Monday Morning Notebook

First of all, thanks to all of you who played the "what sort o' elitist are you" game over the weekend. We're mostly a pack of book/language snobs. Like we didn't already know that. Except for Buck, who is an elite elitist. But we knew that, too.

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Second of all, The Child's volleyball team was eliminated from the play-offs yesterday. After a spectacular performance in the first game, they ended up being, simply, out-classed by their opponents. They tried and they made 'em work for that last point, but in the end, it was the end.

Then I realized something. And I can tell you this because The Child doesn't read my blog and I would never, ever say this to her out loud. At least not at this point. But as sad as it was to see the season end, our girls didn't deserve to be champions. And I'll tell you why. Because they are a lousy team. Oh, sure, they've got skillz. They know the game. But they don't know how to play as a team. There are Hot Dogs and there is everyone else and the Hot Dogs saw to it that that never changed. Good Coach did what she could to mitigate the mindset but she had 3 mere months to undo the damage brought on by 3 years of Bad Coach. Under him, the Hot Dogs got arrogant, sloppy and even more hot doggie while the rest of them languished, not being allowed to develop to their full potential and, even when they all blossomed under Good Coach, were not trusted by the Hot Dogs to do their job.

Watching the team that eliminated them yesterday I thought there was complete justice in their victory. They too had skillz but where they excelled was in team work. Everyone was important, everyone was trusted, everyone did their job. They talked to each other, encouraged each other and generally worked together as a formidable unit. That's how you win games.

Then I realized that's why I hate the Yankees. Yeah, they win games, too, but I hate them because they are all about star power. It's about A-Rod and Jeter and all the rest of those clowns. Yankee baseball, to me, seems more about personal best than teamwork. Contrast them, if you will, with the 2001 Mariners. Did you know that in the 2000-01 season, in which they won 116 games, the cumulative batting average was only .288? The great Edgar Martinez himself batted .306 (4th time in his career he went up over .300). I'm just saying. That season was all about teamwork. Sure, individuals put up some great numbers, but it was the sweet clicking on the field that set the record. It didn't matter who a ball went to, he fielded it and sent it to whoever else he needed to to get the opposing player out. There was no showing off. Individually AND collectively, each guy did his best. And it was a joy to watch.

Anyspike, that's that and I for one will be glad to have our weekends back. Theoretically, anyway.

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In other gripping news, I posted something on my food blog. Those of you yearning for bread and butter pudding will be pleased. I've really let that beautiful little site languish so I've committed to posting there, at a minimum, on Monday, Wednesday and Friday. In case you care.

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It's Passover and man, are we having the weather to prove it. We had hail storms all weekend (at least it wasn't burning). I keep waiting for the locusts and am thinking of slopping some lamb blood over the door posts and lintels just to be on the safe side. It's been insane. We went from a 78° day last Saturday to near freezing temperatures and hail stones this weekend. Someone in God's weather department didn't get the memo that it's spring.

Sheesh.

Belated Weekend Update

Friday afternoon, actual email exchange between The Spouse and me-self:

From: Spouse
To: Moi
Subject: Check it Out

From: Moi
To: Spouse
Subject: Re: Check it Out

Did he autograph our cheese?

From: Spouse
To: Moi
Subject: Re: Check it out

No, but he autographed the crab cake cookbook I got you.

From: Moi
To: Spouse
Subject: Re: Check it out

Awwww...you're just the bestest husband ever.

From: Spouse
To: Moi
Subject: Re: Check it out

I actually thought to ask him but what would the point of that have been other then ironic?

From: Moi
To: Spouse
Subject: Re: Check it out

Plus, the whole "never being able to eat the cheese because Tom Douglas signed it" thing.

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So guess what I'm making for dinner tonight?

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Friday evening was, of course, The Golden Dragon Ball. The Neighbor did The Child's hair because I'm totally inept at those sorts of things.

The Child wore the dress her aunt 'n uncle gave her for Christmas and her Grandma Eileen's mink stole. (Shut up...the poor thing has been dead for over 50 years).

This is the only boy she kissed.

I stayed home and ate pizza and watched "Atonement" just like I said I would. Only it wasn't BBQ chicken pizza because I didn't make it to Trader Joe's until Saturday. Still craving that, though.

Saturday

The Child's volleyball team was finally defeated in a game. Rumors are swirling, based on a conversation one of our parents had with their assistant coach, relative to the legitimacy of the other team's strategy. See, half their players didn't show up for the game, which meant they weren't required to sub in. Consequently, their strongest players played the whole time. Hmmmm....

It was a drubbing; the other team is undeniably good-the only other one in the division with an undefeated record. And there's no debate about the fact that our girls have a weak mental game; they start losing and it messes with their heads big time. But still...

In the evening The Spouse and I went downtown for a CD release party for a friend of his. It was pleasant. I didn't know very many people and you know how I am in a crowd of strangers. But I drank a very tasty Cosmo, the music was hot and it was nice to spend time with my husband doing something other than being home. Even though we like being home. We also commented on how cool it was that we could just leave The Child home alone. I reckon that in 14 years we have spent a total of $20 on babysitting. We always had friends or neighbors who watched her for free. And then she was old enough to be alone. Score.

Sunday

Final match of the regular season. Each game was "who needs a cocktail" close but our girls emerged victorious, for a final record of 6-1 on the season. Playoffs are next week. Hopefully some dark horse will eliminate St. Sneakybutt.

Winning

I watched the sunrise this morning, the rose pink sky glowing through the black, naked arms of The Neighbor's apple trees. I heard birdsong. Crocuses shine like a pool of lavender near the roses and the lawns are brandishing spears of tulip leaves. It's still 5 weeks away, but spring, she is a'comin'.

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The coming of spring signals many things, not the least among them CYO volleyball. We greeted this season with the best of all possible news, that Bad Coach was gone and Extremely Good Coach...the woman who first coached the team back in 5th grade, was returning. Whoo to the hoo and praisalluia! To make things even more exciting, our gym, famously called the Miracle Gym, was finished on time and the girls played their first game on their own home court this weekend.

This is a marvelous thing. The gym is marvelous because it is a sign that when you are determined and believe, things happen. Our school is entirely too small and too unendowed to be able to build a gym, even though the price tag was a "mere" $2 million. Initial fundraising among the parents netted commitments for $1k over the next 5 years, but hardly enough to break ground. And then an benefactor swooped in, giving us something like $1.5 for the project. And so it was done and the angels sang.

It's a sweet little gym, too. Dig the score board. Two other schools/parishes chipped in to bring the project to fruition, thus giving them a home court as well. But we get dibs 'cause it's on our land and we contributed the most.

