My band of cohorts included twelve virgins and four veterans. We laughed, gasped and cheered for the wonderful, ambitious, naughty artists who brought us their brave new works. When it was over we agreed with hundreds of other buzzing audience members that Best In Show should go to Teenage Dream (a Glee-inspired spoof involving a nerd, a locker room and a naked basketball team). Other festival favorites were Mythical Proportions (in which real women confront and dispel the shame of their passion for Centaurs with the aid of crude stop motion magic), Go Fuck Yourself (Tom is visited by his future self who says they must fuck in order to save the universe), and One Night Only (Dance-Diva extraordinaire, Waxie Moon, in a beautiful tribute to the allure of so-many-penises and so-little-time). No anal hooks again this year. There was a funnel, but knowing it was staged somehow undermined its gasp-factor (better to leave us guessing next time). Instead of talking about what made each film interesting (Atari joysticks, lightsabers, a chinchilla, donut filling, a knife) – for dirty details click here and/or here – I have a few small requests for the organizers of Hump! 2012…

- A census form. I want to know who we are, because A. it’s fascinating, and B. I’d like to be able to spew some official HUMP! data at future dinner parties. If we can handle those uncomfortable pencils I’m sure we can manage another piece of paper or, better yet, print on the back of the ballot sheets and have people  fill them out before the show, results to be published along with the festival winners.

- Better tee shirts! It’s not that I want my HUMP! love enshrouded in secrecy, but can’t you come up with a clever logo that would enable me to show my support without having to explain it to my children? Some of us have reasons to be discreet (“I Got HUMPed!” doesn’t work in the class room for example), but we’re every bit as humpthusiastic as the next perv.

- An archive of links to HUMP! films (for filmmakers who choose to go public) because, seriously, I cannot search for them without falling down a porn rabbit hole.  A little help, please.

- Novelty items. Here’s the thing. I realize this is a dear, sweet, independent festival; I’m not suggesting anyone commercialize the fucker with tchotchkes from China. All I’m saying is I like to spread the word by gifting far-away peeps, peeps who want to get their HUMP! on, but can’t. More tee shirt choices just might do the trick, but I’m not opposed to a coffee mug either.

That’s about it.

During the year I’ll be fantasizing about all the amateur porn films I’d like to write and direct, hashing-out concepts with friends over beers and texts, discussing ethical casting practices, and eagerly awaiting word of HUMP! 2012.  In the meantime, keep those cameras rolling, Humpers – your sex-genius mini-porn might be only a few strokes away!

Big media and its ability to control and spin information has been a bone of contention throughout Occupy protests. In an interview with Portland Police Lieutenant, Robert King, around 1am this morning a TV reporter relentlessly attempted to sensationalize the stand-off. Lieutenant King remained on-point with the message that protestors were in fact peaceful and had given no reason for anyone to believe the stand-off would escalate to violence. The reporter further provoked him by emphasizing that the deadline had passed yet there were still thousands of protestors present. The same question was asked over and over, the subtext of which was: Yes, but when will you start kicking them out? At what time will you force them to leave? How will you physically remove them? An unflappable Lieutenant King reiterated his belief that people would voluntarily vacate the area as the hours passed, the police would give them the space to do so and that they would remain generally peaceful. He was right. The city’s intention is not to stop Occupy Portland, but to merely end the encampment part of it and restore the parks to their original state. I cannot vouch for the authenticity of this, but there was mention of several preventative actions the city took in the preceding days to ensure a peaceful transition. Another officer recounted two remarkable incidents he witnessed in the early hours. A policeman was struck and injured by a projectile from the crowd, but rather inciting a flashpoint for violence Occupiers pushed the man who threw the object to the open street where he was apparently taken away. Additionally, a scuffle erupted amongst two protestors who were immediately encircled by a crowd chanting, “Peace! Peace! Peace!” until the fight came to an end.

Currently the situation downtown remains tense, but non-violent as police remove the last of the hold-out shelters. The majority of Occupiers have willingly dismantled their tents and are working together to leave no trace. The city has provided dump trucks and there is still a strong police presence. In the coming days and weeks there will be an opportunity for solidarity in the park restoration effort. Occupiers are already talking about donating grass seeds and shrubbery to the parks which became encampments. Though the movement has not been without its challenges and distractions, overall it has been a success. I heartily commend both sides for exercising tolerance and restraint in the last twenty-four hours. I hope it remains peaceful.

To find out what’s next for Occupy Portland, view a live stream of the scene and support independent media visit their website. We have a voice. We can make a difference. Peace.

1. Two parents (myself included) wrote letters of complaint, the same two parents who complained last year and vowed to fight the ban on costumes. (I believe, with so many other school issues at hand, our complaints were honestly forgotten as opposed to ignored).

2. The response to our complaints indicated that the case was closed, there would be no room for negotiation or compromise.

