Predictions

Charming Baby is only six years old. It’s 10:15. He has been up since 7:30 and has already eaten:

2 bananas

1 head of broccoli (blanched, I was making it for omelets)

3 waffles (lots of syrup)

1 large oatmeal cookie

4 turkey meatballs

I can see him dancing around the kitchen out of the corner of my eye.

“Mom! I’m hungry!”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously!”

“Have a big glass of water and then wait five minutes. If you’re still hungry after that we’ll talk."

“Are you trying to starve me?”

He is tall and thin and has the energy of a Brazilian soccer team. Five minutes go by. A little face appears next to me.

“I’m ready.”

“There are hard boiled eggs in the fridge or a fruit bowl on the counter. Lunch is not until noon.”

“Humph. “ He settles on an orange.

I am not psychic but I foresee a trip to the shoe store in my near future.

Fire and Ice

It’s here…our first snow day! We have been hoping for this. The boys were so excited they decided to create a “school” like Percy Jackson's Camp Half-Blood in “The Lightening Thief." They are down in the basement slaying dragons right now.

We sort of had a taste of this freedom in California in 2007 when the fires were so bad, the schools closed for a week due to poor air quality from the ash and smoke. But, since we weren’t confined to our homes, we were able to hop in our cars and drive around to all sorts of indoor places. I thought we should include educational outings, so we balanced out the bowling and movies with museums and the library. The most memorable excursion for all of us was the “Bodies” exhibit, where we spent an afternoon viewing real humans from the inside out.

The exhibition was divided up into nine rooms—each focusing on a different system of the body. All of those preserved, dissected people were fascinating and I felt like we were learning a lot. The muscular system was my favorite, a close second was reproductive. We fell in line behind a doctor and her children and I was impressed with their questions and her detailed responses. I was wondering if I would be able to field inquiries half as well from my own little prodigies.

“Mom, is that her pachina?”

“Yes.” I don't care what Dr. Mom thinks, I'm sticking to one word answers.

“Do all girls have a pachina?”

“Yes.”

“Sam! It is not called pachina,” hissed Charlie. Here we go.

“It is pa-GINA.” He looked smug as he moved himself along to the next naked specimen.

I didn’t have the heart to correct him. First Born Prince was only eight years old and who was I fooling anyway? I wasn’t really trying to cover Gross anatomy that day. I was soaking up precious time with my boys while we were all set free from routine for a small window of time.

Now, it’s time to go dine with my demigods.

Ithaca City Blues

I hear the train a comin' it's rollin' round the bend
And I ain't seen the sunshine since I don't know when

The song came to mind last night when I heard the 7:00 train go by…it blows an old fashioned whistle that conjures up all sorts of romantic images. The sound in the evenings, combined with the little lights twinkling all over in the distance (we are high up on a hill), make me feel like I am living in an E.B. White novel.

We woke up this morning to what First Born Prince calls, “a winter wonderland”--everything outside was dusted with soft, white, fluffy powder.

On days without the sun, the gray is cozy and mystical and makes you think of far off places and historical times likes the crusades fought in the marshes of Scotland or the Darling family walking the foggy streets of London.

Is it all the extra sleep we are getting?

Maybe it’s because I am in the middle (good part) of my cycle and not ready to plunge a kitchen knife into someone.

Whatever the reason, we all definitely feel the mood.

Charming Baby, who is usually busy setting up booby traps, was standing next to me as I was eating my breakfast. He started stroking my hair. The last time someone did that, I was in a hair salon paying for it.

“What are you doing?”

“Your hair feels so nice.”

“Awww, thanks, honey. You can pet me any time you want.”

He gave me a kiss and then ran off to organize himself for the BIG day at school—it’s his 100th day of Kindergarten. I think we are going to string Fruit Loops and count marbles.

As I write this, it occurs to me the event isn’t something that future generations will look back on and get all choked up about, but for me, there couldn’t be anything happier to be sad about.

…98, 99, 100!

Fur Rondy

There is a shelf in my closet that used to be dedicated to storing evening bags. I remember aspiring to own those pretty little accessories, symbols of a life full of cocktail parties and formal events.

That space has quickly become a catchall—swim cap I never use, confiscated Nerf guns, mending that’s been handed to me, spare toad and fish coffins, and most recently, removable fur trim from jackets and boots.

I can’t even see the pocketbooks anymore and haven’t really missed them. There aren’t many occasions requiring an evening bag here in Ithaca. In fact, if you did decide to doll yourself up and pack up a little purse, people would think you were delusional or on your way to dinner with the Obamas.

The most recent social engagement we went to was a “Fur Rondy”—short for “Fur Rendezvous”, an Alaskan winter celebration started in Anchorage in 1935 to bring folks out of their dark cabins to celebrate, dance, and enjoy good friends. Our friends invited us to their annual party.



