Where's My Fife and Drum?

Here's an idea for making a dent in the energy crisis: we oughta harness all the energy of the dead presidents who have been spinning in their graves lately. Bet we could power most major cities in America and Canada with all that power.

If I sound a wee bit peeved it's because I am. I'm a patriot. I love the promise of this nation. When we fall short of that promise, especially when we don't even seem to be trying to hit the mark, it breaks my heart.

I've been having chest pains for nearly 8 years.

Today, this 232nd anniversary of America's official birth seems like a good time to celebrate the rebels and radicals who called BS on the powers that were and said "there has got to be a better way". Then they went off and first they wrote The Declaration of Independence which is full of stirring, edgy language:

"We hold these truths to be self-evident that all men* are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness"....

("I know this, says you...geez, you don't think everyone is quoting this ad infinitum today?"

"Hush, says me, I'm getting to the good part...the part people forget...the part that sounds as fresh today as it did back then.")

"That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness".

The right of revolution? Hello? Let's say a person running for office went on Larry King and let's say that individual declared, "Oh, yes, Larry, I absolutely believe that if government isn't working, the people have every right to make changes and, failing that, to throw out the whole thing and start all over again". What do you think the headlines would read the next day?

And if the Declaration of Independence weren't enough, then they go and write the Constitution. I don't know when you last read it but really, you oughta take a little time and do it soon. It's not that long. But it's a good idea to know what is in it so you can tell when the current administration do yet another thing to try and weaken it.

Maybe it's because I'm a words gal, but I think the Declaration and the Constitution are stirring, incredible documents that laid the foundation for a terribly interesting experiment. And that experiment is facing some major challenges right now, mostly from within. For those of us who are true, patriotic Americans, those of us who really love this country and remember the greatness of which she's capable should remember how much we have in common with Tom and John and George and that firebrand Patrick, et al. Those chappies had some grand ideas and did something about it. Today would be a good day for us to remember that.

And really, that's part of what I like so much about Obama. He isn't just talking about what he would do as President. He's been challenging people for months to reawaken to the fact that we are the government and we can be the change this nation so desperately needs. I like a leader who strives to remind us that "the governed" is us and our consent is required and the power to right things is in our hands.

We are the children of the revolution.

Happy freakin' 4th of July, kids. Mind your sparklers.


T-Rex "Children of the Revolution"

Thursday Morning Meeting

Could everyone please meet me in the conference room? I have a few announcements.

(Shuffles papers, adjusts "serious" glasses, pinches finger on clipboard. Ow).

First of all, thank you for wearing a shirt, Sling. Productivity in the secretarial pool is up 60%.

On the subject of dress code, just a reminder that "casual Friday" does not mean "no pants", JP.

Moving on, please note for your records that The Child will be attending Second Choice High this fall and we will now be referring to it as simply "High School" for the duration. We still had not heard from First Choice as of July 1 and since we now have to start paying tuition we are officially committed. Please know that The Child is quite content with this decision as is the Parental Board. Not to mention, I look way better in the school colors, which are red and white. Green and gold wash me out something terrible.

After months of trying, I am pleased to report that The Dog has slain his first rat. He is walking very tall and proud and we are going to get him a little belt and put notches on it.

Now then, I have asked Senator Russ Feingold to address the group with an important message. Senator Feingold?



Thank you, Senator. I'm sure we can all appreciate the importance of contacting our representatives while they are home for the 4th of July break and making it clear that the present FISA legislation must be stopped. I recognize that there may be those of you who are not concerned about the notion of illegal wiretaps and corporate collaboration, taking the position that you aren't doing anything wrong so you have nothing to worry about. While I applaud your character, I'd like to point out that this is a very naive position. When any government has unlimited power to spy on its citizens, the government ends up defining "doing wrong". History is replete with examples of people who were deemed "wrong" by their government by virtue of their religion, ethnicity, politics, or simply by the company they kept. Tomorrow we celebrate the founding of this nation. I think it would be a lovely gesture if we all did our part to see to it that the Constitution is not further sullied by the most unAmerican, unpatriotic administration in our nations history. Bastids.

Alright, looking ahead on the calendar you'll see that The Child leaves on her mission trip this Sunday, July 6 and is returning on Friday. Also, July 16th brings season 5 of Project Runway. I know you are all looking forward to some tranny fierce recaps. And let's see, what else? Oh, yes, the annual Forth o' Juleye Trailer Trash extravaganza has been cancelled this year. All the family hooha has depleted my will to wear pleather faux alligator capris and drink beer out of a can. I do still plan to make corn dogs, however.