And the girls, riven with joy and excitement, won their first match. Of course. I predict that based on sheer excitement and determination, they will bring home the first banner to hang in the Miracle gym. How cool would that be?

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The philosophical question has oft been proposed: If a man is alone in the woods, with no woman around to correct him, is he still wrong?

I freely admit that I don't know everything. I regularly defer to The Spouse on matters that are his acknowledged area of expertise: cars, World War II, computers, roasting meat, movie making (but not actors...I know all about that. We'll watch a movie and he'll say "Where have I seen him before?" and I'll be all, "Hello? 'Singin' in the Rain', 'Xanadu', 'An American in Paris'..." and he'll be, "Oh, right, Gene Kelly". He doesn't look things up on IMDb, he just goes to FMDb- Fluffy's Movie Database). Point is, he knows things and I know he knows things.

But when he's wrong, he's wrong. Last week I publically bet $5 that Heath Ledger's picture

would be the last one during the "In Memorium" bit at the Oscars. He took that "sucker bet", because it was the 2007 Oscars and Ledger died in 2008. So who's picture ended the somber montage? That's right.

Pay up, big boy.

He kinda hates to lose.

This is Weird

On Friday The Child and I went to Trader Joe's for the weekly shopping. I grabbed my purse and it felt too light. My wallet was gone. I knew I'd had it and she'd just seen it when she was frantically digging through my purse to find my cell phone so she could call Radio Disney. So we started searching the car. (We found the wallet...not the point of the story).

I was digging under my car seat and felt a weird prick or sting. I pulled out my hand and the middle finger of my left hand was immediately swollen and stiff...just like when I've been stung by a bee. I didn't think too much of it. The Child scrapped my finger in an effort to remove any potential stinger and then I just walked around the store holding a packet of frozen Dover sole to the ravaged digit.

By the time I went to bed the swelling had started to go down. There was never any fever or nausea of dizziness or other things that signal anaphylaxic shock so all was well.

Saturday morning my finger felt just fine. But it was bruised. Practically the whole finger. No swelling, no pain, I could move it just fine, but it looked like it had been smashed with a hammer. And it's still bruised.

I went on line to check it out...always a dicey proposition because every time you look up anything medical on the interwebs it appears that your condition is not only life threatening but exceedingly rare. I was able to confirm that a) I'm not dying of a mysterious bug bite and 2) bruising is a normal reaction.

But still. It's weird.

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Last night The Child was very busy in her room. She's very excited about the fact that Uncle Buck is going to be here in 3 short days and she's beginning the process of making her room comfy for him. After a while she came out, big grin on her face and said, "Mom, you should blog about this".

"What? That you're cleaning your room?"

"No. That I'm making it super nice for Uncle Buck. You know how when Uncle JP was here all he had to look at were a few High School Musical posters and the Cheetah Girls? Poor Uncle JP. Well, Uncle Buck will have Miley and the Jonas Brothers and all kinds of stuff".

Seems she completely decimated the Tiger Beatish magazine I'd purchased for her earlier that day and donned an entire wall with every pop star currently in continuous rotation on aforementioned Radio Disney.



Yeah. Uncle Buck is gonna love that.

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The volleyball championship game was on Saturday. The Child actually saw a fair amount of court time, all things considered. In fact, Bad Coach even subbed her in to serve in one game. That has never happened before. Probably her most glorious moments were when she was playing at the net. Twice she managed to get to balls that would have just rolled down the net, bumping them straight up so someone else could spike them. Both times they scored the point. Her serves were spot on, too. She did really well. The team won both their games. Guess that makes them the champions. Again.

I'm super proud of The Child for giving her best effort in every game, plus playing with grace and sportsmanship all season. It wasn't easy, what with Bad Coach being his typical bad self. It's hard to keep plugging when you're not getting any positive feedback or encouragement. But she did it, putting up with the negatives because she loves the game so much. She told me that she definitely wants to play CYO in the spring, even if Bad Coach is "coaching" (and really, we have to put it in air quotes because he's so bad) because she really wants to play in the new gym (which is going to be ready by next month).

I love that kid.

Volleyball and Pie

I am not at a PTA meeting this morning. This is me, being light of heart.

There are also merits to taking the high road. The Child had a volleyball game last night and many of the parents are the same ones who were being ridiculous on the weekend. I am happy to report that everyone was absolutely lovely to each other, laughing and joking and cheering for our kids like we always do. Maybe even more than we usually do. It was terrific.

The game? They went in with an undefeated record. Not so much now. However, it bears noting that after being smashed in the first game they came back and won the 2nd game 25-9. The Child was responsible for about 6 of those points, including her first ever spike at the net. It was a little piff of a thing but it surprised the frak out of the opposing team. And Bad Coach. And the snotty Princess. And The Child. Tee.

The girls started out with a 6 point lead in the 3rd game and then it went back and forth. Sadly, they lost, but they made the other team work for it, with a final score of 27-25. Hardly a drubbing. And for the record, our girls, who are 13 and 14, are "playing up", which means they have been facing high school sophomores and juniors all season. They so rock.

The Child still hates Bad Coach, who is still a Bad Coach and an idiot. But she told me last night that she wants to play CYO in the spring, even if he's the coach. (I continue to work behind the scenes to see to it that we have a good coach in the spring. I didn't engender all this political clout in my years on PTA for nuthin'. I know people. I'm going to work that like a mule in a field).

Meanwhile, parents are begging me to reconsider sending The Child to DC. Some of the folks that were such jerks at the rummage sale are even asking the head guy to credit their take to The Child's account. How do I feel about that? I'm not sure. On one hand, if I can send her without doing anymore fundraising and without paying for it myself, that would be a good thing. On the other, I'm still not sure, given a whole lot of stuff, whether this is really the group of kids with whom I want her spending a week in DC. I'm going to think and pray on it and talk to The Principal and see where that takes me. It'll take a very large and bright shiny sign to change my mind. Not to mention, Hat and I are seriously thinking that taking Rosie up on her suggestion of a road trip, with The Child, to Sandpoint in May. That sounds delicious. Almost delicious as pie. But not mincemeat.

About Mincemeat

Way back in the day, when there wasn't refrigeration and like that there, folks came up with a groovy idea for dealing with leftover meat that had begun to turn They chopped it up super fine, mixed it with strong liquors, dried fruits and other masking agents, popped it in a pastry and said, "Yum". Then they all died of food poisoning. But somehow the idea lived on.

Down the culinary road a pace, someone figured out that instead of rancid meat they should use fruit, like apples and green tomatoes. That's the sort of thing you find in most prepared jars of mincemeat today. But recipes I found for making the stuff from scratch very often still include some meat and suet. Personally, anything that calls for suet is a non-starter for me. Eeeww.

