Coming up on America's Next Top Scullery Maid

Inaugural Ball guru Roxanne Roberts (along with many others) says that one should only ever think of wearing flats to one of these events.

Yes, well, tell that to my wife who bought the near-platform high heels yesterday. "But they're OK!" she says. "There are no seats," I say. "I'm going to wear them," she says. They really do kick ass.

To prove that they are comfortable she might not be crippled for life, she decides to do housework in the shoes.

After an hour and a half, her feet are still fine -- and, better yet, the floor is clean!

Let's see Tyra rock stilletos and a dustpan like that!

Stepping out!

Inaugural fever has hit DC like a ton of port-a-potties. Years ago, I envisioned there one day being someone I was excited to go see at an Inauguration Parade; that day has arrived -- but now I have a three-year-old and, wouldn't you know, presidents are inaugurated in this country in the cold. As such, we have generally been avoiding Inaugural mania while the warning keeps popping up that the city will quadruple in population for this event and that all forms of transportation, including passenger pigeon, will be overloaded on the day of the event. A quiet day at home, we thought, watching it on TV.

Then, a few days ago, a colleague sent us an invitation to the local Takoma Park Inaugural Ball. This seemed super-fun: our crunchy liberal hometown with a potluck affair, complete with dancing and childcare. What's not to love? This sounded pretty neat. He mentioned this at a meeting and wondered what we were doing in the morning. I said we were probably just watching the event on TV -- but that maybe we should all watch it together? Brunch! An Inaugural brunch for those of us with kids too chicken to brave everything! Sold. My menu developed easily:

• vegetarian breafast tacOs
• cherry-whole wheat scOnes
• cheeriOs (or the equivalent from trader jOe's)
• bacOn
• dOnuts
• cOffee
• Orange jOOce (with champagne to make mimOsas)
• bagels (this, requested by Xan when we told him what the theme was)

Fabulous. Then all we needed to do was get the tickets for the Takoma Park ball! Angela had been hounding me to get them, if we had indeed decided to go. She, the antisocial one, had left this decision up to me; I, in my inimitable manner, had procrastinated.

At Xan's gymnastics class, our friend KC told me that she was trying to procure Inaugural Ball tickets. "Really?" I said. "Yeah," she said. "Would you want to go?" "Well, I think we're going to the local Takoma Park one," I said, realizing I still hadn't gotten tickets yet. I came home and hopped online to get the tickets.

Sold out.

Damn.

Our one chance to get decked out and hang out with the neighbors. Ah well. A quiet evening at home, then. No big deal.

And then -- KC calls Angela, wonders if I've told her about the Inaugural tickets. Tells her that she's secured four. Wants to know if we'd like to accompany them.

Really?

Really?

Within the span of about an hour, Angela in particular goes from being totally blasé about Inaugural Day brouhaha to joining the madness, pulling a U-turn the likes of which I haven't seen since we got engaged (at which point she-who-had-never-thought-she-would-get-married all of a sudden bought a trunkload of wedding-oriented magazines). She happens to be at the second-hand store when she gets the call and lands a beaded evening gown for $35. I use Facebook to procure childcare. We spend hours at the mall today looking for sundry items (control-top pantyhose, platform stilletos, a nice dark shade of lipstick -- and then Angela needed some things as well). We come home, Angela finds that the beaded dress is too long, but then she comes out in a black, slinky thing that she had in the back of the closet and I say, damn! and insist she only think of wearing that. Xan, getting into the spirit, puts on an elephant costume; we worry that this is the first sign he might turn into a Republican and contemplate therapy. Angela does a dry-run of fab makeup for the evening, comes out in full get-up, I say damn!! and hurry Xan to bed.

We don't even know what time the shindig begins.

We're a little excited.

More to come...

"O Shenandoah, I long to see you..."

This weekend, we took Xan camping to the Shenandoahs. We realized it's the first time we've gone camping since Angela was pregnant; we also realized it's the first long amount of time we've had with each other for a loooooong time, given the major last push I've done to get the slavedriver evil thang book out on time. (Indeed, for those keeping track, all edits were made and the whole thing was sent out on Thursday for the next step in the process.)

