Tonight it’s supposed to be what Ava describes as, “bitterly cold” across most of the US.  It’s even cold down here in the desert.  The low is supposed to be in the 20’s tonight and a high of only 40 tomorrow.  I know those of you back East would probably just like to smack me right about now, and I’m sorry, but my blood is thin and I live here because of my deep seated hatred for cold weather.

One of only a few pleasurable things about winter is my late night writing ritual.  I can only do it when it’s cold.  I’ve been trying to develop a taste for tea and so far so good.  In fact, I’ve found quite a few that are absolutely delicious.  So this is how the ritual goes:

After everyone has gone to bed, I turn on the water in my whistling kettle and, while it’s boiling, I get the rest of my stuff together. I have a slew of my great grandmother’s tea cups, but I keep them hidden away in the china cabinet.  Instead I use my favorite mug and a cute little teapot along with a motley assortment of my G’ma’s heirlooms.

A funny little aside about that nickname.  My sweet little great grandmother always used to send letters and birthday greetings with the signature G apostrephe ma – G’ma.  Once a jealous girlfriend of my uncle’s got ahold of a card from her and demanded to know who Gina was.  I don’t know if he ever convinced her it was his innocent little Grandmother.

Back to the tea tray.  I use a  sterling silver Tiffany spoon in my sugar bowl.  It is not an embellished piece of flatware, it’s simple and pretty.  The weight feels good in my hands, it has a lovely balance and the deep luster of the silver warms in your grasp.  I use one of her Haviland Limoges bowls for snacks.  It has a dainty gold and flower border of pale lilacs and green vines.  I like to hold it up to the light and see the shadows through the delicate bone china. 

I chose between Earl Gray or Chamomile or any other of about ten assorted blends, some loose which I especially enjoy because I get to use my tea ball. 

The aromas and sensory pleasures from the steam as the tea brews and then later cools in my cup is relaxing and centering.  I have two or three cups each night while I’m writing.

I’ll miss it when it’s a zillion degrees outside.  I wonder if I can somehow adapt the whole ritual to iced tea?

I’m thinking of having myself cloned. 

Someone pointed out the clone would be an infant and therefore not much help to me.  I’m certain that’s not true.  That’s not how it happened in the movie Multiplicity and, since there is no actual science for me to refer to here (we’re not counting Dolly the sheep.  I am not a sheep ergo THAT science doesn’t apply to me) I’m using Multiplicity as my reference.

For those of you unfamiliar with the movie, Multiplicity,  it came out in 1996 and starred Michael Keaton and Andie McDowell.

 One of the problems postulated in the movie, is that subsequent clones get dumber as they go.  I don’t think that’s necessarily a problem.  I’ll send #2 to the day job, #3 is cleaning this pit of a house, #4 can hang out with my kids and I’ll sit in coffee shops and read and write all day.

This sounds like a perfect solution.  Hurry science, hurry!

We went to yet another children’s birthday party this weekend.  I swear, we go to a birthday party every single weekend without fail.  I do not remember going to this many parties when I was a kid, and neither does my mother.  I’m considering finding a Jehovah’s Witness school just so we can eliminate birthday parties from our weekend plans.

The thing is, the parties are almost always at the same damn places.  We get Peter Piper Pizza, Pump it Up or Chuckie Cheese. 

Pump it Up is my favorite of the three.  If you are unfamiliar with the place, it’s a pretty cool concept.  It’s a giant warehouse divided into big rooms that are filled with giant, inflatable jumping castles.  There are  slides, obstacle courses and basketball courts – all inflatable.  The part I love the best is that the rooms are closed and only the particular party of which you are a part are allowed in the room.  You can talk to the other Moms and Dads without needing to keep an eagle eye on your kid.  There is no danger the children are going to get lost or absconded with.  There is also the very real possibility that the place will exhaust your children which is every parent’s dream, isn’t it? 

Chuckie Cheese or, as I think of it, The Home of the Saltine Cracker with Spaghetti Sauce, is horrible, but not the worst.  They do have a rudimentary safety system in that they stamp your hand and your child’s with a code and you’re only allowed to leave with kids who match your code.  However, and this is an all caps HOWEVER, it is the loudest place on the planet.  Besides the hoards of screaming, hyper children, there are the a million video games and the jerkiest animatronic band in the history of creepy attractions played at ear splitting levels and, as you may have surmised by my alternative name for the place, completely inedible pizza.

The last place these parties take place makes me cringe and whimper.  Peter Piper Pizza **shudder**.  We have a brand new one in town and I’m just so excited to tell you we now have the busiest franchise in the country.  It’s loud.  It’s unbearably crowded.  There is extraordinarily bad, in fact no, supervision at all.  The staff is surly.  The only plus is the pizza is at least edible. 