3. We started a petition (as we said we would) to see if others felt the same way we felt. They did.

4. I published a post on Bananafish (a blog I write amid spilled drinks, potty emergencies, endless drop-off’s and pick-up’s, soccer, music, and more – I hardly believe there’s a volunteer position that can accommodate these circumstances).

5. Bananafish was then linked to several news sites thus creating a public platform for a series of heated debates.

It’s important to note that I was not the person who contacted the newspaper nor was the famed Sarah Nagy. But guess what, over two hundred petitioners getting no recognition is a story! Generally, those numbers merit at least a nod.

Our nod came two days ago in the latest installment of our school newsletter. Per special addendum, our principal offered some points of clarification (several of which are newly listed and make more sense to me) as to why there will be no costumes at school this year. Buckman students will be expected to dress within the parameters of the PPS dress code on Halloween. Lucky for us, we’re art school. Our principal writes, “Every day we encourage our children to celebrate their uniqueness and individuality.” Kids with dyed hair and feather-weaves, capes and mismatched knee socks, are often seen roaming our halls. A few extra witches and warlocks will hardly make a difference. Some families have said they’ll allow their children to wear whatever they choose on Halloween. Others are talking about avoiding school altogether to celebrate their holiday. According to one PPS source a single day of high absenteeism will have little impact on our funding. No matter what your course of action is, I hope it will be carried out with respect for all.

What remains crystal clear (and for me most frustrating) is that there seems to be a relatively small group of people making decisions on my behalf. Site Council is a group of nine volunteers. Seeking public opinion is not part of its function. I desperately want to participate in the decision-making process (as I’m sure many others do) and though I faithfully read our newsletters, I have no idea where and when these decisions are being made. Many of us can’t attend PTA and/or special events meetings. But we all deserve to have our say. This “fiasco” as one commenter calls it might seem like small potatoes, but if several dozen parents can’t get a word in regarding Halloween costumes in a Portland Public School, how in the world are any of us ever going to change corruption on Wall Street?

We are but a microcosm. And that fact is not up for debate.

For many reasons, the celebration of Halloween at school can lead to student exclusion. There are social, financial and cultural differences among our families that we must respect. The spirit of equity has lead most PPS (Portland Public Schools) schools, including most elementary schools, to deemphasize the celebration of Halloween at school.

Apparently it was discussed with the staff and members of the equity team (I’ve never heard of this team – who are its members? how were they chosen? what is their function?) as well as many parents and local principals, and these select few concluded that it’s better to encourage more inclusive celebrations. Hmm. See, last year when Halloween got canceled we were told it was because it conflicted with Grandparents/Special Friends Day. Rather than lead my family into its first act of civil disobedience I yielded to the administration as to avoid discord with guests on campus.

This year some friends and I attempted to bring back Halloween costumes. We petitioned for friendly, low-maintenance costumes without masks or weapons. No offense, but the current incarnation of Halloween is primarily celebrated as a secular holiday. It’s more about candy than anything else. But we weren’t petitioning for candy. We weren’t even petitioning for parties. We only want the children at our arts school to be able to express themselves with costumes if they choose to do so. Had the administration said costumes were distracting, the teachers hated it, it was too much work, I probably wouldn’t be making a federal case out of this. But the stream of utter nonsense they’ve laid before us is impossible to ignore. If Halloween is celebrated there are up to six children (out of nearly five hundred) who’s families will not allow them to attend school that day. We’re told these families don’t recognize this as a secular holiday nor does the school district. So let’s run with that, shall we? Halloween: a sacred holiday.

If certain students wore religious head-coverings to school they wouldn’t be sent home. If other students wore black smudges on their foreheads a certain Wednesday of the year they wouldn’t be sent home either. The school system is claiming that this is a non-secular, non-inclusive holiday. Subsequently, Halloween goes the way of Christmas, with Valentine’s Day close behind (oy, the stress of writing all those obnoxiously tiny Valentine’s Day cards – I hate it, but I wouldn’t do away with it when so many people enjoy the ritual).

So now a large group of us must make a choice: stand by our beliefs, letting our children wear costumes to school and risk being sent home or skip school all together and head to the pumpkin patch thus lowering our school’s very important attendance record? To further complicate the matter, a local news station wants to hear our story. Talk or quietly let it go? All this over America’s most creative holiday as it pertains to, of all places, an art school. This country’s obsession with the politically correct is really getting out of hand.

To the good people of Black Rock City…

Strange-Charm, thank you for taking me in that first year and for being my campmates every year since. I love you both.

Free Puppies, the best neighbors a burner could wish for, especially Courtney for letting me sing a little harmony on my new favorite song (The Family Tree), Todd for the massage and yoga, and Brett for your lovely voice and the peanut butter treats. You guys rock.

DeMentha Mojito Dance Party, the hardest working bar in BRC with the tastiest drinks and lip balm EVER! Special thanks to the gorgeous boy w/the Jesus mane who kissed me on the dance floor – oh, to have known you better…! xo

Lamplighters Bloody Mary Wednesday where I acquired the Jelly/Jam joke we told all week (email, call or text me to hear it).

