Peeping In

Last Friday Bob and I had a three hour window between dropping kids off and picking up others from parties.  We headed out for an early anniversary dinner, then came home to start a film.  I chose “Zack and Miri Make a Porno” which I had just rented, since I knew it was completely kid-inappropriate and we had an empty house.  The film began raunchy yet funny, and though we watched the whole thing, I became semi-bored as it turned repetitive and predictable. A little disappointing, based on the reviews I had initially seen (and I usually like Seth Rogan’s films).

Two nights later, while watching the Bears game, I took the puppy Cali out to do her business.  As  I walked on our side yard  by our neighbor’s driveway, I realized that in the dark anyone there has a clear shot to seeing what we are watching on TV. How could I not have noticed that before?  We don’t have window coverings on our kitchen windows, so there is no way to block the view.

So, were the neighbors–or their daughters–in the driveway on Friday night?  It was before ten and they have 3 teenage girls, so most likely someone was out there.   Did they happen to glance in our window?  Did they think we were watching porn on an early evening, instead of watching a film about making a porn movie (with a few porn stars who dropped their clothes easily)?  Were they curious and watched longer?  Or did no one notice?

It gave me a great laugh on a Sunday night, just wondering.  More amusing than some parts of ” Zack and Miri”  (re-titled now that it is available in the library).  C

 

Aura Alert

Do you believe in auras—the colored bands that supposedly surround each of us, the shades showing our moods, our emotions, our health?  And do you believe that some people can actually see and read our auras?

That would be truly incredible, to be able to see how someone feels and might react when they approach us, but I think we can partially do that just by watching people around us.

The middle-aged couple entering the grocery store with their matching bulldog jowls and scowls, their energy screaming DO NOT APPROACH!  We are here to shop for our staples, no excitement in our future are clearly dark brown, facing to black.

There are three young girls, with a bright yellow backdrop, joyously skipping across the yard, waiting to climb onto the trampoline.

Our friend, with cancer attacking his throat, grey-sad, lonely grey.

Orange bursting through the phone lines,  as another friend screams and laments about finding out her husband has been having a three-year affair with his co-worker, after she put him through grad school and now quit her job to stay home with their children.

A young bride, separate from her guests, calm, close to God, blue and pure, waiting for the celebration to end and her married life to truly begin.

Do I imagine these colors? Can I see them?  Feel them and just KNOW? Or wish?  C

 

Traffic Stop

Stuck in traffic, we lament the interruption in our travels, express dismay in the delays to our travel plans, wonder why we are slowing then stopped on the highway.  We sit with our uncomfortably filled bladders, unable to relieve the pressure, turn our cars around, or ride along the downward-sloping shoulder.

Complain, swear, scream uselessly inside our cars, a single white truck stopping every few feet for the driver to open the door and vomit on the side of the road, we creep along, helpless and frustrated.

After miles of this long snaking array of cars and trucks, we see the flashing lights in the distance.  Lots of them.  And we rethink our anger. We approach with trepidation, fear for whom these lights blink and sirens sound,  ambulances and fire trucks and a flat bed truck now loaded with half a speed boat on top of it, another winch pulling up the other half the boat from over the road’s edge, down from the barricades, workers in yellow reflective vests and hats gathered, watching.  The tail end of a car also visible in the overgrown weeds.

We feel guiltily thankful and relieved that we are simply stuck in traffic, not part of this horrifying accident that added hours to our driving schedule. And hope that the people who were involved have escaped, unharmed or at least alive.  As we drive past the rescue vehicles, the lanes open, the cars and trucks and motorcycles speed up, the race towards our destinations back on, the accident already fading in our minds as we think about what lies ahead—curving roads, glaring sun, and hopefully no more slowdowns.  Until the next one. C

 

Julie & Julia & Friends & Dreams

Short notice, but five neighborhood friends went to see Julie & Julia this week. I loved the way the story was told, with two tales simultaneously developing, intertwined and funny and downtrodden and quirky.  We sputtered and laughed and hoped for success for both protagonists, as they followed their food-filled (and too meat-filled for me, sorry Patty who sat next to me) dreams.  The costumes and sets were perfection, and the film made me want to return to Paris NOW.

Meryl Streep was, as always, incredible with the lilting accents and mannerisms and movements that I remember from when my mother used to watch Julia Child on TV, when I was a child.  Debonaire Stanley Tucci was her husband, so in love and involved as she wrote and cooked and wrote and cooked and…  Amy Smart was funny and neurotic, a bit over the top at time, but sweet.