Anypie, many years ago I was on staff in the Continuing Education office at my alma mater. My boss was a charming, elegant man of refined tastes. The sort of gentleman you could picture in a smoking jacket, having a snifter of brandy in the parlour while his equally elegant and refined wife played a little Chopin on the baby grand. One Christmas he hosted a dinner party in his equisitely appointed home for the entire staff. A long table was set with a crisp white cloth, English bone china and gleaming silver candlesticks. The meal, which he and his wife had prepared, was a sumptuous event with many courses. We started with Oysters Rockefeller and, I think, champagne (the school was by mandate a tea total sort of place but that did not apply to the lifestyles of many players off campus) and ended with pie.

Mincemeat pie. Very lovely looking pie, flakey and perfectly browned crust from which oozed luxurious mincemeat. 'Cept, it was traditional mincemeat. As in beef. As in beef with sugar and apples and raisins. You know what? You cannot douse beef with enough brandy to make someone forget that they are eating sugared meat.

I love sweet and savory combinations. But there are limits. Would you put hard sauce on a burrito? Whipped cream on turkey? No. Meat is not a dessert. There. I said it.

I must away. I shall leave you with this, a little sumpin sumpin found recently while reading about pie. It made me laugh.

From Epulario (The Italian Banquet), published in 1598. The English translation:

To Make Pie That the Birds May Be Alive In them and Flie Out When It Is Cut Up

Make the coffin of a great pie or pastry, in the bottome thereof make a hole as big as your fist, or bigger if you will, let the sides of the coffin bee somwhat higher then ordinary pies, which done put it full of flower and bake it, and being baked, open the hole in the bottome, and take out the flower. Then having a pie of the bigness of the hole in the bottome of the coffin aforesaid, you shal put it into the coffin, withall put into the said coffin round about the aforesaid pie as many small live birds as the empty coffin will hold, besides the pie aforesaid. And this is to be at such time as you send the pie to the table, and set before the guests: where uncovering or cutting up the lid of the great pie, all the birds will flie out, which is to delight and pleasure shew to the company. And because they shall not bee altogether mocked, you shall cut open the small pie, and in this sort you may make many others, the like you may do with a tart.

Ah-ah-choooooo

I need bacon. Specifically, I need bacon fat. Oh, yes I do. Because I have 4 tomatoes in my garden that are never going to ripen and they need to be fried.

I sit so wrong on my desk chair that it isn't even funny. I'm going to cripple myself. My friend Julie says I should get one of those big balls to sit on because it would force me to sit properly. But then I couldn't pull one leg under myself and stick the other one up on my desk when I play SimCity. Apparently I'm not overly concerned about the cripple thing.

I miss JP. I want him to move to Seattle.

The Child is playing volleyball with Bad Coach. Last week only 6 girls showed up for the game so he had to play everyone. It must have killed him. It probably bugged him even more that The Child pretty much single handedly scored every point in their first game, got all her serves over and was generally not making any mistakes. And his 3 favorite players were largely useless. Hi, the ball is at the net. It's called spiking.

My kitchen is clean.

My cold makes me snore. Last night The Spouse hit me. Then I was afraid to fall back asleep. Even though he was snoring. I need my own room.

The season premiere of "Brothers and Sisters" was really good. I think there's a Cindy Sheehan storyline coming up for Sally Field. The Hat thinks I look like Rachael Griffiths. I wish.

I miss Chicago. I coul really go for the view from the Balcony of Terror about now.

I'm going to go see my baby tomorrow. He misses me. I love him.

What a Weekend

And it hasn't even officially started yet. Today was marked by a lot of running around, which was mostly rewarding. At the moment, The Child is fixin' to make a deep fried Twinkie. Horrors! She's got a speech tournament tomorrow and she's performing (?) two pieces, one a dramatic reading from (what else?) The Hobbit and the other is a demonstration on how to make aforementioned WMD snack treat. Since she's not actually going to take a deep fryer to the meet, she has to make one now to use for demonstration purposes. Color me grossed out*.

Of course, as she's doing this she's wearing my bathrobe and her hair is wet. And we have to leave in 30 minutes to pick up The Spouse at work so we can get some sushi and then see a community theatre production of "Bye Bye Birdie". Because The Spouse is one of the few straight men I know who adores musical theatre. (Which he's been pronouncing as "theatah" all week).

While I too am looking forward to a few tuna rolls and "The Telephone Song", I am also hoping that we'll be home in time for the second airing of "BSG". Because it's Friday. And because it wasn't on last week. And I'm jonesing here for my Laura Roslin, Bill Adama and Starbuck. I'm geeky like that.

Then tomorrow it's up early to drive north for the tournament. Which I have to stick around for, at least for a little while. That makes me sound like an uninvolved parent. I hope you know I'm not. Part of this parenting gig is being there for your kid...chaperoning field trips and watching volleyball games and being in the audience when she performs. And I remember how much it meant to me to know that Dame Judi and Sean were there for me when I was doing stuff. It's just that, really, I can think of 412 things I'd rather do than sit and watch a bunch of middle school kids give speeches. Even if one of them is my own progeny. Sigh. There it is.

I guess I can leave after the first round of speeches, which will be noonish. And I intend to do so for lo, it is the weekend and even though it looks like JP is jumping on the bandwagon, I've got me some videos to spin up. (It's not that I mind if he plays videos, mind you. He was doing it way before I was. It's just that sometimes we share a brain and that could lead to a smidge of redundancy. Oh well, life is full of challenges like that).

My nails need a manicure before the theatah but since it'll be a while before I can get into All 80s Weekend, we'll start off with this little number. Got the tip from Red7Eric, who knew of this group when he lived in the UK. I have never, ever heard of them or this song but apparently they were big across the pond, big enough to open for bands like INXS. Plus you have to love a band named "Voice of the Beehive". Mercy.







*We've made deep fried Twinkies before, for Forth o' Juleye, and there is an appeal. But really, not the healthiest snack choice.

Ouch

It's really windy today and the front door just blew open. That's a bad thing because The Dog, who usually acts like he loves us to pieces, really hates us and wants to escape from his brutal life of eating, sleeping and eating some more before he sleeps. So when the door blows open, he seizes the opportunity and runs for it. This always requires grabbing a treat and the leash, saying a quick prayer to St. Francis and going out after him. Which is tough because if I run he thinks we're having one last game of chase before he's free forever. But if I just saunter along calling, "Here boy! Treat!" he ignores me and keeps running. You can almost hear his little paws tapping out "Freedom! Freedom!" So anyway, I'd just gotten out of the shower and while I was dressed and had shoes on, my hair is still wet and really, the last thing I wanted to do was get some exercise because, sheesh, we've already been for a walk this morning.