Pickle Joint for providing a most excellent pickletini, loads of laughs and some of the most creative events on the playa.

Simon and Fem for the black “Holland Burners 2011″ band which will only leave my wrist when it decides to fall off.

Club Verboten for Beatles Night No. 3. Singing and dancing with hundreds of hardcore Beatles fans who knew every nuance of every song was absolute euphoria for me! My love to the young Apolo Anton Ohno looking fellow whose enthusiasm matched my own and who helped pull together the Hey Jude group hug at the end. Big love to the tall Brit who traded lead and back-up vocals with me all night. It was magic, guys, magic. See you next time.

Gherkin Lounge where we met beautiful Terry and Troy, the dark angels who shared all the brotherly twin wisdom they had to offer. It was an honor meeting you both. Thanks for letting us climb to the top of your dome and a very special thanks to Troy for listening to my Rite of Passage and for hugging me instead of judging me.

Sore Nipple Camp for introducing me to the infamous Sybian – finally! A perfect way to start the day!

Erik w/InTicket who purred five little words that have kept me laughing ever since. You are a true deviant. Respect, Brother. I yearn for more of your stories.

To the Texan with the bullhorn at Funtown for delivering my second favorite quote, “I’m gonna need a yes, it’s OK for you to motorboat my taint, because silence is not consent, People!”

The Soul Train for the BEST traveling tunes on the playa. I’m coming aboard next year, Baby!

To the rowdy cowhands at Brand-UR-Ass’N More for branding my boobs (pic texted to close friends upon request).

The Silkscreen Artist at 6:15 and G who did the most beautiful art in the blazing sun for everyone. My pillowcases are incredible. Thanks to your sweet mom too for sharing her homemade salsa, guac and chips with all of us. Your camp embodies the true spirit of Burning Man.

The grilled cheese Viking at Fandango’s awesome Booty Mash-up party. I was famished; You appeared. I love you, man.

Duckpond for raging day and night, night and day – your fifty-foot slip n’slide never gets old.

The French Quarter – what could be better than a shot of crocodile tears and a big bowl of spicy gumbo to set me on fire in the middle of a cold night? It was worth the wait.

Distrikt for kick-ass dubstep 24/7 – unce unce unce never sounded so good!

Misting Dome @ 9:00 & F (?) – thanks for providing a slice of cool heaven on the playa which seems to be maintained by invisible mist fairies. Who are you people? Why have I never seen you?

My very good friend, DW, the smartest person I know, a kind and gentle soul with more to give than I can comprehend.

Thanks to my best friend and hubby who turned out to be a natural burner. It was no surprise that scores of people sought you out of the crowd to throw their arms around you. Your warmth and beauty is contagious. I hope this is only the beginning for you. I love you still and evermore. xo

And to everyone, everyone, everyone who danced their way across the playa with me. When the man fell I floated through throngs in the fiery glow catching snippets of conversation as if it were a dream. I drifted in and out of their tears, joy, bewilderment. “That was amazing!” ~ “I’m so happy I met you! Let’s stay in touch…” ~ “He was here just a minute ago…” ~ “Where are you guys going?” ~ “This is insane!” – “Where are we?” ~ “We need to pack up now…” – “I’ll never forget you…” ~ “Let’s meet at Comfort and Joy…” ~ “Well… I guess this is goodbye…” ~ “Do you remember where I left my bike?”

My heart swelled. I knew this feeling. My eyes and ears did the work knowing too well it would be an entire year before I’d be Home again. Anth believes one of the main reasons that Black Rock City fits me like a glove is its openness. When burners talk they really talk. There are no secrets. Everyone is happy to share their stories and since Full Disclosure is my safety zone I feel completely at ease there. The playa connects us to one another in some strange, serendipitous way. We’re all there to give. We are all there to receive. And after one week of magic (dust storms, unbearable heat, scorching sun and all) we pack up and leave. Throughout the year when I meet burners we share a unique understanding and caring for one another. Yesterday quite unexpectedly I ran into a burner-dad on the playground of my daughters’ school. Hugging him filled me with a light that stretched from my heart to his and all the way back to the center of Black Rock City. It has been said that Burning Man is over. For those who follow trends or were more content when there were several thousand fewer people and little or no infrastructure, maybe so. But for those of us who need to cut loose in the desert for one short week a year and then quietly, longingly, burn the rest of the year, BRC is more relevant than ever.

29 more days until SF Decompression.

130 more days until tickets go on sale for Burning Man 2012.

357 more days until The Man burns!