I think that's everything. Thank you for your attention. There is pie in the break room and plenty o...Hat? Alrighty then. Meeting adjourned...you'd better get to the pie while you still can.

And So Our Journey Ends

Leaving Dana's felt a little like closing up the summer house; we were reluctant (especially about the secret garden) but also ready to get back to regular life. I think that's the sign of a perfect vacation...rested enough to welcome the return of routine. Or at least one's own bed.

But we weren't quite saying goodbye to California yet. Anthony had urged us to have breakfast at a particular cafe in Berkeley, which was more or less on our way out of Dodge. Right. 'Cept for that pesky "all exits lead to Oakland" thing. Once again, we cruised confidently through the impressive Alameda portal (a structure which neither Hat nor I ever managed to actually photograph) and immediately got all kerfuffled by the lack of signage. Oh, that mocking thing; Alameda portal my arse. More like a portal to another dimension. This time, however, I at least knew exactly how to get out of Oakland and back to Alameda. I promptly pulled into a gas station to ask for directions.

It went down like this. The guy behind the counter didn't know how to get to Berkeley but a regular customer did. "Oh, sure," he said. His cell phone rang. "Hold on just a second," he said to me. At which point this angel by the name of Chandra chimed in, "I make that run all the time. Here's what you do..." I asked a few clarifying questions, which at least made it clear to her that I was ever so familiar with the portal to another realm and then she looked at me with compassion. "Tell you what. I have a quick delivery to make across the street. Wait here for me and I'll lead you out to the freeway. I'm going to Berkeley anyway".

Blessings on her and all her house! I jubilantly announced to the girls that we would, in fact, find our way to Berkeley before the end of the year and then Chandra swooped by to lead us to the promised land. Which was just as simple as it could possibly be, provided you understood that by taking a right at the sign for San Jose and then another way too quick and virtually unmarked right onto the freeway that you'd end up heading north. (Idiot CA DOT).

Our angel led us out to the first (and I think only sign) that indicated Berkeley lay ahead and then she waved a slender arm out her truck window and pulled off at the next exit. She wasn't going to Berkeley. She was just being the nicest possible person on the planet ever. (Next time you need a new car, go to Toyota of Alameda. Seriously).

Berkeley was not without its own unique driving challenges: one way streets, myriad 15 minute parking spaces and a particularly charming driver who decided to take his free left on a red light while I was turning on a green. He missed hitting me by mere inches but it's always nice to know the adrenal glands are working.

Au Coquelet was everything Anthony promised it would be.Breakfast was abundant, cheap and delicious. After breakfast we poked around some (mostly Tibetan) shops and scored some very fun jewelry. The Hat bought a hat. I regaled The Child with tales of the student left in the 60s. She was more interested in acquiring mementos for the Mead St. Gang. So be it.

Berkeley was the last major attraction planned for the trip. By now we were all about El Norte. We gained the freeway, then lost it, due to a detour toward LA which was supposedly a reroute past road work but wasn't. Big lying DOT. After that, my one and only mission was to get the hell onto I-5 and not leave it again until we'd put several hundred miles under our wheels. Which we mostly did. Traffic was light (this is the closest thing to "California traffic" that we ever got:

(Granted, we were in Northern California and not LA but still).

The other motorists were courteous (Oregonians, take a lesson, please) and soon we were all about the rhythm of the drive, the shuffle of the iPod and the beauty of the scenery. We did stop from time to time to rest in cool shade

and photograph blue jays.

This is for JP. I don't remember now if it is California or Oregon. No matter:

Early in the evening we were back in Oregon, at Aunt Sharon's. We went out for superb Thai food and then The Child and I relaxed in the hot tub and while the warm water worked out my driving kinks, we looked at the stars and talked about God. It was a glorious night.

The next morning dawned fair and lovely, then was shattered by the call from The Spouse announcing his sister's death. Auntie and I were glad we were together in that moment. It was all very shocking and surreal, and even though there was not a blessed thing I could do about it, the situation gave a little more urgency to the last leg of the trip. I couldn't do anything about anything but I wanted to be with The Spouse.