I heard the door slam open, jumped up from my desk and sorta slipped a little (because a rolling chair isn't really the best launch pad in the world) and I caught my hand on the bookcase to steady myself, while still moving toward the living room and I whacked a glass carafe with my pinky, sending the carafe bouncing to the floor along with the glass fisherman's float that sits on top of it to keep bugs out of the wine. As all this is clattering to the floor and bouncing around I ran to the front door and slammed it shut and locked it against future breezes.

And The Dog was just sitting on the couch looking at me with an expression that said, "Geez, lady. I'm sleeping here. Keep it down".

My finger really hurts.

Things to be thankful for, besides not having to chase The Dog down the street: there was no wine in the carafe so I don't have to mop and also, apparently French glass doesn't break.

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In other news, my child hates me. Again.

Teenagers are not known for their searing logic skills. Everything is about them. I know that. But sometimes I still step right out onto that minefield and start picking daisies. La di dah.

This morning she was angling for some extra jobs because she wants to make money to buy papa and I Christmas presents. Which is adorable of her. So we start brainstorming. Except that I don't have any intention of paying her to do things she's supposed to do, like keep her room clean or unload the dishwasher. There's stuff people have to do because they live in a family. It's not glamorous, it just is. Fine. So I start suggesting things like mopping (which I hate to do) and such and she's pretty jiggy with it but then she says, "And I've been thinking. You know how you credit me with $10 every time I detail the car? Well, I'm thinking you should pay me half and keep half". Right. The reason she is credited $10 is that detailing the car is the way she's "paying back" the $500 frakking dollars she owes us for the car window she broke this summer. So I calmly remind her of this fact and suddenly she's got her fangs out and she's screaming at me, "Why do you always throw that in my face!?! Can't you just let it drop!?!"

I take a deep breath and point out, very logically, that I never bring it up except when, like at this moment, she forgets why she's in this whole car detailing situation in the first place. Which results in her going into her room and slamming the door.

Except it's time to go to school so I tell her she needs to get her stuff and in the process I ask if she has all her homework and she snarfs out, "Yes" and stalks out the door. In the car I ask if she has her homework folder. "NO! It's at school! I have my homework, ok?"

Not ok. At this point I'm about to slap her from here to tomorrow but I just grip the steering wheel a little tighter and say softly, "I do not appreciate that tone of voice. It is very disrespectful."

"Well, maybe if you would just trust me..." she begins.

"Do you have any missing assignments?"

"What? No! Well. Yes. One in math and one in lit."

"No TV".

"MOM!!!! That's so not fair! I did the work, I just couldn't find it at the time and turned it in after class".

"Where was the homework?"

"Around. In my desk or whatever".

So I remind her that this is precisely why she has a homework folder because I know she does the work but she has to be able to find it when it's called for so that she gets the credit.

"I'm just trying to help you help yourself", I say. And I'm still keep a calm tone.

"Well, it doesn't help me when you yell at me about it!" she yells. "Stop yelling at me!"

This is me. Not yelling at her. It's too early in the game to give up but seriously, I am having a devil of a time cracking the code. Kids.

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And finally, yesterday The Child and her team-mates were presented with championship trophies. In a moment of pure poetry, she also received a volleyball t-shirt from Jlow which has a big dragony creature spiking a volleyball at a bunch of frightened rabbits. This is perfect because when they play community ball their team name is "Spikers" and their school mascot is the dragon. How did she know?

Volleyball Photo Album

Here's what we saw a lot of this season. That's my darling Mac next to The Child. She's become a hanging out/singing pop songs/talking about everything sort of friend to The Child. She's a gift. Mac asked me last night what she should call me (since we're starting to spend more time together and she's not allowed to address adults by their first names).

"Auntie"? I suggested.

"Really, I can call you 'Auntie'? That's so awesome!" she said, all breathless and moved.

I love that.




And here you see The Child between scoring points. Note the nice long shorts





















And wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles, I got this shot of her, right before she had her "biff at the net" opportunity. Check out that form. Note the poised toes. What a rock star.




















This is the team. Please note that Bad Coach has NOT been inducted into the Exalted Order of Koihead. This is a mocking use of the koi. Most fitting.

No Time for Losers 'Cause We Are the Champions. Of the World.

Turns out that going into the game last night, our undefeated team had already been declared the champions. The "playoffs" were no such thing, just a round robin exercise in "everyone plays, you're all winners". Starting at 5:30 there were 6 teams, 1 gym, 2 teams playing at at a time to 25. Long night. Dear Recreation People, let's do it on a Saturday next time. Thank you.

So. Our first game. Pretty much the drill as it's been all season. The Child and the other four "weak" players played bench while the starters slept-walked to a victory. (They all got a few minutes on the court). Then came the pizza and studying and it was finally our turn again.

By this time, Good Coach Amy and Good Coach Alex had arrived and were sitting with me. Bad Coach knew this. Maybe it had something to do with this, maybe it didn't, but in the second game The Child was subbed in pretty early and kept in. Coincidence? Perhaps. But I'll tell you what it really was: pure, unadulterated vindication.

By the time she came in we were down 1-7. The starters had been dreadful. I kept thinking, "This clown would rather lose with his starters than take a chance on winning with everyone". At one point I turned to Good Coach Amy and before I said anything she said, "I'm on it". "Just wanted you to see it's not just me", I said.

Finally, he subs in The Child. A ball comes right at her and she bumps it back with authority. We score the point. The team starts to rally. We even the score. The Child is still in. A few points later a ball comes into the second line and no one is there. The Child, who is playing the net, throws herself after the ball, nailing it before it hits the floor and popping it straight up so that it can be set and spiked for the point. Another ball comes, right at and just over the net and The Child jumps straight up and biffs it with one hand back over the net. Point. The crowd is, how you Americans say, going wild. Then, amazingly, it's her turn to serve and she's still in. She gets the ball over the net and our girls score easily on the return. She serves again - game point - and the other team, deer in the headlights, can't return it.

It was straight out of an Afterschool Special. The crowd was jumping up and down, screaming. People were thumping me on the back. The Child comes running over, practically in tears she's so thrilled, for lots of hugs and "atta girls". It was absolutely priceless. I couldn't have scripted it better. Bad Coach comes up, shoots me a look and says to The Child, "That's what you have to do if you want to play". Bastard. But it wasn't about him anymore, it was about my kid feeling like a million bucks because she'd shown him everything she's got.