Here’s the visual of our boys in ER – Teo, white as a ghost, silent, clutching his blanket, blood-soaked mitt on his elevated hand, wearing a tiger costume covered in blood, and Des, doe-eyed, standing on tip-toe, muttering an endless loop about Teo and all the blood and how the firefighters came to our house, and Anthony and I going over and over everything in our heads. We constantly talk about moving back East to be closer to our families. Nothing highlights the distance between us more than emergency situations. We sort through all the friends we’ve called for help in the past and try to remember their schedules – who’s got who in what grade, who usually drives where and when, etc., etc. If they’re not available we move to Plan B – neighbors who’s numbers we might have in our phones. We go over the criteria for a true emergency, what requires both of us and what can be handled by one. Subsequently, Anthony left to pick-up the girls at school, settle poor Desmond down and take my place in the afternoon routine while I stayed with Teo. The E.R. doc called in an orthopedic surgeon who decided Teo should be admitted to the hospital. A little while later he was put under general anesthesia so his fingers could be thoroughly cleaned, assessed and treated. I know some of you out there have been in similar situations, so I won’t get into how terrible it was to see my child in such pain, to not recognize the tiny fingers I know so well, to see him all drugged-out and vacant as they wheeled away from me, how his body arched and stretched to keep me in his sight. I stood frozen in an empty room as the giant doors to the O.R. swung shut, and it was only then that my body began to tremble and shake with tears, and there came a small voice in my ear saying, “You’re in shock right now, Mom. I’m putting a warm blanket over your shoulders. Everything’s going to be all right.” And it was. The angel-nurse lead me to the Parent Waiting Room where I sat and remembered what it was like when Des was in the N.I.C.U. His condition was not life-threatening. He would without a doubt be OK. So would Teo. Others would not.

Because the hand-mixer had never been used the blades were extremely sharp and made very deep, but very clean cuts. The bone of his top left index finger had been obliterated. The finger suffered three serious lacerations, but probably due to the angle of the blades all the important stuff was in tact. The middle finger had the deepest cuts of all, three total, triangular in shape. A nerve had been severed. The tip of the ring finger, just barely grazing the top of the nail, had been taken off in the accident. This was all good the doctor explained. Because Teo is so young, the bone, the nerve and the tip of his finger will almost certainly regrow without any complications. Even if the nerve doesn’t reconnect itself, the finger has another nerve that will naturally take over sensation, so he’ll still have feeling in the finger. When Teo came out of anesthesia and was able to speak clearly, he asked for a purple popsicle. As far as he knows hospitals are where popsicles grow. We rode on the bed together as they wheeled us back to his room where a purple popsicle magically appeared in the hands of a magical nurse. The night was rough, but we made it through.

Today, except for the giant wrap on his left hand, Teo is running, jumping, doing and undoing everything in sight as usual. He hasn’t slowed down a bit. Next week we’ll follow-up with the orthopedic surgeon. In the meantime, all I have to do is keep this cast clean and dry, and make sure he doesn’t re-injure himself before his appointment. Wish me luck.

When I wasn’t with my campmates I spent my time exploring the bright peaks and dark corners of Black Rock City. Dozens of art cars roamed the playa, always vibrating with competing techno music and half-naked dancers. I was thankful when a friend encouraged me to climb onto to one. But in my enhanced state, even at two miles an hour, it was hard to jump off. I spent time lounging on pillows in most excellent company. Silky fabrics billowed in the night air. Stars fell from the sky. And all the while came the roar of giant flame throwers and the thunk-thunk of d.j’s luring their crowds. If I was offered something I usually said yes. Had I been in Portland I probably would have said no to the bartender who wanted to trace my naked breasts into his scrapbook, but this was a place that felt more like home to me than any other city (including Los Angeles). I was safe there. And more willing to explore than ever before. I had sunscreen slathered on my skin by a small team of geeky, middle-aged men. In Real Life these guys might be considered creepy. But everyone deserves a thrill and after all it was important to protect my skin from harmful UV rays. I dare not divulge the details of other experiences (I’m not that much of an exhibitionist) though I do believe the spirits of loved ones were with me in the desert this year. It was the whisper of their voices that helped me to unleash the part of me that remains forever shackled in Real Life. And by God yes, it felt good to be free!

Directly or indirectly I came across the following happenings…
- Spanky’s Wine Bar
- The Great Canadian Beaver Hunt (couples competition)
- Booby Bar
- Blow-Job Workshop @ Pleasure Palace (partner or prop required)
- The Hookahdome (no socks, no sleeping, no sex)
- The Monkey Chant
- Silhouette Theatre (where couples made love behind a white screen and in front of a flood light)
- And Then There’s Only Love (Orgy den)
- The Birth Canal (where people simulated being born using a tunnel made of tight netting)
- Sunblock Application Station
- Midnight Poutine (fries, cheese curds and brown gravy – mmmm)
- Burners Without Borders
- Nexus (one of several enormous techno clubs)
- Healing Yoga (sunrise and sunset editions)
- Burning Ring of Fire
- Comfort & Joy (soap, hair brushes, toothbrushes and toothpaste available)
- 50ft Slip n’ Slide @ the Duck Pond (bar)
- Mojitos (where we danced and drank all day instead of packing)
- Vomiting Sparrows (where I met my favorite Spaniard)
- So much astonishing out-of-this-world art I can’t even go into it