We had a ton of fun and Xan had a fabulous time in the tent (particularly on the second evening, when we encouraged him to go to sleep by giving him a small flashlight to hold). Big Meadows campground turned out to be (a) farther from the actual meadows than we anticipated but (b) not as over-run as we thought it might be, particularly since we lucked out with a super-cool tentground way on the periphery. Xan made friends with a 4-year-old named Eli who had superhuman strength ("I have the strength of Batman and Superman and Spiderman! All together! I can pick Xan up, you watch!" This, in response to Xan scampering up the hill.) and we had personal encounters with raccoons, deer and Philadelphians. And we didn't even look at either a cell phone or a clock the entire time. Fabulous. Brilliant.

In the meantime, some scenes from the fam communing with nature:Look! A big meadow!

The kid and his mother, up a tree

On the Rose River trail, Xan shares the secret that there is no movie theater nearby.

A real nature boy

Yes, we really did hike the trail!

There is something else we learned. During our big hike, we had the following conversation:
"Hey, Xan, did you see the bear?" (There really was a bear and her cub, which we saw at a distance.)
"A bear. And deer."
"Yes, we saw a deer as well."
"And a tiger."
Blink. "A tiger?"
"Yes, a tiger. A red tiger."
"A red tiger? Where do you see that?"
"The red tiger gives me candy."

At this point, we looked at one another, baffled. Any ideas as to what this refers to would be greatly appreciated.

Please place that "Absent Minded Professor" sign here. Thank you.

"Hey."

"Hey there."

"Um, so did you drive in this morning?"

"No." Duh. Of course, I didn't.

"Where is the car then?"

"It's not in the driveway?" Oh crap, someone stole our car?

"Um, did you remember to drive home last night?"

"No, I me-" Wait. Yesterday? When I was late to class and drove in and dropped Xan off and you and he went home on the metro, and I stayed late so I wouldn't have to walk in the rain, which means the car is still here on campus which means that it's PROBABLY GOING TO BE TICKETED RIGHT NOW??!!!!! "Ohmigod. I gotta go."

"You are unbelieveable."

Avant moi le were-rabbit

It was supposed to be simple.

He's only turning two, after all. It's not like he's really going to remember this party beyond pictures and what we tell him. No need for a blow-out where we invite every kid we've ever known, with preparations weeks in advance and a major order placed at the catalog that suspiciously arrived in our mailbox only a few weeks ago, from which you can order practically any themed party supply item you can think of. Also, to be honest, we got bogged down in other things, so we really didn't have time to prepare lavishly. (Yep: Bad Parents. Them's us.)

Last week, I was put in charge of general party duty. I decided on a small gathering, just three kids with some other good friends (most of who came for the first birthday last year) on his actual birthday. Since I teach all day, it would have to be dinner, something fun but low-key: make-your-own pizza. And as for a theme, well, thanks to Guess How Much I Love You, we've been on a bunny kick of late and Target fed this kick by placing a large number of Peter Rabbit items in the dollar section. So, after about $25 in stickers, books, paper, crayons, candy and rabbit-ear headbands, a bunny theme it was. Still relatively simple.

Angela suggested I look at this holiday-themed book we got a while ago that admittedly has some good ideas. This is where we found the bunny cake.

And the little wheels in Angela's head started turning. Rapidly.

At 11:30PM the night before the party, Angela is currently shaving white chocolate for bunny fur. She has given me permission to say on this blog that at this point I think she's insane. I'm not even sure I can describe her trying to form cheeks out of the spongy part of the cake, which still needed to be frosted. ("And what about feet? I have enough to make feet!")

It's going to be amazingly cute. Xan, of coruse, may only care that it's cake. Me, I'm returning to my grading.

(Stay tuned? How can you not?!)

UPDATE: 12:30AM -- The beast is completed. See for yourself. Complete with cheeks! And eyebrows, even! Of course, now we're worried that he's going to freak out when we have to cut into the bunny.

10 years ago...

I think she was reading a magazine, sitting on my bed in the house on Huron Avenue, when Brandon called. "Oh my gosh," he said, "she's there right now? So how does she kiss?"

He probably meant it as a joke, but I looked at her with the phone in my hand and grinned. Only two days earlier, during Party of Five, I had tried to kiss her during a commercial break; she would have none of it, saying that a first kiss shouldn't be held to the arbitrary distractions of a commercial break. This, however, would be different. She looked at me quizzically from behind the magazine. "I don't know," I told Brandon, "but hang on." And I put the phone down for a moment and lunged for her.

"Pretty darn good," I said when I got back on the phone.

"Oh my gosh, you just did it now?! You are so going to get married and have lots of baaaabies."