She also saw some action in the third game and was again spot on every time. There was even a line call that was not unlike the one she messed up last week but this time she got it right. She even got to serve again, although our girls weren't able to return it. Still, they won the game.

When we got home we walked in singing "We are the Champions" and I had to give her 3 tabs of Valium to sky down. (Not really. And I don't think 3 would have been enough).

Y'all and your "hang in there" advice were spot on. If we'd bailed she would never, never had that satisfaction. And, if she ends up not playing CYO then she ends her volleyball experience on the highest of notes. Thanks again for encouraging her/us to keep playing. It was absolutely priceless. Wish you could have been there.

So. This is What it's Like to Be Home on a Tuesday

I received a "thank you" email from Philip, my volunteer coordinator last night. After 14 months of Tuesdays at "the office", I now have my Tuesdays back. This is a good thing but it feels a little weird.

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The storm systems are giving us a break today. That's a good thing. It would be a better thing if it would hold off tomorrow as well, when we have to haul up to the northend, on the state's most jammed freeway, for a round robin tournement to finish up volleyball. But whatcha gonna do?

The Child went to her practise last night. At first she didn't want to but we had a little chat with Good Coach, who said she was going to come to the playoff game. She asked The Child if she'd be willing to play one more time and she said yes.

I'm proud of her. She's not a quitter. And, in the end and after reading all your fine advice, that seemed to be the fundamental question. Is she going to give up because Coach is a jerk? The answer is a resounding, "nope". Although, Charlie left a statement which bears repeating and which, I expect, will join my repetoire of motherly wisdom, and I'm paraphrasing here: "This is small beer and life is a big brewery". One does have to pick ones battles. And while, in the grand scheme of Things, 7th grade volleyball might not be that big of a deal, it's important to The Child right now so she soldiers on.

Coach did ask her last night what the problem was on Thursday (with me, that is) and she said, "My mom is upset that you don't play everyone fairly". He gave his standard excuse, which is that people who don't do well don't play. To which she responded, "Well, then why do you leave in players like J and N when they mess up?" To which he replied, "Go practise". He's a loser.

Funny thing about the playoffs. Usually, in this league, there are only 2 teams with winning records so they always just face off and that's that. This year they've decided everyone gets to play, regardless of record. Part of me is thinking it would be classic if we were eliminated by a team with an 0-6 record. Serve him right. But our girls are fighters and I'm sure they'll survive until the last round. And then that will be that. Thanks for all your comments and emails yesterday. You helped.

---

Yesterday was a tough one for The Child. She was suffering from a classic case of "No body loves me, everybody hates me". I found her eating worms when she was supposed to be doing homework and tried to talk to her about it but was rebuffed with the traditional "You don't understand what it's like to be me". No. I don't. I do remember what it's like to be a 7th grader, trying to find your way in the thickets of friendship and self-acceptance but hey, sometimes that's not good enough. Sometimes a girl just has to wallow. It wasn't anything that a plate of ribs and beating her parents at blackjack couldn't cure, though.

This morning she was in a much better mood. She even did her hair and, gasp, put on a little makeup. (I don't know where she learned how to do such a delicate job of applying makeup. Not having worn much myself until I was in my 30s, I sure didn't teach her). She looked very nice. And we talked, calmly this time, about the fickleness of middle school girls and I reminded her that no one can make her feel inferior without her consent (Eleanor Roosevelt) and that the trick is to not seek so much to be loved as to love (St. Francis). Oh, I'm just full of such bon mots. But it seemed to help and she was very chipper when I dropped her at school today.
My little trooper.

Now I must go face things and clean things and watch last week's episode of "Gilmore girls" so I'm ready for tonight. And The Neighbor returns home today from her sojourn in LA. Yippee.

What Would You Do?

Remember last spring when I had a little chat with The Child's volleyball coach? Well, it didn't take.

The man likes to win. Who doesn't? But I have this crazy idea that sports for kids are supposed to be about 2 things: having fun and learning skills. Coaches have an important job. It is in their power to help encourage kids to do their best, learn some discipline, develop things like teamwork and sportsmanship and all sorts of other stuff that will inform them in later years.

Let me tell you something, this guy is never going to have some uplifting movie made about him. Herman Boone he ain't.

This has been his strategy for success this season: play the strong players; leave them in no matter what they do; sub in the weaker players at the serving spot so they won't actually get to serve; take them out after a minute, sooner if they mess up and make sure you yell at them for missing the ball or calling a line wrong; if a strong player messes up, leave her in because "it happens".

There are 5 girls, The Child among them, who he considers "weak". Now, for the record, none of them are that bad. They are all capable of serving over the net and returning the ball. Actually, their "weakness" is really only attributable to 2 things that I can see. None of them can serve overhand and none of them are able to spike the ball. Otherwise, they are just as capable as any other player.

Last Wednesday, Coach benched The Child. I could not tell what she had done. After the game she said it was because she was moving her feet. Moving her feet. The way she'd been taught when she first learned to play (by a woman who a coaching goddess, a woman about whom a movie would most definately be made). This made no sense to me but on Thursday, before the game, I mentioned it to the team assistant, a lovely young lady who is a grad of St. G's and earning high school service house by assisting the team. She is also a good friend of The Child's. Mac noted that she too had found the benching confusing and had a chance to mention it to the Coach. She came up to me right before the game to explain that it wasn't that she was moving her feet but that she wasn't doing it right. Well, ok. Sounds to me like a fab opportunity for Coach to, you know, coach and direct her in the correct form. It still didn't seem bench-worthy.

Then the game started and he was doing all the same stuff. He pulled The Child after 2 minutes and the ball had not even come in her general direction. She sat out the rest of the game. Game 2 she actually got to serve and got the ball over. She returned a bump. Then she missed a bump. Then she called a ball in when it was out. He angrily pulled her from the game. 2 or 3 playes later on of his pets did exactly the same thing. She stayed in with a "That's alright".

At this point, I got up and left the gym. I pounded a wall. I paced around. When I finally returned, it was to stand in the doorway, arms crossed, looking pissed. I didn't care. They had to go to a 3rd game and I spent most of that one in the hall as well.

As soon as the game was over I grabbed our stuff and left. Coach was coming toward me but I didn't even look at him. I was too pissed to talk. The Child had to use the bathroom and Mac came up to me to say that Coach had remarked that I didn't seem pleased. Mac responded that I wasn't. "Well, she should talk to me, then", he said. "She has," answered Mac. Meanwhile, Mac's mom came up and asked what was wrong. I told her and she said, "Well, you're right, he should play them all equally". (See, it's not just me).

So here's the thing: my head is in a bunch of places.