It went by tragically fast. I’d overslept. The plan was to hit the road by 5am to avoid the morning exodus. My teeth chattered as I raced across the playa on my bike. If I was lucky I’d just beat the sunrise. I tried not to look where The Man once stood (he fell over with such glory and poetry the night before!). I whirled past Bliss Dance, a gorgeous forty-foot installation of a naked woman dancing with her eyes closed, wishing I’d photographed her. There’d be no romantic goodbye. No nod to my spiritual journey. No tears for my rite of passage, for all I’d leave behind in Black Rock City. In thirty minutes time G and I were gone. Again, he drove the entire way, which left me free to gaze out the window and watch bits of myself blow away as if they never even existed. And while the landscape kept changing – infinite nothingness, towering cliffs and big sky, to the redwoods, the whole of my life cast by shadowy giants too tall to see beyond – the desert clung to me. It strapped its arms around mine and I buried my head in its shoulder until our breath grew slow and shallow, and the oxygen that sustained me for so many days was gone.

“Thank you for coming back to us,” TC said. It was never a question. (But perhaps he knows me better than I know myself – I am so in love with freedom it scares me.) And from all directions my babies hurtled themselves at me and I smelled their hair and kissed their skin and felt the weight of them on me again, their eyes sparkling with love. And my heart expanded well-above the treetops and deeper than any rabbit holes I might have fallen down.

D got her own breakfast today. She stumbled to the table, poured her cereal and milk, groggy from sleep while the others rocked in their chairs banging forks and spoons, and squealing like monkeys. Just yesterday D sat at this table in high chair.

People like me are distracted now. All thoughts lead back to Black Rock City, preparations, anticipation. Tent, water, shade. Reunion. This time I will be free of responsibility for five days.

I packed the family swim bag. Lessons begin this afternoon. Suits, sunscreen, towels. The six of us will be together in the water. D, striving to advance. Z, graceful as a seal twirling underwater. T, swinging from TC’s shoulders. Little D, clinging to my legs. This isn’t happenstance. This is my beautiful creation.

When the sun goes down the lights come up. My bike will flash through the darkness, its basket stocked with goggles, a thermal hat, and gifts for friends I’ve yet to meet. There will be music, dancing and flames stretching across the sky. At dawn I will free fall into the briefest, but deepest of sleeps only to awake and venture out again.

Z’s immunization records must be sent to the school. D is due for a teeth cleaning. The dog needs flea drops bad. A well-child appointment should be scheduled for the boys. Summer clothes are to be replaced with fall. I must organize my music lesson-plans as well as a new writing schedule with enough time to work on submissions.

My two most challenging endeavors are enduring the daily grind and enduring the high desert. They each possess immeasurable rewards. The two weren’t meant to co-exist; They are but a microcosm of the duality that defines me. Compromise doesn’t come naturally. So I blaze on, passionate mother of four, hunter and gatherer of words, determined to take myself further than I’ve gone before until the day when it all falls away and I emerge as one person, a single burner set free in the desert.

In the meantime, it’s only a dream. I scratch at a few submissions and figure out what to make for dinner tonight.

My uncle’s murder wasn’t a wound that would scab-over and disappear in time. My heart broke in such a way that it could never fully heal. While the family absorbed the shock, my little sister and I were sent to stay with cousins. By the time we returned, a numbing silence had settled over the household. After he died I saw my uncle only once… lying across his bed as I had seen him so many times before, listening to music on his headphones. He used to let me sit on the floor next to him to study the album covers, Alice Cooper, Kiss, Aerosmith. When I spoke he didn’t hear me. I reached for him, but he began to fade away. I called his name. He vanished anyway. I can’t remember what anyone said when I told them he was there. I only remember it being too heavy to breath. Just weeks before his death I happened to ask my grandfather where God really was. I attended Catholic school and my mind was reeling with unanswerable questions. Grandpa had a tiny room in the back of the apartment that was crammed with Native American art, books and dirty ashtrays. I loved the sound of his voice when he sang Glen Miller songs. He confided, “God is… in the trees and mountains.” His words now echoed in black hole created by my uncle’s absence.

Not long after the tragedy we moved to a house of our own, a palace with a yard, a pool, a quiet street, a puppy and no airport in sight. And while the change was a distraction from our loss (having never seen my uncle in my new surroundings my mind could no longer conjured him in the familiar) I turned my attention toward trees. I stared up at the towering oaks, knocked on their trunks and whispered, “Uncle? Are you there? If you’re there, say something. I won’t tell.” I began pestering God to grant my uncle special permission to speak with me. Nothing. I watched for signs in the ways autumn leaves drifted down to the earth. Patterns of raindrops in puddles. Clusters of snowflakes on the air. I was sure he was there in the same way I was sure my stuffed animals came to life when they were alone. But no matter how much I pleaded, my stuffed animals remained inanimate, and neither God nor my uncle ever gave any sign that they’d heard me.

