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The Birthday Boy!

on April 09, 2008

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Our little guy is one today! Happy Birthday Buckaroo!

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Take-Out

In general I try not to be snobby about my California ways. It's not helpful, and it's certainly not going to win me any friends, but here's where I probably cross the line: chow mein. In California, chow mein is a delicious dish with noodles. Well, of course , all of you west-coasters are thinking. Mein means noodle, doesn't it? Maybe, maybe not. Out here in New England an order of chow mein will get you a gloopy gravy mess of veggies and meat with not one noodle in sight. The first time I ordered chow mein, I thought the restaurant got my order wrong. The second time, I thought it was just that one lousy restaurant, and then I tried again somewhere else (I can be tenacious when it comes to my chow, I suppose). "No, it cant' be true," I cried to R upon opening the little white to-go carton. Alas. There's a lot of conversation on the web about the difference in east coast and west coast chow mein, but no one seems to be certain about the reason for it.

Our fear is what connects us

Like many people, I’m sheltering in place, and I’m wearing a mask when I have to go out. Recently, I’ve seen a lot of my neighbors posting comments along the lines of: “If you want to live in fear, go ahead. I choose to enjoy my life!” The first time I saw this comment, my blood pressure spiked. “I’m not living in fear!” I snarled in my head (and then out loud to Mr. Ross). “I’m living in compassion.” I do believe I’m living in compassion, that I’m staying home to protect the vulnerable, but now that I’ve had some time to think it over—and calm down—I’ve realized that while this is true, there’s some part of me that’s living in fear as well. Because I figure, if I’m lucky, I may have another 50 years left in this lifetime, and I want to live the hell out of every single one of those years. I want to find out what happens to my three children. I want to hike the Pacific Crest Trail when I’m 80. I want to sit on my porch tomorrow and watch the hummingbirds flit through the pl

Poem #8 Now for Something Completely Different

How Does a Dinosaur Brush his Teeth (with huge thanks to Jane Yolen ) How does a dinosaur brush all his teeth? Does he run from the sink, and give his mom grief? Does he clamp his mouth shut, paint the mirror with paste? Does he yank at hand towels to cover his face? How does a dinosaur handle the floss? Does he shout, “Stand back, Dad! I am the boss!”? Does he break the box open, pull out miles of string? Does he toss it into the air with a fling? How does a dinosaur make his throat gargle? Does he spout a fountain of mouthwash till Mom is losing her marbles? Does he spray? Does he play? Does he act most unpleasant? No, a dinosaur doesn’t. A dinosaur waits with his mouth open wide while Dad brushes every tooth inside. He flosses until each molar’s a pearl, then sips his mouthwash without even a quarrel. He gives his mom a minty peck on the lips and runs off to play. Mama says, “Have fun, little dinosaur, and Happy Birthday.

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