Part of me is thinking, "Fuggedaboutit". She's played the season and fulfilled her obligations. Let's just blow the playoffs. I have better things to do than shortchange study time, eat dinner late and drive all over town so I can watch my kid sit on the bench all night. What's the frakking point?

Another part of me says that life isn't always easy and you don't cut and run just because you aren't getting along with your boss or fighting with your husband or unhappy with a friend. I don't want The Child getting the idea that folding one's tent at the first sign of trouble is a great strategy.

But then I think that there is a place for getting out of a situation that is unhealthy. Sure, you work to make things better but if you keep hitting a brickwall then sometimes getting out is a perfectly reasonable, nay, healthy response.

Sheesh. If these sorts of situations are opportunities to learn something, then what lesson should I be teaching her? She's already told me that if he's coaching CYO this spring she doesn't want to play. She's also told me that she doesn't care about taking time outside of practise to work on skills because "He's not going to let me play so why should I 'bring it'?" And I HATE hearing something like that from her.

So the question is, do we bother with playoffs and if we do, should I say something to Coach or just let it lie and meanwhile, do everything I can (which is semi-considerable) to see to it that he doesn't coach CYO? And if I say something to him, exactly what should that be?

Thoughts?

Uncle JP, Have You Bought that Shotgun Yet?

So I'm sitting at the volleyball game last night and 3 young men saunter in and sit down near me. They're maybe 12-14 years old. They aren't from The Child's school, just kids hanging around. They begin to talk amongst themselves. I can't really make out what they are saying exactly; the game was going on and they were speaking in fairly quiet tones. But they have clearly arrived at the realization that girls maybe don't completely stink afterall. One kid, who had very long eyelashes, was holding forth about how when he likes a girl she doesn't like him but when he stops liking her and likes someone else then the first girl starts liking him all of a sudden. (I get many snaps for not snorting out loud or in anyway mocking the callowness of youth).

Then the conversation migrates from the general to the specific. Specifically, the girls in front of them. From the snippets picked up and general tone I can tell they are not being disrespectful or mean. They are in appraisal mode. They like what they see. Giggling begins. I decide the fair thing to do is lean over and say, quite gently, "Guys, you might want to be aware that you're sitting with the parents of those young ladies".

The kid nearest me claps his hand over his mouth saying, "My bad". The one in the middle, the one with the long, dreamy eyelashes and the "they like me, then they don't" story, presses his lips together and kind of hunches down in embarrasment. Then "My Bad" says to me, "Is number 3 your daughter?"

I answer in the affirmative.

"Cool," he says.

Appropos of nothing, I'm going to get her longer volleyball shorts. Today.

It's Bad to Procrastinate. Seriously.

I procrastinate about the things which I consider to be drudgery. "Drudgery" is a relative term. I find most household related tasks to be very satisfying. The accomplishment is verifiable, the rewards immediate. Many of the daily tasks, the ones that have to be done over and over and never end don't bug me.

And then there's the other stuff. The stuff about which I procrastinate because it just doesn't satisfy me in the same way. I wish I could be one of those people who does all the stuff they don't like first thing to get it out of the way. Rather, I fancy that if I just ignore it long enough someone else will do it. Oddly, they never do.

I do wish I could figure out how to do things when I have the time to do them instead of thinking that there will be more time later. I really should know better by now. And I'm not talking about big dramatic things like being hospitalized or hit by a truck. It's just that when I think that the whole day is spreading in front of me the reality is, maybe not so much.

After too much noodling around yesterday I told myself to set the timer and get to my drudgeries. Which I did, because sometimes I listen to myself. Then the phone rang: The Child calling from school, in pain.

So yesterday ended up being all buggered up. But today was begun with renewed spirit and determination to banish the drudgeries so that they aren't niggling at me while I'm trying to do the things that bring pleasure and satisfaction. So far so good. I'd like to dismiss these things as unimportant in the grand scheme of things, and maybe on some level they are. But the boring little details of day-to-day life are like putting oil in the car. It's smelly, messy and not very glamorous but it makes everything that matters run more smoothly. And I just this second realized that this is also part of the reason that I "dress up" every day. Because those tasks I deem drudgery don't feel so drudgy when I'm wearing cute little pumps and a flirty skirt.

---

And The Child, thank you for asking, is fine. For the last couple of weeks, she's been complaining off and on of stomach pains. She's been, pun intended, gutting up just fine in spite of it but yesterday it was troublesome enough that she wanted to come home. I was, of course, reluctant. My mind always runs on two simultaneous and opposing tracks in these situations.

Track 1: She's faking, she's trying to get out of something, I should tell her to get back to work and stop being such a slacker or she'll never amount to anything.

Track 2: Oh. My. God. Something is so wrong. Something is seriously, seriously wrong. God, please don't let it be a tumor.

'Cause I'm balanced like that.

I picked her up and initiated the Dr. Mom inquisition. She describes the pain, the conditions under which she experiences it, etc. etc. I rule out all the obvious things via a series of unbloggable questions. Then I ask about emotional stuff, a test she wasn't prepared for, someone trying to take her lunch money, that sort of thing. She assures me that school is great, nothing's going on, it isn't anything like that. I have her do the "jumping test" to see if it's her appendix. Kids with appendicitis will either refuse to jump or jump once and stop because the pain is so bad. I had to tell The Child to stop jumping.

I get her into bed with a water bottle and before calling the pediatrician's office, google "abdominal pain". Now, we all know that if you google an ailment you will be taken to a site that describes your exact symptoms and diagnosis you as terminal and incurable. But I got lucky and the first hit was a renowned pediatrician's site, wherein he described 7 common abdominal complaints, 5 of which are not serious and 2 of which are. And it seemed really clear that what The Child was suffering from was strained abs.

She had an appointment in the afternoon and the doctor pretty much confirmed my theory. She did all the requisite poking and prodding and found nothing abnormal. The Child's descriptions were consistent with strained muscles. The only thing the doc was concerned about was that she was in enough pain to want to come home from school so if she isn't better by next Monday I have to take her in again. But I don't think that will be the case.

She got a doctor's note excusing her from PE (oh, what I wouldn't have given for something like that in my youth) and is laying off volleyball this week. And how did she do this, you ask? No way of knowing. Could have been a volleyball dive, could have been a prolonged bout of sneezing, could have been lugging 412 pounds of school supplies up 2 flights of stairs on the first day of school. She just has to take it easy so the muscles can heal.

Of couse, she decided to milk all this today and requested to stay home. And you know what? I let her. Less running around on her behalf means that much more time to accomplish my lofty drudgery goals. Cue the cashmere and pearls and action!

---

Both Lauren Graham and Sting were on "Studio 60" last night. Nowhere near enough of either of them but still. It was fun.