Once in dream I wandered through a front door, past a coat closet, into a room with a shiny new coffin. I spied a distant uncle laid-out inside. We later received word that my mother’s uncle in Detroit had died of a cerebral hemorrhage early that morning. Ghosts came and went through the years, always strangers. In my current home several children once appeared before me in a dream. They raced into my room in the middle of the night, dressed in their best clothes. I sat up in bed blinking. The room was different. The picture rails were new and dark, not caked with years of glossy white. Vines of holly hung from them. I peered into the hallway. The walls were a peculiar shade of green with candy canes around the edges. It occurred to me, “Oh, this is a dream. This is how the house once was, years ago.” But in that moment the children stopped dead in their tracks at the foot of my bed and stared into my eyes. It was chilling. “If this is a dream,” the little girl said without speaking, “then why are you holding my doll?” I looked down at the porcelain doll in my hands. My heart thumped and woke me for real. I told TC in the morning, but dreams have a unique way of boring people so I filed it in the Lucid part of my brain, the part that comes to life when I’m asleep. Weeks later we stripped the hallway of its horrible wall-covering. Beneath several scrapings of cement-like glue and three different coats of paint, lay its final layer… a peculiar shade of green with red and white candy-striped edging.

At the show it all came back to me, my Beginning… the place where all of my questions spilled out, the wondering, the waiting, the confusion, the need to understand, to know what lies Beyond, and from there, the desire to know who people really are, and figure out what makes them do the things they do. I did the only thing that came naturally to me. I drew pictures. I made music. I wrote stories. Many long years later it began to dawn on me there are no answers, only questions.

The other night, after being blown away by our local Goddess of Crazy-Ass Talent my friend E and I discussed what distinguishes a great performer from the Real Deal. This is a conversation I’ve had again and again with like-minded actors and directors, and we always agree that while both artists must possess the requisite talent to captivate an audience, the Real Deal has something more. It has to do with survival – the Real Deal draws from creative energy that simply must be released, expressed, channeled or she will die. When artists of this caliber are on stage there’s isn’t any room for self-consciousness, contrivances, or preconceived notions. They ride the waves, moment to moment, without fear. They reveal their deepest truths. Whether they knock it out of the park or ground it to first is inconsequential. What matters is that they swing BIG (which is all they really know). Exposing oneself to such a degree is high-risk to most, but for them everything (even what some might consider failure) is art and everything is worth exploring. I believe their curious nature, courage and unyielding passion is the difference between performers who are great but don’t pop. The Real Deal gives us all of herself and more.

Success is commonly measured in monetary terms. It isn’t fair, but even I’m guilty of this narrow-minded thinking. It’s the reason I question seeing Storm Large for less than the grossly inflated price of a mainstream rock concert. We subject performers to unreasonable ideas of what success is. A relative once said, “Jeff Goldblum: he never really made it, did he?” Really? Goldblum? The man has managed to star in several of the top grossing films of all time while working on scores of indie films because he wants to, not because he has to. How far up the ladder must one travel to be considered successful in this business? The A List is impossibly short and with the exception of a handful of actors it changes on a dime. Other industries aren’t held to the same insane standards. I’ve never heard anyone say of an engineer, graphic designer or physician, “She never really made it, she doesn’t have her own reality show.” And yet, I walk around with this odd thought pattern that lashes out every now and then. It looks like this. My car pulls into a parking spot and when I turn off the engine and my favorite song from my favorite non-pop singer stops blaring. A car parks beside me. We get out at the same time and I think, “Hey, You! Why the aren’t you writing a check to Storm Large or Martin Sexton, Mother Fucker?! Get out your fucking checkbook and support these people now! They’ve earned it!!” It happens all the time when I take out my earbuds. But there’s no need for me to be fantasy-screaming at people. These artists seem to be doing alright for themselves. It’s just that I get lost in the notion that success equals learjets and Rolling Stones prices. It doesn’t.

For days my friend, E, has been obsessed with Storm Large. She can’t stop singing 8 Miles Wide. It tends to have that effect on people. I’ve stopped trying to censor myself in Fred’s. When I’m with my children I whistle some of the lyrics, but I sing most of them and the kids join in. What harm can it possibly do? It’s such a happy tune. I knew E would fall hard for Storm. Frankly, I don’t know how anyone I’m even remotely connected to can resist her. She’s got the biggest set of balls imaginable and I don’t mean her band, though they also kill – holla to The Balls, what. In my own small way I support her and all the other artists who inspire me.

It’s hard to be a writer who hardly writes. I know I’ve whined through half these posts, but it’s no longer possible for me to stare into space and listen-in on conversations my characters would have. It used to be all I had to do was sit down and type whatever I heard. But now, all I’m left with are voices. I used to think success meant making a name for myself in American Theatre. Then I thought it meant signing with a great literary agent and/or writing for a theatre with subscribers. Then I started thinking it might be to just write another play. Now it’s just to write words – something, anything, whenever. These artists I’ve come to admire are important to me. They remind me to find a way, to dig deeper, take bigger risks, tell the truth at all costs, to not give up and to not put a band-aid on it. A fellow student in my writing class asked our teacher to talk about discipline. Mark answered, “Discipline is OK. Enthusiasm is better. Obsession is best.” I quite agree. However painful my obsession is, it does create some of my richest material. Someday it’ll find its way out.