Later, we decided to arbitrarily pick the day of that kiss as our anniversary, since we quickly fell into a relationship after it. On that day two years later, I proposed. And a year after that (upon finding out that the legal part of getting married in Massachusetts was a bit more complicated than we originally thought), we quasi-eloped and got married by the Mayor of Ann Arbor. Two two-two, made it easy to remember.

Ten years ago today, starting with that kiss.

Happy 8th, beloved.

Wheeeee!

Our backyard -- or at least the lawn area -- has been an utter disaster since we moved in late 2003. The grass is not just grass but the weedy mixture that is typical for this town. There is a big hole in the middle of the yard where a tree stump used to be. The entire back part used to be covered by ivy vines until we tore them out earlier this year. The worst part, however, is the grade: a slightly hilly slope that makes all the rainwater go to the back of the yard, only to have it stay there, where it sits as murky mud for days after it rains. We've complained about this for a long while and were planning to regrade it with last year's tax refund (that is, until the person who was going to do it had a massive heart attack and then couldn't, for obvious reasons). Plans are still underway to regrade it so that it become flatter and less muddy.

But right now, we've discovered there actually is something useful about the backyard in its current state.

The recent winter storm brought about a few inches of snow, followed by ice. This has caused a nasty, very treacherous mix to walk on... but it's actually lovely sledding material. The grade of our backyard is such that it's a rather pleasant, fun, not-too-fast sled ride down to the back of the yard (as long as someone sticks a foot out so that we don't crash into either the woodpile or the back fence). Our neighbors had the sled (we were just going to toss Xan down the hill in a cardboard box) and the best part about the ice is that it's so hard, none of us have gone through it yet. (Not even fat ol' me!) Granted, the lack of traction that makes it a great sledding hill also makes it next to impossible to get back up to do it again, particularly if one has to carry a somewhat unnerved 23-month-old who can't figure out why he can't walk very well on the ice. (Yesterday, I had the boy in one hand and the sled in the other hand and got halfway up the backyard before I slowly slid all the way to the back again. Yay.) For once, however, our backyard is the perfect place to do this stuff -- and, given that Xan is the son of his mother and therefore gets cold very quickly, it's just a scoot back up the porch steps to warmth again. Provided we don't slip down the steps as well.)

By the way, I do realize that I haven't been posting a lot lately. Chalk it up to a writing frenzy to get this last chapter done, what with parenting, grading papers and three presentations to still write present over the next three weeks. (And, of course, 24.) I'll get back on track at some point. Really, I will. Someday.

Why romantic comedies always end at the wedding, not at married life

"I'm going to bed. I'm tired."

"Really?"

"I would love for you to come to bed with me."

"Me too, but I have to get some more papers graded before I have to hand them back tomorrow. Besides, I still have to do the dishes."

"You know, in the real world, doing the dishes is far sexier anyway."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"His hands dive deep into the soapy water, roughly handling the firm yet supple spatula before caressing it with a sponge, allowing bubbles to drip sumptuously onto the crock pot."

"OK, maybe not that sexy. And 'crock pot'? We don't even have a crock pot."

"Yeah, well, 'doing the dishes is sexy'? Also a crock."

(And with that, I wish everyone a Happy Valentine's Day! And may we all have a snow day -- or at least a snow delay -- tomorrow morning...)

This one's for Patty K

I know I haven't blogged in a little while, and I have a great posting about little boys in water that I have to write about. But...

...for her birthday, Angela got a book called Cat Crimes from her Aunt Pat. (Hi, Pat! Angela says she's writing thank you notes this weekend. This posting, however, may be even better, since it proves she's actually reading it!) The book is a short story collection of mystery stories featuring cats, sometimes even with cats as the narrators.

For example, the first two paragraphs of "Horatio Ruminates" by Dorothy P. Hughes, goes as follows. A note: despite the names here (um, unchanged to protect the guilty?), this is not a reality in our house. (I think...)

"Some people don't like cats. Some cats don't like people. We try to like all people. We do try. At least, some of us do. But, after all, how can we like people who don't like us? There's something in the atmosphere that measures like to like. And off-putting to off-putting.
"Some people hate cats. I mean, they it out loud. With special emphasis. 'I hate cats!' Alexander called Xan is one of those. He comes to visit his Aunt -- she is Milady -- and says right out, 'I hate cats.' It is little wonder that I don't like him. Yet I try. Every time he comes, I try. To no avail. I no sooner rub against his ankles than he explodes, 'I hate cats!' And follows this by his usual threatening, 'Scat, Cat!'"