As much as I loved watching the story develop,  it made me sad.  The dreams  I once had, fading as life  moves forward and I am caught in the wave of time and children and mortgages and jobs and mopping the floors and and volunteer work and keeping on top of  the family schedule with military-like precision, until rain changes three practices, and aging families and friends in need.

How many people are staring at their screens after watching that film, trying to write their first blog searching for quick fame, with blank thoughts, no stories to tell?  And don’t realize how challenging it can be to write day after day?   How many other brilliant writers are out there penning away, unnoticed?  What makes a blog catch fire?  Sometimes it’s the real, sometimes it’s the fraud–like the woman who claimed to be pregnant, got all kinds of sponsors and uh-oh she wasn’t pregnant.  What? someone lied on the internet?

We would all love to come home to 65 phone messages like Julie, with offers and names and deals and opportunities to do work we dream about.  A smidgeon of extremely lucky people do what they love each day, not the masses.  We might live through them, while following our own paths.  Even as we grasp at our dream remnants we can only hope for the support system of spouse and friends from the film, cheering each zig-zag step forward.

In my mind, a successful film is one that makes me forget I am sitting in the dark–transporting me to become an invisible participant–gives me reason to feel true emotion while watching, to talk about it afterwards, and to make me think about the major and/or minor issues in it long after the screen is dark.  In all of these goals, Julie & Julia succeeded.   C

 

Headlands

The Marin headlands are one of my favorite, most beautifully desolate places to visit.  Go north over the Golden Gate Bridge, and take the first left off the 101, instead of the familiar right curve to Sausalito.  When we lived in San Francisco, we often explored the sehills, our Aussies Maxx and Annie running up and back, exploring, smelling, chasing, wandering.

These windswept hills overlook the forever-pounding Pacific Ocean, salty water foaming over tall black rocks sitting like miniature islands, some now white with bird guano.  Remnants of old military barracks dot the hills,  and this week Ronan found a rusted bullet remains on a sandy path we walked.

One day I will be part of these hills,  winds whirling my dusty remains onto the lichens and dancing mango-colored California poppies and tiny succulants that cover the ground.  It is already the resting spot for our loyal friend Maxx, and last week we spread the ashes of Annie, who came from these lands, so she can run with us during future escapades over these hills.

Just avoiding the rain, we lunched under cloudy skies, before they dissipated as we began our climb.  We soon wrapped our sweatshirts around our waists, stopping for water as the air warmed.  We meandered to our favorite spot to leave Annie,  then walked on for another hour, stopping to watch lizards play, throw rocks off the cliffs, search for sea lions in the surf (alas-none spotted today), and stop/start as we came to unexpected ends of paths. One daughter, who claimed to dislike hiking, wanted to climb to the very top hill, but there was no path from where we were.

We descended from the hills to let the kids run in the surf, trousers wetter than expected as the tide moved in, picking up flat rocks and split sand dollars then finding a sixteen-inch jellyfish wash onto the beach then eventually taken back into the churning waters.  We never figured out if it was still alive, or now.

“That was a fun excursion,” one of our kids commented as we climbed back into our car.   Agreed.

A final, fitting farewell to Annie. C

 

Musical Changes

“Regret” by New Order was first.  The next time it was “Love My Way” by The Psychedelic Furs, followed by “Another Nail in my Heart” by Squeeze.  These were all songs we danced to in the 80’s at “new wave” and punk clubs in Chicago with names like Neo, Club 950, Avalon, Clubland (greatest new year’s bashes!) Exit and of course–the Lizard Lounge– that most of our friends did not know or understand, and most radio stations did not dare play for fear of reaching outside the top 40 or big-haired rock realms.

All had great dance rhythm, and we could–err, would–dance all night.  On the dance floor, on the bar, on our couches at late night parties, a Christmas tree swaying in the background of one video.

And in the past two weeks I have heard ALL these songs at the grocery store!!, Trader Joe’s at least, but still.  Our once-new, different music playing while shopping for Wasabi mayo and samosas and orange juice and hummus.  How cliche, how old I felt, how everyday….but they all still made me want to dance. Some things don’t go out of style, for me. C

 

Summer Saturdays in Odell

 

 

Talk about a small town!  This is Odell, IL along Route 66.  I took these pictures on a road trip a couple weeks ago.  I wonder what they do for fun in this tiny town.  C

 

Quiet grain mill

side of the grain mill

 

 

Saturday afternoon traffic

 

Goin' to the store--wondering who was taking pictures of the grain mill

 

The Drop-Off

For the fourth straight year, my friend Laura and I have driven our two eldest girls to camp very early on a Sunday morning, and the younger two now going for their second year.  Overnight camp at the YMCA, or where ever you choose to go, is such a rite of passage.  I wish that all kids had this opportunity.  They get to explore outside their town, their families, their boundaries and meet people from other cities, states, countries as their bunkmates, roommates, counselors, and friends.

