The Burrow

Some of my news was consumed with what to call it. Some of my news had people of color decrying it. Some of my news applauded Bob Iger (my high school classmate) and some mentioned Wanda Sykes and some mentioned Channing Dungey . Sinbad  told Roseanne not to hide behind It's a joke.  "You said it, you own it.  Get behind it. It's yours." But the drug company she blamed for scrambling her brain said it best - Racism is not a known side effect of Ambien.

One grew up near Cleveland.  One grew up near Oakland.  The rivalry has always been intense. One tries to be supportive, while not-so-secretly cherishing the belief that his team is superior One knows that the only person he might consider a legitimate challenger to Michael Jordan in his personal pantheon is, right now, the best person playing basketball, anywhere on earth, and is leading his hometown to the Finals. I sit on the couch, supportive of both, invested in neither. They rant and cheer and groan and encourage and despair and coach from the sidelines.  I crochet. There is no basketball until Thursday.  For these next few, blissful days, both my boys will be happy.

Daddooooo's parents wanted to send me to Israel.  My mother refused to let me go until they sent my older cousin first.  Her parents did the research, sent her away, she returned in one piece.  That was good enough for G'ma and Daddooo; they signed me up without doing much more looking.   I had a boyfriend.  I had a brand new license and a brand new yellow Austin America and I was a high school graduate.  Did I want to go?  Not really.  But how could I say no?  So, I went.  Flew to Amsterdam (there were bunnies on the runway as we landed) on Sabena Airlines, which gave each of us a travel bag - promptly renamed Sabaga Beans.  Anne Frank's House, the edges of the Red Light district, the canals and then t rains to Zurich and Milan and Rome and Florence, probably not in that order. We went through Germany, not France, because the French were refusing to deliver fighter jets the Israeli's had paid for and the organization runni...

Drastically revised this year,  the first iteration of this post appeared in  2009.   ***** I used to march in the Memorial Day parade. I was dressed in my Brownie uniform, and then in my Girl Scout uniform - replete with those embarassing anklets. I wore them because the troop leader said we couldn't march without them, they were part of our official uniform.  Marching was too cool to pass up.  I wore them and bore the scorn. All the school bands marched too, and the moms on Benjamin Road provided the materials and the labor to make the capes the high school kids wore. There must have been a military presence there, but I didn't pay enough attention to notice. I was marching and I knew that, all over America, other kids were being Americans and marching, too. I belonged. In Marin, the Memorial Day parade was always good for a  controversy  or two. Or three. Should the anti-war protesters walk alphabetically in the main march, or have th...

I received this several times. Of course, I went. People dressed for the occasion. They positioned themselves strategically, maximizing their views and their viewfinders. There were a lot of cell phones, each of them zoomed in on one very special child. There were lots of balloons, too, like these which appeared next to me, as if by magic. Just three minutes behind schedule, the Rising First Graders marched into the cafeteria. They stood in their assigned places, for the most part (Hey, they're 6 year olds.) There was the pledge and the Mustang Code of Honor.  There was an alphabet song and a counting song and a goodbye to kindergarten hello to first grade song and then it was all over.  The grown-ups were asked to wait until the scholars left the building before they traipsed across campus to collect their charges. I left the parents and teachers to their newly minted Big Kids, holding the door for a few of them at ...

Princess Myrtle was, no doubt, in the audience as my lame duck Senator smiled his way through a truly terrifying speech about a democracy in trouble. He must have assumed that there were no Trump supporters in the crowd, or else he didn't care.  After all, he had a platform.  It didn't matter that he might be hijacking somebody's graduation for his own self-aggrandizement. Of course,  he reassured them, we'll get through this.   How can he be sure?  He's leaving a position of great power, not bothering to run as a non-Trump conservative Republican in this red state.  It felt fairly crass of him to exhort those new lawyers to take action when he has done absolutely nothing to stop the moral vandalism  he decries.  He could have been a Howard Baker, a Republican Senator willing to stand up to his party's President.  Instead, he turned tail and ran.  He left Arizona without meaningful representation in the upper chamber.  He open...