Oregon drivers are horrible, bullying sorts and I don't like them. This behavior is also completely at odds with their otherwise very friendly nature and the fact that they want to fill your gas tank for you. (No self-serve in Oregon; The Child just adored it. "They even wash your windows for you, Mom!") I drove as fast as it was possible to go, aided when necessary by some Springsteen, which always makes me drive at least 80.

We stopped in Salem for a lovely lunch and a little more shopping (The Child has decided to collect a stuffed something from every state in the union and she found an Oregon beaver. Huzzah. I also resisted the urge to get a "Could you be anymore up my ass?" bumper sticker, since I only feel that way in Oregon and we were, after all, leaving).

We made most excellent time. Until we hit Portland. Why all those people weren't on their famed light rail line is beyond me. It took about 30 minutes to actually cross the bridge into Washington. But we figured that, barring any other hold ups (except the inevitable boondoggle that always seems to happen south of Tacoma for no reason whatsoever), we should make it home in time to get Hat to the airport to catch her shuttle home. She had a flexible ticket. If she missed the 7pm bus she could get the 9pm one but I was bound and determined to get her to SeaTac by 7 so she too could have a pleasant evening in her own home.

There was one other absolutely nonsensical tie up and I marvelled at the fact that we had driven through 3 states, one famed for it's traffic, and the only problems we had with tie-ups were when we were this close to home. But you know what both Oregon and Washington have that California doesn't? Really excellent road signs.

Pedal to the metal, I screamed into SeaTac about 10 minutes before Hat's shuttle was to leave. I felt really excellent about that. She is a most wonderful Hat and she had been such a help on the trip. It felt like giving her a little gift to know that she wouldn't be trudging into her flat late at night after a stupid 2 hour wait at the airport doing nothing.

Minutes later The Child and I were back home. The Spouse was there, with his brother, and the evening was more about somber realities than my little road trip. Which was appropriate. But let me tell you something; I came home ever so relaxed and full of goodwill and joy because of all the fine times, good food and dear people. And I was thankful that at least my excellent mood made me well suited to be a helpmate for my family in their hour of need. Or something. Yeah, it was a crappy end to a blissful time, but that's life, isn't it? You get your good and you get your bad. Somehow, as my friend ChouChou likes to say, it's all good.

I Wonder How the Other Half Lives

There would be things to fill our day, I told myself. Myriad photo ops, for one; including a particularly lush garden down the street with a gorgeous orange tree spang in the center. I could start negotiations to buy my house. Plus, Alameda is, in fact, an island and that implies a beach somewhere. We'd be suitably entertain one way or another, although The Child was less convinced.

In the midst of coffee and formulation of a Plan B The Child burst into the secret garden to announce, "Mom! Danny texted you! Danny texted you!" Back to Plan A.

A word, before I continue, about the California Department of Transportation. I don't know how they apportion their tax dollars but I can tell you what they don't spend it on:

a) highway maintenance (unless that washboard thing is intentional)

2) signage

Speed limits? Clearly a matter of personal preference. The state certainly doesn't have any strong feelings about it. Directional signs? The operational premise seems to be that if you are in California, you must know where you are going. One or two place names on a highway sign are all you need. Alameda is, we learned from natives, a particularly tricky place to get in and out of. The "in" was no trouble, thanks to Dana's excellent directions. I had neglected, however, to ask him how to get out.

So it was that, despite following the signs Danny told us to look for, we found ourselves driving south, parallel to the freeway we were supposed to be on. I made a U-turn and instead of signs leading to the freeway we found ourselves smack in downtown Oakland (which is this far from Alameda).

There were no signs anywhere indicating egress to the freeway and while I am not a pussycat when it comes to urban environments, there is a diciness to Oakland that got my spidey senses tingling. I wasn't inclined to pull over for directions, sure as I was that it would be the equivalent of showing our soft underbellies.

By the grace of my car angels I found myself, quite miraculously, in a lane on which was painted "Hwy 000" with a left turn arrow. Why a corresponding sign didn't hang from the overpass above, you know, where everyone could see is beyond me. But a hairpin turn across 2 lanes of traffic later, we were on the right road.

The frustration was worth it.

Danny's sweet, little house has a street presence that belies the expansive warmth within. Full of light and color, it is a beautiful home. Introductions and big squenches ensued, followed by cocktails. We meandered out to the Eden of the enclosed back garden where I proceeded to pretend to be in Tuscany for the duration.