Dance, dance evolution

On Friday, Anegla and I went on a date. This is, of course, a minor miracle: we never go on dates! We’re responsible people! Parents, even! And I’m untenured! I should be slaving away at my writing at all hours of the day instead of having any fun whatsoever, or at least I should be seeing movies, which can be work. Thankfully, my wife said, “The hell with all that. We’re going dancing.”

Contradancing, to be precise. I had agreed to do this, a tad reluctantly because my type of dancing usually involves strobe lights and a good five-hour techno beat. (Which, mind you, I haven’t done in years, primarily because Angela lasts about 20 minutes in such a scenario but also because, as my students remind me, I’m old.) But sure, I’ll bring my semi-metrosexual self to some English line-dancing. We had been before – once in Ann Arbor, once in Pacific Grove, so ages ago – but not anytime recently. The nearest contradance area to DC is actually at Glen Echo Park, a historic area with a beautifully preserved ballroom whose heyday in the 30s was still evident, not chipped away.

About two minutes in to the first dance, I was giddy, thinking God, this is SO MUCH FUN.

I had forgotten how much fun this was: trading partners even few bars, swinging people around in circles and generally having a really good time with all sorts of people. The intricate dance patterns were instructed before each dance (and a good thing – due to a child care snafu, we arrived too late for the lesson) and both of us wore “newbie” buttons which pointed the more experienced folk to ask us to partner up with them so that they could show us the ropes. I had forgotten how accepting these kind of folks are, not caring when I overthought a pattern and went the wrong way once. It was suggested to us that we not dance with each other but rather seek out more experienced partners, so we did that.

Also flooding into my head within the first five minutes of that dance: the memory that I once plotted out an entire novel called Contradance, following a pair of characters as they progressed in patterns down and back through a line, which I thought would make a wonderful literary device. Long abandoned, I suddenly remembered that notion and brought it back out of the cobwebs to at least put on a very back burner to simmer. (There are at least two or three creative projects that have been stewing for longer and thus are more immediate, though they all take place after these two academic books are done. Tenure tenure tenure.) I now think that idea of the contradance pattern would be better for poetry than for a novel, but we’ll see where it goes in my head eventually.

At one point in the contradance, I had a brief moment of confusion. In the progression, I came upon someone in a skirt with longer hair who was taller than I was. She was as thrilled and giddy as I was and I was swinging her around as I was supposed to. “How are you doing?” I quickly asked, as I had done several times before to other partners. “Great,” she said, “although this is my first night out as…” And she let that trail off quickly as she went around the progression.

And it hit me in a split moment that she was about to say …as a woman. My confusion came about, perhaps, because there were a few men who were clearly crunchy and challenging gender issues by dressing in skirts, but they were also dancing as men. (Indeed, Angela’s first partner that night was one of these guys.) But this person wasn’t part of that group of young people at all and besides, he was “playing” at gender roles as much as passing. Looking a little closer, it immediately hit me that this person was transgendered, though rather convincingly. And my heart immediately swelled: Damn, I thought, what an amazingly brave thing to do. This is the last place I would have expected to encounter someone who was transgendered, way out of what I might think of as an expected “comfort zone” and yet what a perfect place: there was no time for anyone – including her – to get hung up on anything before she would get passed down to the next partner anyway. I don’t know if I could be that brave.

Within a minute, she was back swinging with me and we entered a promenade for a moment, right before we would both progress to our next partners. I wanted her to know that she was doing fine and that I, for one, didn’t care at all that I probably saw through her to him. I laughed and said, “That’s OK, this is my first night out in a long time as well.” And she laughed and moved on.

Angela and I finally got to dance with each other when the band – amazingly, almost 30 people strong! huge!! – broke into a waltz. I had been cajoled into dancing the waltz by a partner I had had earlier, but Angela (who used another guy to get out onto the dance floor herself, that minx) cut in and we finally got a chance to dance together before we left. Today she’s sore and I’m back to writing, but for one dance, I could look her in the eyes, sweaty but overjoyed. “Thank you,” I said. “I had forgotten how much fun this is. Remind me that we need to do this more often.”

I think Portishead said it best

"Nobody loves me, it's true..."

(from "Sour Times," their biggest hit)

Don't get me wrong: Angela and I are doing wonderfully. (The love is still there -- and she received that erotic romance novel writing guide, which I'm checking to see if it requires home research.) No, I'm talking about my little darling boy who, as I hinted a bit yesterday, has been for the past week or so... there's no other way to say it...