They are amazing—our friend from Alaska and his wife served chili and hot cocoa, and the most exciting, set up a “Great Race of Mercy”, a tribute to the 1925 serum run to Nome where 20 mushers and 15 sled dogs relayed diphtheria antitoxin across 674 miles in 5 ½ days during the dead of winter.



We all ran the race; I pretended my dog was named “Balto.”



The event was a blast, but all I really needed were my snow boots. It would have wasted precious time if I stopped on the trail to put on lipstick and how would I have kept that bag tucked under my puffy jacket arm anyway?



Besides, I needed my hands free to carry vials of medicine to save people from a dreadful epidemic...



I didn't win the race, but I think I was the only one who actually saw parts of Russia from our friends' yard!

Spilt Milk

It’s back to school today. Hopefully the vacation refreshed the kids as much as it did me. Right before we left on our trip, I received a call from Charming Baby’s teacher.

“Lisa?”

“Yes?”

“Hi. It’s Margaret Philipson.” Why was Sam’s kindergarten teacher calling me in the middle of the school day? I glanced at the clock. Lunch time at the elementary school.

“Sam has something he wants to tell you.”

“Okay.” This is strange. What could this possibly be about? He eats cafeteria food. Maybe the chemicals have finally gotten to him.

“Mom?”

“Hi, Sam. What’s going on?”

“I threw milk.” His voice was quivering. I was sure it wasn’t the lost beverage that had him ready to cry.

After many prompts and prolonged silences, I got the story out of him. He and another equally enthusiastic friend were playing around, flicking the little school-sized cartons at each other. I asked him if he apologized to his teacher and the lunch staff, he said “yes”, and then when I thought he understood the error of his ways, we ended the call.

Later that evening, after dinner and a bath, I followed up.

“Sam, what was the consequence of your behavior today?”

“For what?”

For what? Dear Lord, grant me patience.

“For the milk throwing.”

“Well, um, we had to go to the cafeteria after lunch and help clean it up with Mr. Adios.” I sincerely hope “Mr. Adios” is actually the custodian’s name, and not some horrible slaughtering of the pronunciation.

“That sounds like a good plan. Did you learn something from that?”

“Yes!”

“What, Sam? What did you learn?”

“That cleaning the cafeteria is fun!”

Well…it’s a start.

Buried Treasure

Castaway Cay, Bahamas

Guest Services had our camera, safe and sound. It was a relief knowing there are no pirates aboard the Disney Wonder. It put an end to the Gal boys’ detective work, but I felt better knowing we weren’t sailing with petty criminals.

First Born Prince, always a gentleman, has been trying to work in a few highlights for mom on the voyage. It started when he saw all the trays of fruity drinks going around the beach.

“Why don’t you order a Bahama Mama?”

“Thanks, honey, I’ll wait until we are back on the ship.” I might fall asleep on the job.

Then later, as we were riding the elevator back to our stateroom, he spied an ad for the spa and asked, “Aren’t you going to get a massage? I can watch Sam.”

“You don’t have to worry about me. I am sure I can get an appointment if I want one.” I’m saving my escape for when I can't take one more second of Mickey’s Splash Zone and feel like blowing my brains out or the alcohol doesn't numb me anymore from the effects of Goofy’s Galley.

He isn’t satisfied, wanting me to feel the excitement and magic they do.

“How about we go dancing after dinner tonight?” He knows I love live music.

“Sure, that would be great.” This is why humans in 21st century America reproduce.

“Be sure to wear closed-toe shoes!” He winks at me.

“Okay.” I have officially gotten my money’s worth.

Caribbean Cruise Caper

All aboard for a major mystery!

Charlie and Sam have the ultimate case on their hands: to find the missing Digital Canon Elph Power Shot camera. Are there thieves aboard the Disney Wonder--or is it a simple case of lost and found? It’s up to the Gal boys to retrace their steps without falling overboard. Can they recover the gift they received from their Grampy before the cruise ends?

How can the kids from Ithaca solve this titanic mystery? With the help of Guest Services, along with their own expert investigating skills, of course! Charming Baby accidentally left his new camera in Triton’s restroom and returned to find it missing! Did someone take it or will it turn up? They better move fast, because time is running out beneath the Bahamian sun—and it's sink or swim for Charlie and Sam.

The Perfect Storm

We attempted a romantic dinner. The Elizabeth Restaurant was incredibly special (http://www.jjande.com/JJandE.com/Home.html) and one would think we had the makings of a perfect evening…

At least it ended with me sleeping in my own bed, and not on the bathroom floor, like the last night of our honeymoon when I woke up to an annulment my new husband had penned (he is an attorney, too!) on hotel stationery and slipped under the locked door.