Once again,  GRIN  was at the Spring Carnival. The teachers put on the whole show, with the help of high school and adult volunteers. Everyone shows up. Everyone has a good time. There was a Dunk Tank, and NO the teacher was not thrilled at all.   There was face painting.  There were simple games.  I was fascinated by the duckies in the baby pool.  The high school volunteer was sooooooo patient.  The scholars were wary, but interested.  The toddler looked on, sucking, silent, taking it all in. There was a raffle. There was cotton candy and there were hot dogs and there was soda and water. And, there were nachos dished out by Phil-the-Wonderful-Grinner and Grandma Suzi. The cheese was melted in crock pots, since the nacho dispenser takes much too long to heat up. We filled small styrofoam bowls with chips, ladled on the cheese, and offered jalapenos on-top-or-on-the-side.   ...

Though you are hardly little any more.  You are a grown-up.   A college graduate.  A homeowner.  A wife.  A mother.  You've mastered every step along the way, with color coded files in easily accessible binders, with tables of contents and the answers to all the questions that might arise. You love your routine, though you are not stymied by it.  Knowing where to be and what to do and when to do it simplifies your life.  I've learned to stand back and watch it work..... most of the time, anyway.  It's hard to be still, to refrain from offering suggestions, to point out a simpler method..... but you know that.  You're a Mommy yourself. I listen to FlapJilly describe her own "golden curls, like Rapunzel"   but insist that her hair "is black, like Mommy's" when I offer her a yellow crayon to finish her self-portrait .  Her rueful expression when describing the impact of her impending big sisterhood - "babies cry a lot" ...

I did.  I asked TBG to set up the DVR to nuke the whole thing, all 8 or 10 or more hours of it for me.  I was interested, sure, but not enough to wake up at 3 in the morning.  When I rolled out of bed at 7:30, he had it all cued up for me.  I gathered my crocheting and pushed play. There she was, entering the vaulted hallway, the world's longest veil trailing behind her.  I was entranced, ensorceled, bewitched by it all.  I'm not a Royals Groupie, but I've liked Harry ever since he realized that, perhaps, losing your mother when you were 12 might have had an impact on your life.  He faced his demons head on, and came out the other end a better person.  He met his wife on a blind date; they bonded on a Do-Good-Deeds trip to Namibia.  TBG told me that her carrying a knapsack as her only luggage sealed the deal for Harry.  Her mother's teary face when the Recessional began sealed it for me.  If Mama approves, it's gotta be a good t...

They were the masters.  We were the students. Big Cuter was more successful than I was, sitting knee to knee with Igor Kashkendey.  He listened to every attempt, laughing with us, encouraging us, leaning in closer as we approached something close to what he was able to do in three part harmony all within his own mouth. His hands told the story.  Asking for more or less of whatever my son's throat was doing,  his fingers miming the tones  for the  eh  and oy  and growl-like -a-bear-deep-in-your-epiglottal-region. It is said that there was throat singing before there was a formal language in Tuva, and it's easy to see why.  Igor told us that the children learn by mimicking the sounds of the animals they herd, and so a room full of adults began baaing and mooing and growling without moving their lips or using their breath for anything other than creating the vibrations molded into sound by their cheeks. Or something ...

Big Cuter and I spent the learning Tuvan throat singing. Seriously, we did.  Chirgilchin came all the way from Siberia to teach us.   Big Cuter got it once or twice.  I was less successful.  We are both very tired.   So, I'll reprise an old post and regroup for a fuller telling tomorrow. Aa-shu Dekei-oo (December 21, 2010) Big Cuter and I sang along with the Tuvan Throat Singers and Bela Fleck and the Flecktones at the Rialto Theater last night.  Had there been an aura-camera in front of us, I am certain that there would have been but one halo of wonderful light surrounding the two of us.  We were each with the other's  perfect person   for that moment.   I bought the tickets in September, as those of you who keep track of the information in the sidebar can attest.  I found Bela Fleck on Pandora, and liked the sound enough to click over and see what it was.  His banjo picking is clear and ...