...a mama's boy.

This weekend, when I wake up to an already stirring Angela and Xan and say a jovial, "Hello!" my son looks up, then goes back to playing with a car without even acknowledging my presence.

A few minutes later, he brings a book to Angela: "Read! Read!"

"I'm making breakfast, Xan. But Dada can read to you."

A scowl. "MAMA read!"

Sigh.

Perhaps this can be traced back to the now-infamous Concert Situation just over a week ago, already chronicled by KC. To offer my perspective, some background is necessary: Angela's orchestra holds a great kids' concert every year, complete with an Instrument Petting Zoo before the show. The concert itself usually has its fair share of antsy kids running around, drawing on programs or commenting to each other loudly about what-not. This year, the orchestra held the concert in their new location, the Atlas Theatre on H Street NE. Because A Raisin in the Sun was performing in another theatre in the complex that afternoon, orchestra members were encouraged to come early; that meant that our whole family showed up early. Xan proved to be quite a trooper early on, becoming the plaything of two nine-year-olds who were also there early and generally having a fine time exploring and politely running around the lobby. When the petting zoo started, Angela brought us to the third row on the left side where we could see her well, and then we went to check out all the instruments (Of note, other than the drum and mama's violin, his favorite instrument was... the bass! Which he has not stopped talking about to this day. We have since learned that some guy named Yo-Yo Ma picked up the cello because he was too little to handle the bass. I could live with that, you know.) The lights then dimmed and we went to our seats.

Which turned out to be a huge mistake.

If we had thought about it, we would have never picked those seats, precisely for the reason we chose them: because we could see Mama. Indeed, the concert was set to begin and Xan got off my lap and made a beeline for the stage, saying "Mama, up!" And, of course, she couldn't. Indeed, she had to ignore him as I tried to pry his little hands from the stage.

Thus begins my most tense experience with music ever, whereupon my child suddenly turns from being the sweet, well-disposed marvel that he is into That Child.

The howling was such that I immediately made way for the exit (from the third row, mind you), where I tried to calm him down in the lobby. Nothing. It is at this point that I notice that Jolie and her parents have just arrived -- late, thank God. (Jolie, it should be mentioned, is probably Xan's 2nd best friend after his tiger.) I find this to be some miracle of God and put him down, whereupon he is mesmerized to find that, indeed, Jolie is here, too. He calms down, we go inside. We find that three of the only free seats in the theatre happen to be in front of where my coat is, in the front row. (Wait, wasn't I in the third row? Someone moved me! As you will soon see, this didn't matter.) JP, Kathy and Jolie head down to the seats (while the orchestra is finishing their first number, and I head down with Xan, thinking things will be OK.

The howling was such that I immediately made way (again) for the exit, having thwarted him from getting on stage. The usher and I try to calm him down between the doors, to no avail. Kathy brings Joles out, and this makes it somewhat better. Joles and Xan then go back inside and Jolie wants to go down the steps to her Dada, JP, who is still in the front row. Xan, of course, wants to follow Jolie. Kathy and I duckwalk down the stairs in pursuit, all the while the orchestra is continuing. At some point around here, I realize that all the other kids in the theatre are actually being attentive, polite and quiet. To my horror, it is only my child who is causing any sort of commotion.

The kids then spent the rest of the concert racing back and forth in the front row from one side of the theater to the other, bouncing seats up and down and trying to talk to the aforementioned bass. Kathy, JP and I served as stopping posts between them, catching both of them briefly before they would escape from our arms, as we then positioned ourselves cramped in front of the stage by the floor. I have not been more thankful that the front row was empty, nor when the concert finally ended. "How was it?" a musician asked after it was over and Xan was finally reunited with his mother. "I have absolutely no idea," I said.

(That day, I turned with sincerity to JP and Kathy and said, "I don't think I will ever thank you enough for just being here today." Kathy, JP: I don't think I will ever thank you enough.)

Since then, chopped liver has been more popular than me among the under-ten set in the household. I'm used to this kind of treatment from our cat, but I hadn't expected her to have taught our son so quickly that Mama was the Better Human. For almost a week now, Mama could barely get a break of any sort from the obsessed boy and I could barely keep his attention -- even on the two days last week when I had him the whole day. Consciously, I knew this as cliche: boys have a special thing with their mothers, and the trade-off of having a boy is the knowledge that I would always be second fiddle to Mama. I get this. It doesn't make me love him any less. Rejection, nonetheless, still smarts.