After a month-long battle with throat infections, it was great to spend my first two days recovering in the South of France at the home of Laurent’s mother, Janou. Janou is a tiny, impeccably dressed woman of Italian decent who was raised in war-time France, which means there is no food nor human skill wasted by her. She is a fantastic cook, a master seamstress adept at the complex art of traditional French patterning, and a woman of taste and style. The interior of her home looked like a catalog from West Elm. All of the linens (curtains, table clothes, bed sheets) were sewn by her. I slept under a gorgeous blanket made of the finest cotton. I ate like a queen. One day they brought me to the sparkling city of Nimes where Janou grew up, her old flat now a tattoo parlor. We danced along side a bohemian street carnival with drums, brass and twenty-foot puppets. Turns out, patchouli is a universal scent. I learned about Janou’s childhood, French Provencal cooking, and bull fighting, which I did my best to respect if not understand. In Janou’s little village of Calvisson Bob and I met an artist who makes whimsical furniture from cardboard. He then covers it with artisan paper and what looks like industrial-strength decoupage. The creative process always intrigues me, but doubly so in this case because the artist-boy was very, very tall and very, very gorgeous, and since Bob and I have the same taste in men we could have spent all day gazing up at his dreamy eyes. We went back the next morn to buy a small piece of art (photograph him).

Friends told me how nice it is to simply tune-out and how freeing it can be to contribute exactly nothing to conversations, so I looked forward to embracing the happy silence of the language barrier. But I couldn’t pull it off. I bombarded poor Janou with so many questions she decided to dedicate an entire morning to teaching me the recipes I’d been grilling her on. It was fantastic! Much better than any gift I could have brought home. What I learned from Janou could conceivably last longer than my lifetime. I returned to my family knowing how to make Janou’s Soupe au Pistou (Pesto soup), Olive tapenade (they have their own olive tree by the pool!), local baby clams w/garlic, Moreaux (white fish) spread, endive salad, and Laurent’s famous chocolate cake. By the time I said goodbye to Calvisson I was well-rested and ready for adventure.

Paris. Picture the most dazzling city in the world teaming with spectacular architecture, sculptures, and fountains, throw in dozens of outstanding restaurants, cafes and patisseries, flood it with artists and people from all over the world, then multiply its fabulousness by ten, and one might begin to grasp why Paris is referred to as the greatest city in the world. I’ve a gut feeling the French have achieved world dominance where presentation is concerned. Aesthetically, they are superior. Literally every corner of the city it is more breathtaking than the last. A newish University building (1900) was meticulously designed to blend-in and preserve the integrity of its neighboring buildings, many hundreds of years old. “This is why we pay so much money to live here,” Laurent said as we zoomed by on his scooter. Laurent was my ticket to Paris. I held tight as we darted in and out of traffic along the Seine, under the shimmering Eiffel Tower, past the Champs Elysees, round the Arc d’Triumph and back again.

As a young teen Laurent became a professional ballet dancer at the Paris Opera House. It was the happy ending to his real-life Billy Elliot story and the beginning of his illustrious career. At forty-two he retired from dancing and was offered an elite position as a dance instructor for the company from which he retired. He works three days a week at the Opera House, one of the most beautiful structures I’ve ever laid eyes on. Its interior is even more impressive than its exterior. In the old days, Opera represented the loftiest members of society and the Opera House clearly reflects this in its design. The grand staircases, halls and ball rooms were made for strolling and admiring. During my private backstage tour, I saw everything: the stage, the fly space (seven stories high), the wings, the subscribers room and the rehearsal studios where two dancers were rehearsing for their upcoming show in Japan. I could scarcely breath as I watched them. The fluidity of their motions, the shapes they created with their bodies, the passion between them, moved me to tears. In the wardrobe department I touched the tiny crystals, thousands sewn by hand, on a ballerina’s gown. The frame was so small, I wondered if these dancers ever ate. They’re certainly were not devouring the two baguettes a day that Bob and I averaged. It can’t be helped. “Dare I say,” boasted Bob, “the baguettes are that good!”

Some things are better in Paris. Baguettes. Cheese. Wine. Croissants. Espresso. The pace. I counted five new Starbucks, but no matter how badly my hand longed to hold a coffee cup as I walked, it was my mission to resist. Walking and eating/drinking goes against the Parisian grain. Cafes simply don’t offer drinks to go. One is to sit and enjoy food and drink, not rush about. Besides, they do a quick espresso shot (none of this cream and sugar business) after most meals as a little pick me up. I was in heaven. But I was feeling a wee bit guilty, so I searched for something we Americans excel at and I was surprised to discover two things: French fries and bike helmets. Twice on my own I had fries just to see (once while waiting in a three-hour line at the Eiffel Tower and again in a little pub I passed just as my legs were about to buckle from all the walking). American fries are just as good if not better especially considering the variety we have (steak, shoestring, cheddar, garlic, regular, etc.,). And number two, in spite of their progressive bike rental system (with automated pick-up and drop-off sites conveniently located throughout the city) bike helmets were nonexistent! This is troubling when it’s common knowledge that the aim of public bus drivers is to kill cyclists. They in fact succeeded several times during the flagship year of the bike program. I’m scared to cycle on sweet, little Hawthorne Boulevard yet under Bobby’s (ultimately dangerous) wing I braved the insane streets Paris and lived to tell about it. If I can ride there, I can ride anywhere.