Big Cuter arrived this morning.  Texting between the Cell Phone Waiting Lot (the cell phones were surrounded by cars, I guess, since I saw none of them occupying a parking space) and cyber-space, I alerted my soon-to-land son of my location.  Soon-to-land, according to Delta.  Already down, according to the passenger.  Schrodinger's airplane was his reply to my surprise.  I love how my boy thinks. We ate, the boys napped, and Not Kathy came over to loll in the pool with me while Dr. K visited the driving range.  If all goes well, they'll be Tucsonans by the end of the week.  We spent two hours deciding what I'll buy her for a housewarming gift.  Big Cuter and I went to Whole Foods, collecting ingredients which he turned into dinner.  His joy when he discovered the exact brand of pretzel bread led the clerk who led us to it to give me a hug.  (How I raised children who love to cook remains one of the great mysteries of all time.)...

That's what he asked me this evening.  It took me totally by surprise. "Do you want to be able to control everything from your phone?"   Note the use of your ; TBG is the proud owner of a flip phone on which he can text and call.  Nothing else. Was he assigning me another task?  Was I now to be in charge of when the lights are off and on?  "Why?"  A thoughtful pause, a nod, and we went on to other matters. I don't want my house to be hack-able.  I don't want anyone other than my alarm company to know when I'm not there.  I don't want to be vulnerable to the foibles of batteries or creepy people with evil intent.  But it's more than that. I like the notion of being hands on.  I like modulating the lamplight, setting the candles in the windows, physically changing my environment.  I don't need a program to announce that the sun has set; I like recognizing the passage of the sun, the lengthening of the days, the time on ...

(Cue Happy Birthday, played sprightly and with enthusiasm, to accompany Little Cuter's mellifluous tones.) Happy Mothers Day to you Happy Mothers Day to you Happy Mothers Day Dear Mommy and Grandma-from-FlapJilly-who's-refusing-to-sing-along Happy Birthday....      OH SHIT Happy Mothers Day to YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUU! Her follow-up text read, simply, I'm soooooo tired!

Imagine a Presidential candidate hiring a campaign manager whose last client, banished from his own country, was taking refuge with Vladimir Putin in Russia. Imagine it? I wish that were all I were able to do but, in fact, it really happened.  And no one seemed to care. Michelle Wolf called out the correspondents at their dinner.  CNN... Breaking News!..... Yeah, you guys broke the news.  Fast and furious, with little regard for accuracy so long as you are first, being sure to get the scoop, to grab the headline.  And so TBG sat in the hospital waiting room while CNN told him that Gabby was dead. It was awful for him to hear; imagine how Gabby's sister must have felt. I cringe, watching reputable news outlets trying not to drool too heavily over the cover of Penthouse, which next month will feature a porn star linked to the President covering some of her naked breast with her hand.  I'm less interested in the ins and outs of the NDA than I am with th...

I was in the staff lounge, distributing stickers to the grown-ups, when Miss Mercey looked through the window. " Are those kids shaking that bush?" In fact, they were. "I'm on it,"  I said, and went out to rescue the shrubbery. "Excuse me, boys, please stop shaking my friend." What followed was a spirited conversation revolving around the nature of friendship ( "You're his friend.  Would you like it if he shook you?" ), a brief scientific explanation of xylem and phloem (including references to pipes and nutrition), and the fragility of life in general. They were 8 and 9 years old, totally engaged in the difference between a messy break (ankles and arms were alluded to) and a clean cut.  One is unplanned and hurtful, the other is necessary and gives us information, like how old is this tree, anyway? We counted the rings (3) on the recently pruned branch, and commiserated with the torn off leaf ( "I'm sorry, but ...

Amidst a torturer explaining herself, a State Attorney General resigning over non-consensual bondage activities, and a convicted felon stealthily advancing to become the Republican candidate for his state's senate seat, a girl's thoughts turn to her own unmentionables. That's what my grandparents' generation called the clothes we wear closest to our skin. Undies, panties, gotkes (the long pink one piece item my grandma rinsed out and hung over the shower curtain to dry) all the way to bralets and camisoles and pasties to cover protruding nipples (my son has my permission to stop reading at this point if I'm over-sharing) and support sagging bosoms (another Grandma term that I love) - every woman I know has a love/hate relationship with her undergarments. Scarlett likes one bra and one bra only.  The sole purveyor of that item has a hit-or-miss relationship with keeping it in stock, especially when it goes on sale.  We spent a good portion of our last lunchti...