Usually, I have him one full day, but his day-care provider had a dentist's appointment on Tuesday and her son's graduation on Friday, meaning I had him on both of my days off last week. The trade-off was to start today, when I would have lots of free time to get some good, quality writing done. I even finished grading the exams that I administered yesterday before I went to bed, just so that I could get up, get Xan out the door and get crackin'. I was really looking forward to this -- and besides, he hasn't really wanted to spend any time with me anyway.

And then Xan woke up this morning a little earlier than usual. I went over, half groggy, and picked him up.

At which point he threw up on me. (This has never happened before.)

After which he collapsed on me in a huge hug.

It's rare that I've had such conflicting feelings of eeewww and oh my gosh! he really does love me! And even though this meant that I stayed home today, losing one of my very precious writing days to make sure he was OK, that spew-covered hug just sent me over the moon. And today, I got plenty of hugs. Around noontime, he even asked me for a hug. From me. Twice.

With that, all is well in the world.

"Nobody loves me, it's true --
not like you do."

Not quite stranger than...

At dinner, Angela mentioned that one of the few blogs she reads was having a contest. The blog is written by an author who writes in several genres (under different names for all of them) and has some fun musings on writing. She also often gives away books to her readers, usually chosen at random from those who leave a comment responding to a particular question. In the spirit of the 12 days of Christmas, she is giving away a different assortment of books per day. Angela mentioned that this time she was giving away a writer's guide. "In fact," she mused, "I almost didn't enter because the guide is for erotic romance. But hey, I wanted the other book, so I entered. Who knows -- if I win, maybe I should take it as a sign."

Long story short: she won!

Look! A sign!

Maybe we'll have a race to publication? Now that would be fun.

---------
(A couple other random notes: Very soon, I will have a moment to detail last Sunday's events -- although KC's done a wonderful job already. And looky: blogger finally moved my blog over to beta! Yippee! Labels!)

Good Egg Hunting

I have shamefully neglected to post some of these amazing pictures of Xan at his first Easter Egg Hunt at nearby (right around the corner) Forest Park. The event is a combination community brunch and free-for-all for candy. We were a little nervous about how this was going to go -- after all, Xan is very mobile, but still only on four feet. (On two feet, we're still a little wobbly... although today he actually stood by himself for a few moments.) As you can see, however, once we pointed him in the right direction, he had no problem whatsoever finding the eggs. And what's the best thing to do with Easter eggs? Bash them together, of course!

As the eggs were being hidden, all the kids were supposed to stay on the blacktop basketball court. Naturally, this was an amazing experience for Xan who, up until this point, has been forbidden to go there because usually people are playing basketball. Now, he (and dozens of other kids) could run all around! At some point, Xan got it into his head to (a) steal a piece of sidewalk chalk and then (b) make a mad dash for the other side of the blacktop. The amusing thing about this is that, because he didn't let go of the chalk, he ended up making a mark every time he put his hand on the ground. This meant that by the time he got to the other side, there was a chalky dotted line showing his path, kind of like the lines you see on the (evil) cartoon The Family Circus.

You may also notice he has no shoes on here, in part because it was so warm on Easter Saturday. The trip across the blacktop caused a bit of damage, which of course we didn't even notice until much later in the day: Xan had scraped up all sorts of skin on the top of his feet. Since then, he has been in at least socks constantly. This whole new "walking" thing has also caused a bit of damage: he has a lovely bruise over his right eye and a small bruise on his upper lip. Yes, if anyone was wondering, we do have a boy.

Oh, by the way, what is the best thing to stuff in Easter eggs? Roasted vegetables, of course.

Musings on what should have been a bad day

The whole family had been invited yesterday to the Annual ADE Conference, put on by our friend Cardo. ADE stands for the Association of Dumpling Eating -- so yes, this was an eating event, one to which we had been invited to for at least the last couple years. Something had always come up -- last year, for example, Xan appeared -- and we have not been able to make it. I resolved that I would go this year, no matter what. Since she is off to a conference later this week, Angela almost decided not to come -- but then realized that between my conference last week, hers this coming week and all the work we have had to do, we have not had any time for each other in recent history. So we thought this would be a good time to socialize not only with other good folks, but with each other. Plus, Ric lives in Annapolis and the day was scheduled to be sunny, warm and lovely -- a perfect day for an outing with the family.