So There

I did it. I started a file labeled "High Schools" and put some stuff in it from last night. I filed it behind this year's Parent Handbook and it's going to sit there until we need it. One more step toward making peace with my child getting older.

The hooha last night was just fine. I told The Principal that we were only going to one session because we needed to get home. (I didn't tell her we needed to get home to eat hoisin pork in homemade onion crepes and watch "Gilmore girls"). I let The Child decide which session we should attend and she chose the one for a school not previously on the list but which she's become enamoured of. (I am assuming this interest has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that a particular boy hopes to go there).

And I must admit, I was impressed. It sounded like a pretty fine school. The admissions dude talked about how they are unique among the Catholic high schools in that, while they do look at grades, they also look at leadership potential and a kid's school and community involvement. They do accomodate LD kids. It's not huge, it's closer to our house than our (so far) #1 choice and they have an undefeated girls volleyball team.

The Child was the only kid at our session (and she was very cute and attentive) so the school's principal gave her a school t-shirt. She also scored pens and rubber bracelets. She read the entire school prospectus in bed last night and woke up this morning just bursting to tell me all she'd learned.

I did not want to rain on her parade but I did feel compelled to tell her that we are in the "information" phase and no decisions are being made until next year. Which she got. But she's still excited.

Meanwhile, she looked particularly cute this morning. I told her that she looks very mature when she wears her uniform skirt instead of pants. (I don't know why this is but it's true). "Oh, well,"she said, nonchalantly hoisting her backpack on her shoulder, "that's probably because I've decided to start acting like I'm already in high school".

I think that's a good thing.

I said, "I realize this will fall on deaf ears because you're a kid and kids are always focused on their future but you know, don't forget to enjoy your time right now. As Warren Zevon said, 'Enjoy every sandwich'".

"Huh?"

I explained and then she said, "Who's Warren Zevon?"

"You know, the "Werewolves of London" guy".

"Oh, right. Him".

And then she sang "Ah-oooo, werewolves of London" all the way to school

Where are You Going, My Little One, Little One

Back in my day, you graduated 8th grade and went on to one of the two high schools in the area, depending on where you lived. 4 years later, if you were so inclined, you took the SAT, applied to a college or two and left home. Or you didn’t.

There might be a smidge more pressure on kids now a days.

Tonight is the first in a series of opportunities for us to start weighing high school options for The Child, as all the Catholic high schools in the area send representatives to an information night at St. G’s. "We're going tonight, right, Mama? This is important."

Have I mentioned that The Child is in the 7th grade?

It still sometimes surprises me that my little pudding faced boofie baby is old enough to start thinking about Next Steps. You go along and you go along and then, wham, out of nowhere you remember again that the dependent, dripping thing you started out with is learning to do for itself. Breast to bottle to sippy cup and then all of a sudden, the kid is getting her own milk out of the fridge. And then going to the store, by herself, to buy the milk.

And while I'm here, just trying to enjoy the ride, The Child has been focusing more and more on her future. She talks all the time about the summer, 2 years hence, which she’ll be spending in France with Nicole et famille. She’s already told me that she expects to take a year or two before going to college, to travel and work. She wants to get married (still mostly to Daniel Radcliffe, but the pool is widening) and have babies (probably 5).

I’m still trying to get her to remember to brush her hair in the morning.

So, anyway, here we are, preparing for an informational meeting. As you know, I am not a fan of the evening meeting, even less so when it is a Tuesday and “Gilmore girls” is on at 8. And with 2 nights of volleyball plus choir, this is the only evening when the routine is not dictated by extras. And I like that about Tuesday nights.

I know what you’re thinking. “Isn’t your child’s future more important than a television show?” Well, sure, most of the time it is. But in this case, if she goes to Catholic high school there is really only one choice. Most of the schools are fiercely competitive and academic. Slews of 4.0 students don’t get into these schools. And “fiercely competitive and academic” is not a phrase that applies to The Child. There was one other high school in which she expressed interest; until we found out they had moved their campus much farther east than I intend to drive.

The school at the top of the list has a sterling reputation, a renowned theater & music program and volleyball. It is also a school that ‘gets’ learning disabilities and has programs to support LD students, which most of the other Catholic high schools do not. So we will go to the 20-minute session at 7 o’clock and come home. We’ll get our feet wet with this whole “planning your future” thing and set up an information file and the next time there is an informational meeting we’ll go check out another school or two, because one does need options.

But in writing this I realize that my “dipping one toe” strategy has less to do with keeping Tuesday evening sacrosanct than with the fact that sometimes I’m so not ready for this. I’m still wrapping my head around having a middle schooler, people. Shouldn't I get comfortable with that idea before I ship her off to high school? I know all this growing-up-in-a-blink-of-an-eye is universal. I've seen the "when did this happen" expression on the faces of Dame Judi & Sean Connery. Children grow up and you don't feel any older and it catches you by surprise, even when it probably shouldn't.

"Turn around and she's 2, turn around and she's 4, turn around and she's a young girl, going out of the door"...

Basta! It is a perfect fall day and I promised The Spouse cookies. I can only indulge all things varklempt a little longer. I shall do this by listening to Warren Zevon's "Tenderness on the Block", rock's answer to "Sunrise, Sunset". And then I shall snap out of it with a little something else by Mr. Zevon. I like having a plan.

Extra Credit

Yesterday afternoon was, I confess, an exercise in the-best-laid-plans phenomenon. I knew it would be a little nutty and was prepared for it. But then, well, this is how I summed it up, in an email to Jon:

I am about ready to take my child by her neck and wring it. She was late coming out of study hall, to the point that I had to go looking all over school for her (because she did her study hall in her classroom, not in study hall proper) and by the time we actually got to the car it was too damn late to try and get across town for choir so we came home and I called her in absent to choir and then she realized she left her math book at school, which means she'll have a missing assignment report which means she'll lose tv privileges for a week so she spent 15 minutes crying about it instead of doing the other work she has and we have to leave in 40 fracking minutes for her volleyball game. And J is coming to pick up Trudy which means that The Child will feel compelled to get up and dance around when she arrives. Oh, and did I mention she needs a pomegranate for school tomorrow?

Hello? Who needs a cocktail?

This apparently made Jon laugh. That's what I'm here for.

So this bloody pomegranate thing. The 7th grade has been reading myths and folklore, in a run up to the big book of the trimester, The Hobbit. After reading the myth of Persephone the teacher said that anyone who brought a pomegrantate to class would get extra credit. Query: do teachers not realize that assignments like this are not assignments for the children, but for the parents? Tell them to find a picture of a pomegranate on the Internet or to make a papier mache pomegranate (that could be kinda cool). Have them write a cinquain poem about bloody pomegranates but giving a kid one day to bring an out-of-season fruit to school is not the way to engender the good will of people who you need to chaperone your field trips.

