucky.

Buon compleanno, mio amico. Grazie!

Living Small

see picture below for scale

Some days, I would like my entire life to fit into this small change purse.

Some days, it does.

Those are the good days. The days when all the stars align. When it’s above 60 degrees and not raining; when the house doesn’t need cleaning or painting or maintaining; when Paul is available and I am available and sometimes, though more often not, Sam is available: when all those pieces fall into place, my world is perfect, because my life fits in this small purse.

Here is how I define “life:”

• Chapstick
• Tissues
• I.D.
• A couple of bucks
• Cell phone

That’s it. That’s my checklist. Five “checks” and we’re out the door: Me, my guy(s), and my life, all on our bikes.

We’ve been through many cycling incarnations since Sam came along. Paul did the daddy-duty and pulled the Burley trailer and later, an attachable tandem. In the cute purple and yellow trailer days, he said he wished he’d known in college what a chick-magnet a baby in a trailer is. He would have skipped the Frisbee-catching border collie and just borrowed a baby.

We progressed through several riding seasons with Sam on little-kid bikes with no speeds to more recently, his big-kid bike that has speeds but weighs a jillion pounds. Don’t tell Sam, but we perpetuate his burden, because otherwise, he’d just be leaving us in his dust.

Even so, he still kind of does.

After years spent riding on the crowded, hilly trails outside of Washington, D.C., riding in the western suburbs of Chicago has been a revelation. Our flat trails mean we can crank out some serious miles. Half-century rides (50 miles) are now in my wheel-house, and:

“I am publicly committed to finishing my first century this season.”

When it happens—and when I’ve recovered—I’ll provide the color-commentary here.

Our long rides have to wait for the weekends. But I also love hopping on my bike to run daily errands, to meet friends for coffee, or to get to meetings. A less congested town and plenty of bike racks make this possible. The price of gas makes this prudent.

The little brown change purse makes it perfect.

If I had spent $100 on that little bag, people would say I was crazy. Here’s what I think is crazy: People spend multiple hundreds on shoes, jeans, meals out, i-This and i-That, and hardly blink and definitely don’t get nearly the bang for their bucks that I get from this purse. Which came as a free insert in an inexpensive purse I donated long ago. That’s an amazing cost vs. value ratio.

When I attach the purse to my bike and know it truly contains all I need for a day’s ride, in that moment, I have actually achieved my goal. My life is as downsized, as streamlined and as low maintenance as it can get.

Contentment: check.

encomium for a purse and a pursuit

Infrequent Buyer Reward

I admit it. I like the 2 local Starbucks I frequent.

Hyperion: a robust longing

I wish I lived near my beloved Hyperion.

But Dorothy,

we’re not in Kansas– that is to say Fredericksburg– anymore.

One of my Starbucks is where I meet biweekly (bimonthly?) with my girls. In warm weather, I ride my bike there; in cold weather, I try to justify driving by combining the trip with bike-unfriendly errands. My own carbon/guilt-offset, I suppose.

We four talk non-stop for 2 hours and could easily go on for another blur of time, but eventually guilt and life tug us away from this sustaining pause. Two weeks later, we reunite over all-things-considered coffee, tea and oatmeal. I’m the one asking for a splash of barista-controlled soy milk on my oatmeal.

My other Starbucks is within walking distance of my house. It shares a parking lot with my regular grocery store, so I am within its lure rather too often.

But I don’t fetishize coffee as much as Some Folks I know. I’m pretty sure my sweetie would voluntarily give up wine and chocolate before anyone could pry the grande coffee cup out of his jittery hands. No Frackin’ Way, for me. But to each her/his own, of course. I save my coffee-house haunts for socializing.

And, recession/unemployment has ended the occasional spontaneous splurge on a cup of take-out joe.

Except last Tuesday.

Oh man, I was dragging.

It was almost 3:00, and I had just enough time before I was due to meet Sam at school to grab a tall soy latte. Yeah, I could have made a bracing cup of tea at home for virtually nothing, but I know the economy needs a boost as much as I needed one that afternoon. And no!—and with increasing self-recrimination– I cannot make my own cup of coffee at home.

Continuing the list, three things I can’t do:

• Grill
  
• Cut the grass
• Make coffee

I’m not sure if all that twisting counts as my Constitutionally Guaranteed Rationalization for today or for last Tuesday. I do know that if I had bowed to guilt and not enjoyed a three dollar and change cup of energizing comfort that day, I would not have met Ishmael.

Now I know what you’re thinking.

“Ishmael, really?” At Starbucks? Isn’t that just a little too coincidental? Frankly, I have no idea what the guy’s name was, but being of a literary bent, I’m going with Ishmael.

When you order a “specialty coffee” such as a tall soy latte, you have that couple of minutes of standing around waiting for your order.

Have you ever watched the people as they try to fill that time?

If you come in with a friend, you probably chat. If you’re there solo, however, what do you do? Look at the latest CD release? Stare at the holiday sale items? Monitor the baristas to ensure they make the coffees in the correct order? Because don’t you hate it when someone who ordered after you gets their coffee first?

Civilization depends on strict adherence to this most basic social entitlement:

First come, first served.

Last Tuesday, I was solo.

During my time in the cash register area, I was vaguely aware of a man speaking at a somewhat louder volume than social convention usually dictates, but in the midst of paying the pretty cashier whose perfect red lipstick always fascinates me, I didn’t make any further calculation. If I had, I probably would have headed for the condiments bar instead of the order-up area.

Ishmael’s volume wasn’t the only thing registering as out of step.

As I rounded the counter to wait for my coffee, I became aware of the body language of the person receiving Ishmael’s gush of observations. It was that awkward posture of someone trying, it appeared politely, to get out of the crosshairs. But this wasn’t an airplane. He wasn’t trapped until landing. So nodding and smiling indulgently, he stowed his computer and perhaps whatever expectations he had for an industrious afternoon, and left, taking my social buffer with him. Too fast for any reaction, Ishmael sidled right up to me with actually a pretty witty remark about the changing weather.

Quick, think…

What had I just heard on NPR? Ted.com? Oprah? about our most basic desire being the need to feel validated.

So I took a deep breath, looked Ishmael square in the eyes, and listened.

I didn’t look at my watch or stammer about really needing to pick up my kid or suggest that I was inwardly squirming with impatience. I just listened while Ishmael told me about his devastating car accident and needing life-saving surgery which has left him bankrupt and unable to work.

But grateful for his life.

A pause came, and it didn’t even take nearly as long as if I had tried to manufacture one. I smiled and said I was really sorry that life had been so difficult recently. And then Ishmael gave me a gift, better even than getting carded as a 48-year-old woman. He told me I was radiant.

Thanks, Ishmael. I’m not really, but at that moment, I did see a ray of hope.

[Dedicated with love--and long-windedness-- to Vicky, Toni & Janet.]