The Child nibbled some cheese then, true to her Aquarian nature, hopped into the pool and was a merchild for the rest of the day.

It should also be noted that The Child talked frequently all week about the fact that she intends to go to college in "Cali". Somehow, it makes sense.

Let's talk about food for a minute:

Tasty hors d' oeuvres:

Crisp salad, loaded with fruit and a watermelon vinaigrette to die for (and I loathe watermelon):

A delicious, chicken-laden rice concoction that could have been a meal in itself:

and delicious BBQ, chicken and steak, that Danny maintained was overcooked due to an accident of knob turning (up when he meant down) but which was moist and flavorful anychar.

We met the boys' friend Stephanie, a lively and sweet young woman, plus their son and some of his friends, including a dead ringer for Lindsay Lohan, only sober. I was impressed with the kids, especially son Andrew. I like a teenager who is happy to sit comfortably with his parents' friends and talk easily about his interests. He and his buddy, Chris, were also very sweet to The Child.

Anthony is a charmingly loquacious gentleman who oozes hospitality and warmth. And Danny...oh, this is why you meet blog buddies, people. Based on his wild and crazy blog presence I had him pegged for a flamboyant, table dancing sort. Not so. He's quiet, with a dry wit and eyes that sparkle with the effervescence of his heart. I adore him.

Oh, is there anything better in this life than a long, leisurely lunch al fresco, surrounded by friendly dogs and friendlier people?

I think not.

We ate and drank, talked and laughed; pausing once in a while to pat a dog or make sure the Child hadn't been sucked down a drain or something. At one point Danny reached out for a wine bottle and I noticed his watch. "6:30?!? How did that happen?!?" A few more nibbles, a few more sips and then, really, The Child had to come out of the pool. After a repeated litany ("Come on, we have to go"..."Okay, one minute"..."Come on, we have to go"...."Okay...") Danny and I jumped in. If you can't beat 'em...

The dip was beautifully refreshing and I felt all alert and perky again, after the languors of the afternoon. With reluctance, we finally, finally marshaled ourselves out and to the car, happy to count lovely new friends among our acquaintance.

We got home without visiting Oakland. Still not sure how. There was only one exit sign for Alameda, followed by no directionals of any sort but instinct said "turn left" and bam, we were in Alameda, just a few blocks and one Uturn from home.

The evening was passed with pizza and "freaky Friday" and a little puttering relative to laundry and packing. Our California dreamin' was winding down.

Oh, Whatever

Blogger ate my post. I'll rewrite it later. The Child really wants to go paint pottery and we have some errands to run in preparation for her trip next week.

The City

You realize that it is taking me twice as long to recount our trip as it took to make, right? Hard to believe that it's already been 2 weeks since Mommy and Child's Day O' Fun in San Francisco.

Monday morning dawned exactly as it should in the Bay Area: foggy. This delighted me no end because I believe that one's first view of San Francisco should be of it shrouded in mist.

There was bread left from dinner the night before so I whipped up some French toast and served it with the star thistle honey. (Really, just the best honey I've ever tasted. Ever).

The Hat was going to enjoy a quiet, restorative day alone in our borrowed flat. The Child and I walked up to the bus stop, passing the house I found in Alameda that wants me to live in it.

A quick bus ride took us across the Bay Bridge, toward the soaring towers of San Francisco. SF was the first big city I ever visited and it, like all big cities, has the same effect on me still...a sense of recognition; an "if-I-believed-in-past-lives-I-swear-I've-lived-here-before" feeling. I am, without a doubt, a city girl.

The fog was lifting so that the streets themselves were full of light. The Child asked if we could pretend I was her tour guide and so I regaled her with what I know of the city. (Which isn't really that much but since she knows less it worked). We got some coffee and looked over the street map to get our bearings, then set off up the hill toward Chinatown. It should be noted, for any reader who has not been to San Francisco that everything is uphill.

I took this photo for Sling:

There are olive trees growing along the streets. Fancy that. There was a branch on the street and I really wanted to take it with me but decided that might look really odd, not to mention borderline vandalistic.

We wandered around City Light Books for a while (I bought The Naked Lunch, a couple of book bags and a bumper sticker that reads "Howl if you love City Light Books"). I totally neglected to take a picture of The Child in front of that noble institution. But I got these:

We started down the street and she decided that sushi for lunch would be a good idea. It was fabulous.