Right. So I check at the co-op. They don't have any. We go to the game. We have to wait for the first group to finish up so I go to the Safeway right by the community center. No pomegranates. Why would there be? We see pomegranates in the winter, usually around Christmas time.

On the way home The Child suggests we check some other stores. "It's nearly 8pm, I'm hungry and you still have homework," I said, rather unsympathetically. "Let's hope you're doing good work in lit already. Besides," I add, "this isn't even pomegranate season".

"I know," she answered blithely, "that's why it's extra credit". (Silently I sneer, "Mr. R., I got your extra credit right here".)

There's a funky produce stand on our way home and The Child sees that the lights are still on. We stop. They have pomegranates for $1.89 each. I have $2. She buys the bloody thing and I instruct her to put it immediately in her backpack the second we get home because I know that if she manages to leave it behind I will not be pleased.

Btw, one of her team-mates had her math book with her so The Child was able to photocopy her assignment and get it done. No missing assignment AND she had a pomegranate to turn in. Huzzah, huzzah. But shouldn't I be the one who gets the extra credit?

---

There is something that mitigates any residual frustration I may feel from yesterday, which is, of course, the premiere of "Battlestar Galactica" in just a little less than 8 hours. I have a plan.

Postgame Alert

Jefferson Spikers 2 Ballard "What? Is that a volleyball?" 0

Spikers Season 2-0

Is it Thursday Already?

It’s probably just me but there should be a law wherein only people currently in the possession of children should be allowed to schedule children’s activities.

The fall season of volleyball is through a community center league. The games are always on school nights. When the game is for the early evening it’s ok, but some of the games are scheduled for later, like 7:30, and usually in the hinterland. Even if, as usually happens, the girls win the first two matches, thus eliminating the need for a 3rd, we’re looking at an hour, plus travel time. It’s madness, I tell you. Children also have to do homework and eat a decent supper and get to bed.

Additionally, it turns out our games are on alternating Wednesdays and Thursdays, which would be fine except The Child has choir practice on Thursday. It’s doable, just a little nuttier than I would like. She’ll leave choir early this week and then in the course of the season she’ll miss one game and one practise. It’ll be fine.

When she started school we had a “one activity a trimester” rule. This worked very well when she was little and as she got older we upped the ante to 2 activities.

Things changed again this year. Volleyball and choir are no brainers. She loves volleyball and it’s good for a kid to have an athletic activity. Maybe she’ll go to college at Pepperdine and be very popular. She loves to sing in the choir and it is good for a kid to be exposed to the arts. Plus, it’s important for her to minister in the parish.

This year, however, she also wanted to join the Debate Club. As has been mentioned, this suits her innate talent for verbary and argument. In addition to that, middle school students at St. G’s are required to perform 30 service hours a year. Now on Wednesdays she stays after school to help with the Arts & Crafts program.

The good news: Monday through Thursday I have until at least 4pm to do as I like (or need).

On the other hand, is it too much? Moms. We worry like that.

This is a one trimester at a time kind of deal. So far it is working. She is getting her homework done. She’s getting enough rest. She’s happy, not stressed.

What about downtime, you ask? Well, you know, pretty much her idea of downtime is vegging in front of some sort of screen. One only needs so much of that. And at first she even considered dropping something in the interest of “more free time”.

But on reflection, these activites are what she does in her “free time”. She participates in them because she enjoys them. She’s spending time with friends; she’s engaging her mind and her heart. And it’s a lot, at least on paper, but having a fair amount of structure is actually encouraging more focus and discipline on her part. And let’s face it, that’s also real life. We all have to learn to manage our work and indulge our interests. It’s not a bad thing, at 12, to learn how to accommodate a lot of diverse activates and still fulfill your obligations, which in her case is keeping her grades about a D.

So, that’s the deal this trimester. When the 2nd one starts we’ll re-evaluate. If she decides she’d like to have fewer extracurriculars then she’ll drop something. I’m not, fortunately for her, a parent who’s going to insist she have her finger in every pie nor do I take inordinate pride in being “on the go”. Less stuff would be fine with me. For now, more is just dandy, too.

I'm Going to Make Another Pot of Coffee

The "Family Communication Envelope" comes home on Wednesday. This is either a blessing or a curse. It is a blessing because it is always important to know what is going on at school. It is a curse because there is inevitably a form to fill out. I've complained before about paperwork and yep, I'm about to do it again.

Sometimes I have the paper thing under control. When it is, I'm operating on the "do it now" principle wherein debit slips are entered right away into Quicken (rather than riding around in my wallet for a week), permission slips or what-have-you are signed and returned the day they arrive, RSVPs are respondez s'il vous plait'd to immediately and there is never, ever a pile of papers in my desk drawer. This would not be one of those times.

I spent about 3 hours yesterday mucking about with papers and probably have another 2 hours worth today. I like to think that the bliss of having everything is duly registered, signed, entered and/or written on the calendar will inspire me to stay on top of it. I know better. But a girl can dream.

In other news:

Sports

The first volleyball game of the season is tonight. The genius who schedules these things has us at a north-end community center at 5pm. 5 fracking p.m. Query: how the frack do people who work 9-5 ever get their children to anything? The map says it's a 17 minute drive. That assumes that I-5 is unoccupied on a weekday. I-5 is never unoccupied. Therefore, we will be leaving at 4pm and pray to the car gods we make it in time.

Also, no one gives a flying fig about the Mariners. I'm not even reading the "postgame alerts" when they arrive in my email box. What a disappointing season. As for football (which I really don't care about that much but I'm going to have to because the Ms suck) Shaun Alexander has a bad foot and is out for a few weeks. Not to worry. He's a fine player but the Seahawks are perfectly capable of winning without him. It's not great news but the 12th man is not worried. Know who the 'Hawks are playing on Sunday? Da Bears. (Lorraine waves to Lefty Tude & Iwanski. Hi Chicago!)

Entertainment

"Gilmore girls" was good. Not great, not awesome, but perfectly acceptable. JP did a live blog of the premiere and I can add nothing to his assessment. It is still one of the best shows on television and seriously, even with new writers, to maintain that sort of continuity in this medium is pretty remarkable. So snaps to them.

Also, we have a new episode of "Project Runway" tonight. I'm excited. I'm shallow. But I look fabulous in Edy's shoes.

Enough of this frivolity. I have 412 pounds of paper to dispatch so as to be ready for the 12 pounds that will billow back in when The Child gets home from school.