Our first problem was expected: we ran late. Or rather, Xan's sleep schedule did not coincide with our departure schedule. He decided to nap for two hours instead of one, so we called saying that we would be late running out the door. Ric said, no problem, it is a rolling event anyway.

When we left, I remembered that I did not have to go up to 495 via New Hampshire Avenue; rather, I could just continue straight down 410 from our house and we would eventually cross it. Unfortunately, I forget that I am not supposed to take Ager Road, which only leads us back into DC. We end up semi-lost (Ange was nice and called it a "detour") in what turned out to be a lovely part of NE DC (Brentwood, I believe?), with me insisting that we would eventually have to cross New York Avenue, which was also Route 50, which would take us to Annapolis. Ange navigated using our handy-dandy DC street map; as we got to West Virginia Avenue, she noted that we were going by a prison -- and then looked up and noted that every business around there had super-barbed wire surrounding. Yikes. At least we would not have to stay here very long. We turn onto New York Avenue, whoop it up for a moment and finally think we are on our way...

...and then the car starts to wobble uncontrollably.

We realize that, oh my goodness, we have a flat tire.

We pull over right beyond the National Arboretum. I do not know how to change a tire. I turn to Angela and ask her if she knows. She says no. This is, in fact, the first time that either one of us has gotten a flat. Crap. We realize we are perhaps not in the most savory part of town (although not exactly near West Virginia Ave). We call AAA; they say someone will show up in less than an hour, to hang tight, that they will put a priority flag on it. Ange carts Xan -- who has been a trooper through all of this, happy as a clam on another new adventure -- off to the Arboretum, while I sit and wait for someone to come.

A semi-beat-up car then stops in front of me. A man steps out, smoking a cigarette. "It looks like you have a problem here."

"Yeah," I say. "A flat. And stupidly, I don't know how to change it."

"I can do it for you with no problem."

"I already called Triple-A."

He looks at me and laughs. "Man, I'm a mechanic. They ain't coming here anytime soon. You'll be here for three hours, at least. I'll have you done in ten minutes."

I am entirely unsure about this. The guy has weird teeth, I'm not in a great neighborhood, my wife and child are nearby but not here, I have a grand total of one (one!) dollar on me and I'm clearly going to have to give him money. Plus, AAA is (in theory) on its way. This is probably not a good idea. My instincts from living in Peru in the 80s are kicking in and say, No no no, just make him go away and wait for the official people to arrive. But before I can protest too much, he gets out my jack and my doughnut and starts changing my tire. I call Ange and tell her to come back.

Indeed, he is done in less than ten minutes. And, having shown me what to do -- really, it was simple after all -- I have learned something. I am really grateful. "How much do I owe you for this?" I ask.

"What do you want to give me?" he asks.

"Look," I say, and show him my wallet. "I have a grand total of one dollar. I'd like to give you twenty. Let me see what my wife has. If worse comes to worse, maybe we can find a bank."

It has already gone through my mind that this was a bad idea in the first place, that I could possibly get robbed or worse, and Ange and Xan are there with me, too. Ideally, I would have cash on me and that would be it -- but no, now I could go to the bank and this guy could ask me to drain my bank account for him. Holding my family hostage, I would probably give him anything. All sorts of scenarios run through my head. Like I said, child of Peru in the 80s. But, also, fair is fair: I need to give him something.

Ange comes back. She has nothing. The man says, "Look, you need to find a service station anyway. Follow me, I'll lead you to a bank that is right next to a service station." We agree, pile into the car, follow.

He leads us to a Bank of America on Kenilworth Avenue. I get a $20-bill from the machine, pay him. He directs us to the service station across the street. I finally ask him his name: he says James. He says goodbye, and drives away.

My trust in people remains intact. There is no way that James would be reading this, but thank you, James, truly.

But wait, the adventure is not over. James seemed to think that our flat was caused by a puncture and that the tire could be fixed easily and we would be back on our way to Annapolis in no time. Mind you, we still have not eaten lunch because, well, we were planning on loading up on dumplings. In the service station, however, we find that the tire has literally just slashed itself -- I said, "Slash? Someone slashed our tires" but no, it was on the inside -- and that we needed a new tire. These, however, were Costco tires purchased just three months ago. I asked if my doughnut would make it back to College Park so that I could just have them reinstall it for free. The guy said yes.

We make it to Costco. No problem fixing it, it's also under warranty. The wait, however, will be around two hours.