We poked our way through Chinatown, The Child in search of appropriate souvenirs.

We wandered into one shop that had some Haight Ashbury stuff; I hadn't realized that this is the 40th anniversary of "the summer of love". That phrase "old hippies" really has resonance now, doesn't it?. I asked the proprietor how far it was to the Haight. "You can drive there," he said. Then he fixed me with a look, "You don't really want to go there, you know. It's not the same". (What? Do I look like an old hippie? L'horreur!)

"Oh," I know," I said. "It's just that I was there when I was 10 and I have such vivid memories. I was hoping to show it to her".

"Yeah," he said, kindly. "But now it's just a nice shopping district with some good restaurants. I'm not sure it's worth it".

And under the circumstances, it really wasn't. Sometimes things are best left safe in memory. It probably would have vaguely depressed me to see the Haight all gussied up and gentrified.

So I got The Spouse a "Summer of Love" tshirt and that was that.

The Child and I hopped on a cable car and jerked our way down Powell St. toward Fisherman's Wharf. Now, generally speaking, I'm not a fan of sprawling tourist joints like that, but the day was fine and you could smell the sea. And The Child, being an inveterate shopper, was in heaven. We had an excellent time and took photos of fat pigeons and of the Golden Gate bridge, which could only vaguely be discerned through the fog that still hovered over the bay. None of them turned out.

The line for the return cable car was ridiculously long and we would still have a long walk to the bus station after that so after conferring with concierges and a very nice woman hawking happy hour outside a bar, The Child put her taxi-hailing skills to work and we got back to the bus station in record, comfortable time.

It was rush hour and I needed to confirm we were in fact standing on the correct line for our return trip. An extremely nice woman in front of us verified this and then asked where we were going. Turns out, it was her stop, too. "Just watch me. When I get up you'll know to get off". So we did.

Back home, The Child gave The Hat and I a fashion show of all her purchases, then I followed Dana's directions to a Chinese restaurant he'd recommended. The prospects were good. The place was full of Asian diners, many of them speaking actual Chinese. Always a good sign. I waited for our take-out and had a pleasant chat with another customer, a woman who'd just moved to Alameda from Seattle.

You know the old adage, "Hunger is the best sauce?" The person who coined that phrase must have once had a similar meal. The BBQ pork was fabulous and the mu shu was acceptable, but the pancakes were stale, the spring rolls were filled with what appeared to be chicken noodle soup and the two chicken dishes were by turns bland (Szechuan chicken bland? How is that even possible?) and cloying (sweet and sour...what would you expect?). Not the meal we were expecting and I can only assume it had to have been a very off-night.

But despite the less than spectacular meal, we were all happy and content. We cuddled up on the couch and watched "Big", while I checked my cell phone, hoping for a message from Danny. We were supposed to have lunch with him the next day but hadn't yet heard from him. We went to bed with our fingers crossed.

Picture This

Yesterday I wrote of the olives and cypress trees outside of O-town. Funny that this is the only picture I have of that particular combo, when the memories in my head are so much more vivid. That's what happens when you are busy driving and call to your kid in the back seat with a "Hey! Get a picture of that tree for me, will you?" Sling liked that picture. He did some tweaking of it in Photoshop and voila!

I told you it looked like something out of Van Gogh.

"Ooh, I Want to Be There-er-er-ere in my City, whoa, oh, oh, oh..."

The vistas on our way out of O-town were amazing. We were in farm country full of olive groves and fruit orchards. It could have been the Oregon countryside of my youth, save for the fact of the occasional palm tree or the long fingers of incredibly tall cypress tress, rendering a view like something out of a Van Gogh painting. A great many of the farms had set up roadside stands.

After passing the 412th one I was all, "Hey, maybe we should stop and get some cherries or something". Hat was all, "Duh!"

Turns out the next stop was a full-blown, full service concern, with all manner of fruits and veggies, each more glorious than the last.

A man was handing out samples and I consumed the equivalent of a fruit salad. I bought nearly $30 worth of aromatic fruit, crunchy veggie chips and a jar of star thistle honey. As we continued on our way we discussed the cornucopia in our trunk and decided that with the addition of some cheese and bread we'd be set for dinner. That settled, the focus was on getting to Alameda. My dear friend, Dana, had offered the use of his place since he was off at a summer camp for hemophiliacs (he's a social worker). He had provided us with most excellent directions. Excellent as in here's-the-lane-you-want-to-be-in-this-is-what-you'll-see-on-you-left. The only concern pour moi was that there was a bit near Sacramento that involved lots of merging on and off half a dozen California highways. This did not please me, for I am not a fan of the merging, especially when I have no frakking idea where I am.