We met in 1991—the year of the infamous “perfect storm”, a noreaster outside of Boston that inspired the book by Sebastian Junger and subsequent movie starring George Clooney and Mark Wahlberg.

What makes a perfect storm? Three significant ingredients led to the 1991 squall becoming so strong. The first was a low-pressure area southeast of Nova Scotia. The second was cool, dry air moving into the storm from the North. The third, adding fuel to the fire, was a dying hurricane, Grace, which delivered immeasurable tropical energy.

For us it is much simpler, take a high-pressure holiday, like Valentine’s Day, then add in two alpha personalities trying to make sure it all goes off without a hitch, and finally, stage it in some sort of expensive venue that’s bound to backfire. Forced romance is always doomed.

At least we’ve progressed and matured enough so that I am not making him pull the car over so I can get out and hide in the bushes until he gives up and goes away.

We woke up and all was forgiven this morning. In fact, that is probably the best thing to realize…there is always sunshine after rain.

To: Charlie, From: Charlie

We made Valentines tonight. First Born Prince put his younger brother, Charming Baby, and me to work. I was a folder, Sam was a stuffer, and Charlie was quality control. I enjoyed thinking of all the new Ithaca friends in his fourth grade class as I read the names on each card he had neatly lettered. Then I saw it.

To: Charlie

From: Charlie

“Did you do this on purpose?”

“What do you think?”

“Just checking.”

He grinned to himself and merrily put the finishing touches on his stack of sentiments.

The child constantly amazes me. I think it took me the better part of 30 years to learn that we must love ourselves before we can love others. Have you ever noticed how the nicest people are the ones who are kind and giving to themselves? You never heard of Mother Theresa complaining she needed to lose five pounds or stop hoarding shoes.

I think in honor of Valentine’s Day and self-love everywhere, we should all pen letters to ourselves. No one else is better suited to remember all the challenging goals we accomplished (changing cat litter counts), moments of joy we brought to others (telling jokes to the school office staff works), or profound beauty we radiated (coloring your hair is not cheating if you cop to it upfront).

Dear Lisa…

My Funny Valentine

The same guy has been asking me for 18 years if I will be his Valentine. For someone who once declared, “Valentine’s Day is a wife beater’s holiday,” the Professor sure has come a long way.

I knew he was crossing over from cynical old goat to a first-class Romeo about 12 years ago when we were living and working in San Francisco. Wanting to really surprise me, he decided he would craft an arrangement himself.

“I don’t want to receive a florist delivery in an ugly vase with a bunch of cheap ribbon and fern filler!” I reminded him as I was gathering my coat and computer that morning.

“I know. You like plain roses. Given to you in person.”

“Well, yes, but not some big long-stem mafia thing. I like the Victorian nosegays.”

The poor guy really tried. He bought a dozen beautiful red roses and then proceeded to cut them down and tear them apart, hoping to transform the prickly, bushy queens into a tight little bouquet.

“Your husband came in a while ago with a big bunch of flowers, but he’s been in the restroom, with them, for quite some time.”

“What?”

The receptionist gave me a shrug.

15 minutes later my husband emerged from the office toilets with sweat beads on his forehead and a handful of bald roses.

“I tried to make them how you like them, but it just kept getting worse and worse. I thought you would be happy if I got them from the downtown flower market. I know how you love flowers from there. But I don’t think I did a good job. Here. Happy Valentine’s Day.” He thrust the symbol of love at me.

From the corner of my eye, I saw the receptionist slink off to clear the newspaper and floral debris from the waste bins. My husband was standing there looking so earnest that he honestly could have handed me celery stalks and it would have been just perfect.

“I love them. It’s wonderful not having thorns, or leaves, or anything, really, to distract the eye from their beauty!”

We laughed so hard I think I cried. The ladies in the office may have been thinking, “Wow, she is really mad.” Or, “Gee, what a lucky girl.”

Well, it doesn’t really matter what they thought, does it? Because guess what?

He’s mine.

Circle of Life

When I was a kid, I was mortified when my father would show up in his old convertible Mustang, in cut-off Levi’s (with a perm and moustache!), honking, waving, and yelling my name, as if I might not be sure it was him. I would smile and hurry over, wishing I had a father who was quiet, wore khaki pants, and drove a hard-top.

I have prided myself in being perfectly respectable when I go to pick-up my children at school. My sons are always beaming when they see me walking up. Until recently.

“Mom, do you have to wear that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your big black coat. You’re the only one who wears one.”

“You mean because it is so long?”

“Uh…”

“Because it has real fur on it?”

“Um…”

“Is it because it’s too fancy?”

Bingo. I could tell from their body language. I am one of a select few who does not abide by upstate sensibilities. Just when I thought I had it all figured out, too. It’s not like I swear, smoke cigarettes and wear high heels, but I do think I am the only one with a snake-skin messenger bag in the vicinity.