Let me give you some examples of what I’m talking about when I define “loud.”  The building is cavernous so the acoustics are nonexistent.  It’s so big, there is a roller coaster and a merry-go-round inside. The restaurant holds approximately 75,000 screaming, running, hysterical kids all under the influence of cake. 

Quite frankly, I suspect it’s entire existance is against the Geneva Convention.  Merely edible pizza isn’t a recommendation.

My poor Honey has been to this place three times in January alone.  The first was relatively uneventful.  I would characterize it as migraine inducing torture but not fatal.  The second time he lost the boy.  I was at a meeting so he was forced to take the kids alone.  The boy was there and then he wasn’t.  My Honey was calm when he related the story to me later, but I’m certain there was panic at the time.  The boy was found wandering around the parking lot.  The PARKING LOT!  Alone!  ACCCCK!!

This weekend, I had to leave the current party midway.  This time the text I received was less inducing of hyperventilation but no less aggravating.  Some one took off with one of Bandit’s Spiderman tennis shoes, taking his twelve and leaving a nine in it’s place.  I hope, somewhere out there, there is a child who walks with a seriously floppy foot. 

Next week there is another party at that same blasted place.  This time it’s one of Sassy’s friends turning eight.  My Honey has told me, under no uncertain terms, that he will not be going.  There wasn’t even a glimmer of a smile when he said it, either.

Who do you complain to about Geneva Convention violations?  Can it be done online like the Department of Motor Vehicles or do you have to go down in person like when you post bail?

This is another of the great entries from Better Book Title.  I can’t even read this book with Sassy without misting up which is not your normal Shel Silverstein reaction. 

Click on the lion to enlarge the poem.  Not his illustration but his poem – one of my favorites.

My dad is doing pretty well since his stroke back in March.  It’s hard to believe it’s almost been a year. 

There have been a ton of changes in our lives since then.  Perspectives have made major shifts in a short time.  Living arrangements have been altered on an epic scale. 

Dad lives with my brother and his wife and kids and seventy-five thousand dogs.  I collect him as often as I can – but my life is insane and I hold a lot of guilt that I don’t give my brother and sister-in-law as many breaks as I should.  I try to always make a point of “taking” him anytime they ask.

My kids enjoy having Poppa here.  He’s always been a silly old man and he teases them a lot.  I collected him last Saturday to spend the night while my brother and his wife went to a wedding.  We went out to dinner and to the Price Club and watched the boxing matches on TV and hunted around for football games.  It was nice.  The thing about having Poppa over is that he goes to bed at 8 o’clock so I still have a ton of time for writing.  And of course, promptly at 8 o’clock he started drifting down the hall to Sassy’s room. 

He sleeps in there and Sassy sleeps on the Bandit’s top bunk.

Sassy needed something from her room so she knocked on the door and went in and spied Poppa climbing into bed and getting under the covers.  And then she high-tailed it out of there.

No – it was nothing horrendous like Poppa sleeping naked, but he was in his underpants.  He’s always slept in his underpants.  So do most men, in my experience.  Her father does.  (How thrilled is My Honey going to be when he reads this and finds out I’ve told the entire Internet he sleeps in his jockey shorts!  That man is really very patient with me.)

“Moooooooo-ooooooooom!” Sassy hollered down the hallway.  “MOM!”

“What?” I asked.  I was putting Spongebob toothpaste on a Spiderman toothbrush.  Oh, what would childhood be like without the cartoon industry’s marketing engines?

“OH.  MY.  GOD!” she said in her dramatic fashion, hand on her hip, head cocked to the side.  “OH. MY. GOD.”

I rolled my eyes.  Honestly, I don’t know where she gets it. (hahahahahaahaha – I can’t even hold up that charade for the sake of the story.  I swear, talking to her is exactly like talking to a seven year old me.)

“”Spit it out, kid, so you can brush your teeth,” I tell her.  I hand Bandit back his toothbrush and shake my head indicating he needs to do a better job.  “Air brushing” is not acceptable.

“Did. You. Know.” Here she pauses to take an elaborate breath and exhale it in a loud huff. “Poppa is sleeping in my bed…”

I hold my hand to my chest and gasp.  “NO!  What does he think he’s doing?  Sleeping?  In your bed?  I’m calling your uncle right away and discussing this appalling development.  Sleeping in beds.  Good Lord!  What next?”

“MOOOOOOOO-OOOOOOOOM! I’m serious!  He’s in there right now sleeping in my bed in HIS UNDERWEAR!”

I start laughing.  Hard. I can’t even hold up my end of the dramatic scene. The kid is totally serious.

“So?”

“His underwear is touching my sheets!”  She says this like he’s in there sacrificing goats on her bed or something.

By now I can’t even breath, I’m laughing so hard.  “So? Your daddy sleeps in his underwear.  You know this and that doesn’t bother you.”

Sassy delivers a wiggly shiver.  “What if he farts in there?”

And now I’m tearing up and wheezing.  The best part is, I’m quite certain he will.