Once again, as they had the entire trip, my car angels saw to it that there was plenty of room between me and the nearest oncoming car. That and the fact that my car bore Washington plates probably had a lot to do with the exceedingly wide berth I was being given. Those Californians couldn't give me enough room. We'd be cruising down the center lane, surrounded by an empty cushion of at least 50 yards on all sides. Sweet.

Once we we were on the highway that was going to take us into Alameda, we pulled off at a beautiful rest stop that overlooked the valley. On a clear day you can, reportedly, see the Golden Gate Bridge from this spot. There was too much haze for that but there was something about that view, a beckoning promise. Somewhere in my head there were faint strains of a Journey song. I shook it off and we climbed back in the car for the last leg.

Thanks to Dana's directions and Hat's most excellent navigational skills, we were soon in the very charming town of Alameda, a place full of canopied, tree lined streets and teeny tiny Victorian homes. (We learned later that Alameda was a true bedroom community where the workers and staff for the rich of San Francisco came home each night. Each of the little teeny Victorians is a replica of a larger house in SF, a working class homage, if you will).

At the local market we collected wine, bread, cheese and salami, then easily found Dana's cozy, comfortable apartment. We were delighted to discover that we would each have our own beds for the duration. (I still dispute the sheet-stealer charge but there you go). We were further thrilled to discover Dana's secret garden, which would be the site for evening cocktails and morning coffee for the next 4 days. It was lovely and relaxing. We settled in, then Hat arranged the fruit and protein on a platter, while I toasted some bread and poured the star thistle honey over chunks of feta cheese. One word: ambrosia. We uncorked some Plungerhead zinfandel (a 2006, from Lodi - delish), cued up "Local Hero" and tucked in. We all fell asleep before the movie ended.

I didn't forget. Here's something a little different; and no, it's not Journey.

Of Church and Kisses

I didn't dream while we were in California; or I did but was so deep in sleep that upon waking I didn't recall them. Since I've been home I've dreamed every night about driving and food.

---

Sunday morning dawned in fair and lovely fashion. I could get used to the notion of a summer full of clear, bright mornings. There was coffee, oh, excellent coffee, and the household puttering about in various stages of awakening.

Sling and I sat on the porch (of course), hands wrapped around our coffee mugs, and started talking about things like grace and provision, life lessons and gratitude, about God's love.

I'm not an evangelist in the strict sense of the word. I believe and own what I believe and folks either dig it or not. I have lots of dear friends who aren't particularly of the believing persuasion; they get that I do and I get that they don't and it's all good. But I admit to feeling a little sanctified, sitting there and talking with my good friend; there was a lovely communion about it all that words don't properly convey. Unless, of course, you're Sling. At one point he leaned in and looked at me and said, "You know we're having church right now, right?"

Wherever two or more are gathered, baby.

And to further sanctify the moment, in short order he and LK took us off to the casino for breakfast. Because there's nothing quite like taking the good Catholic girl and her underage daughter out for breakfast at the casino, now is there?

---

Little Newt was busy with his camera all weekend. Kid has a pretty good eye, too. He and

The Child figured out how to take pictures on a timer and he gathered us all around for a shot. I'm still waiting for my copy or I'd show it to you. What's important about that particular photo is that all weekend Newt kept calling it "the picture of the family".

How sweet is that? What makes it even more sweet is that is EXACTLY how the weekend felt. We love our Sling and it was important and awesome to be able to be with him, to hear his laugh and guitar, to learn that he hums when he's happy and all the other little details that only meeting can reveal. But to also feel very much part of the family, welcomed and loved by all in his household? That's your ginger buttercream icing on the applesauce cake, my friends.

Our meal at the casino ended (mmmmm....coconut shrimp) we took a few more photos, and engaged in a round of hugs and kisses. Then Sling and Co. climbed into LK's big new shiny truck and we girls back into our little Fergie. LK led us out to the direction of the freeway and with a wave the boys turned to home and we were wending our way toward Alameda.