You've been a cheetah and a ninja. You've been Robin Hood and Zorro. You've worn capes and baseball caps and a fools cap. For a while, we wore the same size clothes; I'm still happy with your hand-me-downs. You introduced me to Ender's Game  and George RRRRRRRR Martin and the Old Man's War series. You are always willing to Be A Tall Person, to Do The Heavy Lifting, to explain. How is it possible that you have grown to be a man while I, most certainly, haven't changed a bit?  O  frabjous day ! Callooh! Callay!  Happy Birthday, my Mothers Day bundle of joy.

The ice has broken in the Rillito River, our dry wash of redundancy, a pathway that floods with winter melt off but now, under no clouds and a scorching sun, lies sandy and pock-marked with coyote and horse and javelina footprints.  There's nary a drop of water to be found. At the cashier stand, a shopper told me that the 7am start to the 5k she'd run that morning really should have been at 6.  By 8, it was really too hot to run. I wore my First Day It's Freakin' Hot Out dress to The Rogue's production of King Lear  on Saturday afternoon.  It's long enough to cover my ankles if the air conditioning is fierce, and it has very little to annoy me on the top.  It's my acknowledgement that the temperatures are rising and I am prepared. There's no reason to keep the long sleeve shirts in the front of the closet.  My jeans can be packed away.  I bid a fond farewell to my boots as I looked at them this morning; it will be many months before my feet wil...

The Parent Portal was clear - Amphi Schools WILL be open on Thursday, May 3rd. I was thrilled.  I miss the little ones hugging me and asking for shoelace-tying-help and begging for stickers.  I miss making silly Dr. Seuss sounds in the kindergarten classrooms.  I miss wondering why no one wants to eat the jicama at lunchtime. I am worried about the tomato plant whose olla ball must be sadly empty.  I wonder how the kids with working parents are faring at home, not (I hope) alone.  The Spring Carnival has been rescheduled from Friday to next week; I hope the volunteers can join me.  This walk out has been a logistical nightmare all around. Legislators were in session through the night (the photo of my friend, Rep. Daniel Hernandez Jr, nodding out at 2 am has disappeared from my Facebook feed, otherwise I'd include it right here).  when Noah Karvelis, the #RedForEd activist, was refused the opportunity to speak, Dr. Randy Freise, my representative,...

I did. I put on my sneakers and loaded up my gear and I took a walk. I listened to Michelle Wolf's sometimes laugh-out-loud sometimes oh-dear-God schtick at the White House Correspondents Dinner.  I paused half way through and stretched.  I kept up a decent pace, and thought about my stride.  I tried to keep my hips even and my shoulders straight.  I used my newly found quadriceps and aductors, listening to them squeal and choosing to ignore their outbursts. I marveled at the blossoms, but I didn't stop to admire them until I was finished walking.   20 minutes out and back on a relatively flat surface. Rewarding myself with a moment communing with my little friend. remembering her with others who share the loss.  I talked to her about this,  a new to me example of the wonders of nature. I strolled on the newly raked paths in her garden. Then I went home. I took a walk today.

It's not a strike.  The educators are not at odds with their employers, the various Boards of Education who hired them.  Their issues are with the Legislature, and their walk out is designed to garner attention. It seems to be working.  commondreams.org That's 50,000 educators walking 2 miles in triple digit temperatures last Thursday, the first day of the walk out.  They rallied in front of the state capitol.  They held signs.  They spoke to reporters.  They came back on Friday and again on Monday and again on Tuesday.   They sat in on the Democratic Senate Caucus, absorbing the acronyms and the legalese and the Legislative shorthand. They took notes so they could share the information with their colleagues.  They posted on Facebook groups that have arisen like wildflowers after the rain.   No one is happy about this.  No one wants to extend the school year, or lose a teaching certificate, or leave stud...

We flew home and drove home and collapsed on the couch. Forgive me if my brain cannot support thinking about our idiot  President. Forgive me if I cannot stop laughing about his possible responses to the Mueller questions. My heart is still in Indiana,  I will be back tomorrow (on time, I promise!). It's just taking me a while to readjust.