I have a lot of friends.  My Sisters being my closest, bestest, might as well be sisters in fact, kind of friends.  The best kind of girl-friends.  We always tell each other the truth.  We support each other unconditionally.  We REALLY only want the best for each other.  I love them both tremendously.

And then there are some friends in my life who I’ve known for – well, forever.  These are the kinds of friends you have

Kurt and me at our 20th high school reunion

 known for so long they become a part of you, an extension.   We’ve been through so much together, teen angsty nonsense, boyfriends and girlfriends and breakups, weddings and children, funerals and celebrations. 

There were years when we didn’t talk so often – life was busy and we lived so far away from each other, but we managed.  And now there is texting.  We don’t often speak on the phone but we text.  All the time.  And, dear God, it doesn’t take long until we revert right back to 16 year olds in our conversation.  I love him like a brother.  Like my arm.  I’m so happy he has such a great wife and kids.

I once read a quote that went something like this – Friends are the people who know everything about you, and love you anyway. 

I have no idea why I’m feeling so sappy.  I spoke with Kelli several times on the phone today, and I worked with Ava all day.  I texted an absolutely inane conversation with Kurt after dinner while I watched the Coyotes lose to the Edmonton Oilers.  I should reach out to Kristy and Kristin and Jeff tonight and bring it full circle, but it’s already 11:00.  But even if I don’t, I know I can.  Anytime.  And they’ll be there.

Aren’t those kinds of friends the best?

I was home sick from work today.  The bad thing is I really was sick and stayed in bed all day.  I slept the entire time except when I went to get Sassy & The Bandit from school.  No writing on Chapter 9.  No interviews written up.  A total waste of a sick day if you ask me.

Yesterday, A slew of us from my husband’s family went to the horse races.  I know our little town hardly seems likely to be a horse racing mecca, and I’m not implying that it is.  But Rillito Park has a respectable history going back to the beginning of quarter horse racing in America.  The photo finish is a Rillito Park contribution as well as the American Quarter Horse Association – so it’s not famous like Santa Anna or Churchill Downs, but we’re not totally humiliated.  The stands are run down and there is nothing fancy about it – no one is showing up in chic hats or high heels – only that’s not true.  There were plenty of hoochie’s in absurdly high heels but they have a tendency to show up all over the place. 

This is not the point of this post.

I wonder how you get a job naming stuff.  Have you ever noticed the names assigned to nail polish colors, lipsticks, cans of paint and street names?  I’ve long wondered about it.  Paint at Home Depot, etc. are generally related to the actual color – they just sum up the name abit.  Nail polish and lipstick however – totally off the rails.  My long time favorite color of red is I’m Not Really A Waitress.  Now if I hadn’t just told you it was red, what would you have guessed it to be?  Diamond Shine, Princesses Rule, Sea Lily and Fiji are a random sampling of nail polishes from my drawer.  All pink except one – guess which name says purple?  Nope, Fiji.  Of course it does, silly.

But even better than naming colors is naming race horses.  This weekend, Queen of Hennessy raced against We Got Da Feva, Agent Dudly and Rainbow Reality. Thoughtibedawinit and Shaginitagain raced in the 3rd with Driving Rate Chrome.  Dashalongeasy Geisha was 7/2 odds.  My Honey won
$27.00 when Guasaveno and Sheza Dasher matched his ticket of Win and Place in the 6thrace.  What’s with the deal of naming a horse a sentence like Throwndirtinyoureyes who ran in the 8th? That just seems lazy don’t you think?

Anyway, I never see listings in the want ads for namers.  How do you list that on your resume? 

The Bandit, as I’m sure you can imagine, loved it.  I took the kids right down to the rail to watch as they thundered by.  It’s not quite as exhilarating as being by the fence when dragsters roar by, but the sheer power of a race horse is quite awe inspiring.

Nevertheless, I have hard enough time pondering a character’s name, striving to make it just right.  It would be fun to be random and silly once in a while.

There will be no blog post tonight.  I spent all of the allotted time I have for blog posting scrubbing melted crayon off all the kids school clothes.

If I didn’t know it would just make a bigger mess I’d have to clean up, I would have shot myself in the head in the laundry room.

I’m packing my bags.  I have a plane to catch.  I need to get to Lake Como,

sigh

 Italy.  In case you didn’t hear, George Clooney contracted malaria and I’m certain he needs my tender loving care to be nursed back to health.

MSNBC claims he’s doing fine with medication, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.  There is a brow in Italy than needs patting.  Sponge baths that

I bet George would let me have another dog

need giving. 

A gorgeous, witty movie star that needs tucking in at night.

I’m quite certain I can get in there and do some good before the restraining order takes effect.

So I did an interview for the Tucson Festival of Books.  Actually, Kelli wrote the interview questions, I just wrote it up for the column.  Go read it – you’ll probably get a chuckle.