Lovely, Lazy Days

About the third thing that happened in O-town, after hugs and champagne, was that Sling asked me to autograph his copy of Unbound Press, volume alpha and omega. I was inordinately giddy, what with no one having ever asked that of me before.Newt, as you can see, wasn't that impressed.

After a leisurely afternoon of laughing and talking and repeating the mantra, "I can't believe we're here", we tucked into a very fine dinner of grilled steaks, salad and garlic bread. The Lizzard King is the Wizazard King when it comes to grilling. And Sling was careful to point out that they eat like that all the time, it wasn't just for show for the visitors. Lucky.

As the smoke-hazed sun sank over O-town we found ourselves with glasses of wine, back on the porch, as Sling picked and strummed his ol' guitar. Was it magical? Yes. Was it fun? Yep.

Did certain people spill wine more than once? Uh huh. Was that person me? No.

---

While in O-town we did more than sit on the porch. But you must understand that the only expectation Hat and I had was just to sit around with Sling. Every post he's ever written strikes us as something that would be said over a glass of something while shooting the breeze on the front porch. A kitchen table would also suffice, but with temperatures lurking around 90, the porch was a fine, cool thing.

But yes, we got up long enough to fulfill some other vacation hopes. Oh, we are simple, simple girls. Do you know what we wanted to do, besides sit around talking? We wanted to eat breakfast where there were good hash browns and we wanted to see the park and gazebo that are often features of Sling's Twainesque posts.

Thus, we had breakfast at Barb's House of Waffles and One Hour Martinizing. Delicious, perfect hash browns. Sling bogarted the ketchup.

Hat felt that Barb's had the best menu in all the land.

There was a quick visit to the Salvation Army so Hat and I could buy appropriate summer clothes. People in Seattle don't have summer wardrobes and the coolest things we brought weren't quite sufficient for the heat.

Then we explored the lush beauty of Sank Park, which surrounds the historic home of O-town's founding mayor and original concrete shoe manufacturer.

The Child said it reminded her of "Gilmore girls". It was all very pastoral and made me want to sing selections from "The Music Man".

But there was more. Sling, ever the consummate host, made sure that Hat and I were replete in baby toes and sugar kisses.

Oh, they were delicious. (Lizzard King has a brother. Those are his spawn, Baby Eft and her big brother, Salamander.)

And speaking of delicious, Saturday afternoon was cooled down by the never-ending margarita pitcher.

(I'll have you know that Sling was exceedingly put out when he discovered that his local wine and spirits emporium didn't have any Triple Sec. "By jove!" he all but thundered, "What sort of wine and spirits emporium doesn't carry Triple Sec? I say". He intended, you see, to make the margaritas from scratch. But when it is very hot and one is spending the afternoon on the porch, the stuff made with a mixer will do).

For dinner LK grilled up some of the most delicious, moist chicken I've ever eaten. Bobby Flay can kiss his prehensile tail.Entertainment on Saturday evening consisted of play Guitar Hero with LK and it brought about the only case of "sheesh" I had all weekend. You see, LK destroyed me. He was killing on the medium level while I couldn't even manage songs on easy. Songs, mind you, that at home I score 100%. What was the trouble? I blamed it on the calibration of the XBox guitar. Which was actually semi-legitimate as The Child had the same problem. For a second, though, I was totally afraid that with my much ballyhooed Guitar Hero skillz being called into question, so would the legitimacy of all my blogging. (Well, except for the stuff about Hillary Clinton. I was totally right about all that).

Hat said I was silly.

And speaking of silly, she should know. Sling, gentleman that he is, gave over his room to we girls for the weekend. The Child tried to sleep on the love seat (and then made a bed on the floor of the cushions...she's getting long) and Hat and I shared Sling's bed. The good news is that neither of us snore. The bad news is she claims that I am a sheet thief.

Now, the Hat and I have a long standing tradition of laughter and general giggltry. There were more than a few occasions on the drive down when I was tempted to pull over and compose myself, she had me going so hard. But that was nothing compared to what happened when the lights went out. All of a sudden, no matter how tired we were, we'd start whispering and the whispers would lead to giggles and the giggles would birth into full blown guffaws, which we tried very hard to bury in our pillows but to little avail. The first night Sling called from the living room, "You girls settle down in there!" The second night The Child had to do the same thing.

But it was very hard to do, you see. Because when you are full up to the brim with joy and delight, laughter has to bubble out. Otherwise you might explode and that would be very unpleasant for everyone.