“I’m sorry, boys, but this is my winter coat and it’s perfectly acceptable.”

They look down, knowing better than to challenge Mama Bear.

I zip up my designer dud, slip on my sunglasses and walk toward the only washed car in the parking lot.

“Come on, boys, let’s roll!” I holler in a tone reminiscent of a voice from my not so distant past.

California Style

“Would you like some tea?”

“Excuse me?”

“Tea? I’ll put the kettle on.”

“Sure, unless you have something stronger. Heh. Heh.” Where the hell is the chardonnay?!

There is a universal ritual among mothers of school-age children. When you stop by another family’s home to pick up your kid from a play date, you are either invited in or handed your child at the door. Rather than saying, “Would you like to stay and talk?” they will ask if you’d like a drink. This may or may not have anything to do with how charming and fabulous you are, it is more likely a matter of time. We are ruled by work deadlines, homework schedules, music lessons and sports practice.

In La Jolla, the minute you ring the bell, there is no mystery to sort out.

“Lisa! Get in here right this second and let me open a bottle! How are you, woman?”

Several glasses of wine later, you are lucky to get out the door with your children in tow to make it home and put dinner together before your husband arrives. Socializing is at a premium in California.

I haven’t figured out if the ladies in Ithaca are on a health kick or what, but clearly no one is opening a bottle of wine at 5:00 on a weeknight. They are gracious and friendly but not inclined to drink and gossip and say lewd things about the P.E. coach.

My best bet has been to nod appreciatively at the offer of tea and get to know my new hosts. Once in a while, though, I stumble across a fellow bon vivant; and, as one of my upstate friends likes to say, we hang out “California Style.”

Take a Chance on Me...

Confirmation that I am not nuts comes in the most unexpected ways. I have recently been obsessing about whether or not I should invest all this time in a new career. It would be so much more realistic to pick up my marketing contacts and dive back into an ocean I know how to navigate. Plus, people like the Chevy Chase character in “Community 101” make me wonder if I am dealing with a full deck.

One of the first signs I received that my sanity may be intact was a woman I met when I first moved to Ithaca. She was a cardiologist and a mother. A few years ago she decided to put her stethoscope on the shelf and pull out some paintbrushes. She is applying for her MFA. I have another doctor friend (in La Jolla, mother of three under 6) who also walked away from all the years invested in med school and residency programs and is now a wine maker (second home and business in Napa area) with her husband. (You can follow them at http://www.bruliamwines.com/ and I highly recommend their really amazing wine!)

Even with inspiring role models, I still second-guess myself. Will I be taken seriously? Do I need another degree? Maybe I should stick to tried and true. The negative thoughts get darker and louder when you are pulling yourself away from your children, husband and other parts of your life that are important, too. What the hell am I doing? Why do I think I can write a novel? Who wants to read my crap anyway?

But then, as if my guardian angel got wind of my hesitation and decided to send in a closer, I just met someone remarkable. Her husband was amazing himself, a 78-year-old named-chair Professor who teaches the most popular class in his department at an Ivy League university (he started teaching at age 53). She spent the first half of her career as a psychotherapist and then, when her kids were teenagers, she went to law school and became a successful trial lawyer. All of this at top schools and law firms in Boston. We are talking big time investments of time, money and energy.

So, I have my proof. Yes, it can be done, at any level and at any time. I don’t need an analyst to confirm my diagnosis. I slept like a baby last night, knowing I have all my marbles, and now it's time to go shoot a few.

Deer Valley

Wanted to shamelessly plug my friend Stephanie’s condo in Deer Valley at The Lodges.



First off, Deer Valley is located in Park City, Utah—a short 45-minute drive from Salt Lake City. Even flying in from Ithaca was painless and the drive from the airport to the ski resort is easy (four-lane highways were put in for the 2002 Winter Olympics, so getting up the mountain is doable even in a snow storm).

Once you reach The Lodges, a beautiful building right at the base of the Deer Valley Ski Resort, you are greeted by a friendly staff and escorted to your condo by a bellman. You can reserve my friend’s place as either a suite, one-bedroom or two-bedroom unit. It is a perfect balance of convenience and luxury—ideal for families or any size group. And if you don’t ski, you can board at nearby Canyons or Park City. I loved just relaxing at her place—Stephanie has it furnished mountain chic. I fell asleep in the huge armchair by the fireplace twice.



Staying at The Lodges includes a full breakfast buffet in a dining room above the lobby and complimentary shuttle service to the slopes, restaurants, or other nearby places of interest. We hit Stein Erickson for lunch, St. Regis for après ski and spa, and downtown Park City for dinner and drinks.



There are endless fun things to do both in the winter and summer, so you may need more than a weekend. Check it out:

http://www.deervalley.com/lodging/the-lodges-at-deer-valley.html