So much of camp seems the same as when I went–horse back riding, boating, swimming, crafts, archery,  group songs, family style meals, woods, group bathrooms, chores, fun, fun.   The worst part for us is waiting for check-in, arriving early so the girls can secure a good bunk near each other,  the crowds pushing forward–every group wanting the same, the newbies wide-eyed.  It’s a bit crazy.

I remember when Lisa and I went to camp.  It was August of 1977, and we took an 8 hour (!!) bus drive to southern IL.  Yes, we had one freak in our room who told us she had heart medicine that we would all DIE if we took, pretended to talk in her sleep, and swore Lisa would go straight-to-hell for going up to communion as a non-Catholic, because as a 13-year old she was too embarrassed to stay in her seat, alone.

She joyfully broke the news to me that Elvis had died when she heard in a letter from home, knowing I was a huge Elvis fan. I was convinced she was lying, but wrote my mom just in case to save me all the headlines and newspapers—which I still have today in my yellowed Elvis scrapbook.

I remember our relay race–everyone in the cabin participated–with Lisa riding the horse (boy, was I jealous!) and I sprained my ankle tripping over a raised root in the path.  Then everyone else was jealous of me because I got to see the cute, friendly doctor as he wrapped my ankle, and he let me hold newborn kittens each visit.

I wonder what my girls will remember from their yearly camp visits, other than the great songs we learn from them (“there were 3 little muffins in the bakery shop…”), the friends they can keep in touch with online, and the 1000 types of friendship  bracelets they can make.  I hope they will remember their routine of driving with their moms, the bakery we stop at for lunch, waiting in lines,racing to cabins, and many quiet and loud moments that I am sadly not a part of.

Me, I will remember the 6-7 hours Laura and I get to listen to the girls’ giggle and talk and that we get to catch up, uninterrupted on the way home.  and maybe route 65 closed, while we are SO thankful to have the iphone GPS.

Camp.  Everyone should go! C

 

The White-Tail Tale

A shimmering Sunday afternoon several weeks ago, I was stealing five minutes of silence on the screened-in porch,  reading the paper in between chauffering sessions.  

“Cali,” I heard Tara warn our 7-month Aussie, who she had been playing with for the better part of an hour.

“Cali!” she yelled agin.

I glanced up to see  the raised white-tail of a deer galloping through our yard, followed by a coyote, then Cali.  They bolted through our yard, then the neighbors, then they kept going.  Tara ran after them, and I ran from the porch after them.  It has been years since my feet went from zero to sixty in three seconds, and I hope it is years until I have to do it again.  That white hot pain, burning though my chest, my heart pounding.  Visible through my chest? I don’t know.

As the trio of animals kept running, I realized the “coyote” was a fawn, probably only days old. The mama deer ran off track, and the fawn and Cali ran into the cornfields.  Oh no! How were we going to get them now?  I could hear the jangling of Cali’s tags, so I knew that she was close by.  Suddenly, fawn and pup appeared nose to tail, the fawn in front, bleating-bleating for its mom.

We chased and called for a couple more houses, Cali oblivious to us.  Then, as the yard lines curved, Tara continued to follow the pair as I cut across towards the front yard. As the pair slowed, Tara managed to step on the end of Cali’s leash, which she had been dragging behind her.  

Breathing hard, we slowly walked back to the house, leash held tight.  Wouldn’t any curious puppy do the same, we thought.

So now Cali no longer plays in the yard without a long lead rope, just in case…. C

 

No Parking!

Sadly, no time for the tale I long to tell.  Maybe tonight.  Here are a couple photos from a recent trip to Blue Harbor Resort, in Sheboygan, WI.  Another great weekend with close friends doing the WI thing–Friday night fish fry where we were the only tourists (good perch and shrimp too! ) but hate that you can still smoke in bars and restaurants.  That lingering smell on my clothes and hair I do not miss), bike riding, beaches littered with flocks of raucous seagulls, a sunset, a thunderstorm, cocktails and cards.

 

LOVE!

C