We have no other form of transportation. We agree, and gear ourselves up for a massive wait within Costco. At this point, we also call Cardo and say there is no way we could get there before Xan would melt down. Once again, dumplings are denied to us! We then spend two hours (and nearly a hundred bucks) on stuff at the store, taking a considerable amount of time to fill up on the samples, feed Xan on the display model of a porch swing, read a story from one of the open books and generally cavort.

Here's the funny thing, and why I am blogging about this at all: as we were heading home, sans dumplings and with a new tire, Ange and I looked at each other and could not say that it had been a bad day. In fact, we were still in a good mood after all this. Xan was still doing fine (if by now a tad cranky), having chalked it all up to yet another adventure. And we still got to spend some family time all together, if not precisely the way we planned. I am not entirely sure that this is because we are optimists (after all, included in this equation are not one but two Dadaks, and I say that with love), but it was actually nice to come to the end of the day and still think things are good.

This, my friends, is love

The following is a recounting of an actual phone conversation held this morning. The implied people involved have not been altered in any way in order to implicate the guilty.

"Hello?"

"Hi! I'm just checking on my boys to see how they are doing."

"Oh, we're doing fabulously. We just got dressed and we're about to head out the door."

"Great!"

"Although I just experienced something a little weird."

"Oh?"

"Well, this is going to sound a little crazy perhaps, but... um... did you use my film textbook to squish a bug or something in the basement?"

"...yes."

"Oh my God. You're kidding."

"Jeff, it was a huge spider. I couldn't even step on it."

"So you used my textbook??!!"

"Well, it was right there. And it's large."

"And then you didn't clean it up?!"

"No."

"OK, well, let me tell you what I did. I hadn't turned on the light yet when I picked up my book and I felt something squishy and wet underneath and thought, 'My goodness, do we have a leak? Did the cat throw up? What happened?' I brought the mass that had by now wiped off onto my hand and brought it to my nose to sniff it. To my nose!! And then, because it didn't smell bad, I started to roll it around in my fingers, hearing it crackle and squish. And only then did I turn on the light and saw it was a mass of squished giant bug. And then, I scremed."

"I just wanted to leave you a little present! Kind of like the cat."

"Oh yeah, speaking of which -- happy anniversary."

It had to happen eventually

I spent most of today on campus. Which means I couldn't spend Valentine's Day with my wife.

As such, she spent most of today having a really good time with another guy. And there's no way I can compete because he's younger, doesn't say much, is exceptionally cute and has even better eyes than I have. Not to mention, he goes to bed early.

Ah well.

Zoom zoom!

As you can see, Xan is currently eagerly awaiting his first ride with Mom's new bicycle -- accompanied in a brand-new baby bike trailer. Never let it said that we are not safe in this house, and fashionable at that.

And to think that I actually dated four people named Alison

I am driving in the car with Angela D, my wife, en route to returning a baby backpack we borrowed from my friend, Angela L. I call on the cell phone.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Ange, it's Jeff. Listen, we're almost to your place and Xan's asleep in the back, so can you or Peter come downstairs to pick up the backpack?"

"Sure, no problem."

"OK, see you in a few."

Click.

Beat.

"You called her 'Ange.'"

"Yeah."

"I'm Ange."

"Yes."

"I didn't know you called anyone else 'Ange.'"

"Uh..."

The mind races: do I call everyone named Angela "Ange" now because I call my wife "Ange"? Do I call her "Ange" because I originally called Angela L "Ange" since I met her earlier? Uh oh, have I committed a hug personal faux pas? Back-pedal. Back-pedal! Aiiigh!

My wife sits next to me, grinning as I sqiurm.

And they didn't even see the panda cub!

First time to the zoo. So exciting. And a moo-cow sweater. Can it get any better than this?

"Look, ma! A tiger! A tree! Scaffolding! A garbage can! WOW!"

Xan, groovin' on DC's panda mania

The (Halloween) Wedding Photograph

Kate Taylor and Jared Davis traditionally have a blow-out Halloween party. As they mentioned at this year's party, the fact that they were getting married didn't mean we couldn't come in costume. Hence, a costume wedding.

As requested then:



For some reason, Angela resisted my idea of a temporary tattoo that said "Eat Me." But isn't this hat the coolest? Kudos to Heather, my sis-in-law. (Oh yeah, Marc, too -- after all, I just borrowed it from them.)

Since I already bought Xan's costume for next year, we're already planning the family costume. If anyone knows a good place to find plastic horn-rimmed glasses or an adult-sized amoeba costume, let me know. (This will make sense a year from now. Stay tuned.)