The streets have a way of calling to people. Thousands of years old, they unfold like a treasure map. I found myself sitting in the morning light outside La Madeleine church. I was late to meet Bob, but I couldn’t resist the building plus I needed to rest. With what little French I could muster I set-out to borrow a cell phone. Once people learned that I didn’t actually understand French they often mistook me for Dutch, German or any Slavic orientation, but never American. I wondered why. While people were intrigued with my nationality, the clock was ticking and the prospect of reaching Bob wasn’t good. Then along the cobblestones, I spied an older man coming toward the stairs. He wore a brown plaid hat that begged for a tiny red feather. He was short in his suit jacket and pants, early eighties maybe, and he carried with him an old fashioned valise. It looked as if he’d just stepped out of a time machine. Our eyes met and we greeted each other like old friends. After a quick game of international charades, I discovered not only didn’t he have a cell phone that worked in France, but phone calls were of no importance to him – they only delayed what he’d been trying to tell me. He opened the valise and retrieved an envelope. In it, a black and white photo of three women, one older and two younger, teenagers perhaps. They were his wife and children. He removed his hat, placed it over his heart and pointed to the sky. Heaven. They had passed. All three. I told him how sorry I was. He squeezed my hand with appreciation, but that was not what he was after. He showed me the photo again, this time tapping the background with his index finger then turning and pointing over his shoulder to one of the great columns behind us and the wall relief next to it. It was in the photo. This was where his family had stood many years before. He asked me to take his photo as he stood in the very spot. I did. Then with a tip of his hat he was off. His hat, the suit jacket, the valise… gone, as if he’d walked straight up into the clouds.

These memories go on and on. The museums, the gardens, the shops, the young Americans behind me at the Eiffel Tower, the rowdy Englishman who rallied six or eight strangers into drinking with him at the top of the observation deck, the Moulin Rouge where thanks to Bob’s friend Adonis, a can-can dancer, I got to see the show and go backstage… it’s all with me now. The benefit of traveling on my own was that instead of being fixed and focused, my eyes were open and up, able to see adventure as it came. I’m deeply thankful to TC for the opportunity. It was by far the best gift I’ve ever received. It’s been one week since I returned home. One week since my thoughts were my own. One week since anyone asked if I’d like something to eat. And while I’m desperate for the company of my cousin I can’t bear the thought of leaving my family again. But I feel strongly that I’m to develop an intimate relationship with Paris in the future. Now that I’ve been, I know it’s possible. One day my children will walk the same Parisian streets I did, but they’ll be much younger and they’ll hopefully have an understanding that traveling the world is part of becoming a whole person. My wish for them is that they’ll each follow their bliss, and grow to be adventurous and free. Yet a secret part of me wishes they’ll always be right around the corner from me and that they won’t do to us what we’ve done to our parents, living three thousand miles away from them for all these years. In the meantime, there seems to be a surplus of poopy diapers in this house, someone’s always hungry, and someone is always waiting to be dropped-off or picked-up. These are the days I’ll look back on with longing and affection. This is our Before. Before they go and break our hearts by growing up. Before they know Paris better than I ever did.

Although I worked with a phenomenal bunch of actors, small theater in L.A. is notoriously bad. And for good reason. Before Youtube and Funny or Die it was the means by which to many fledgling actors broke into the Industry. It wasn’t uncommon for an actor to bail on a play mid-run for a coveted TV job (especially during pilot season). Occasionally, young writers and directors who were legitimately trying to make their artistic mark would find themselves performing on stage where they didn’t belong.  And too many times actors who were not writers would write and star in plays merely to showcase their talent (or lack thereof).  Productions like these were viral. Being a working actor was better than being unemployed, so if a blight of a play came along, I usually took it. During the Clinton sex scandal I played Monica Lewinsky’s replacement, a white house intern hired to keep the president free of sexual tension.  The guy who wrote, produced and directed this calamity was a scuzzy, stubble-faced, dirty-haired, baseball cap wearing, slouch of man (Hmm… I’ve just described Frank on 30 Rock, but this cat wasn’t nearly as endearing). The interior doors on stage were actually exteriors that lead to the alley behind the theater, which was our green room.  We quick-changed amid trash cans, stray cats and electrical wires dressed with dangling sneakers. Fully naked in an alley. Even though I was embarrassed to have people come see it, the show wasn’t a total bust. I got to practice my stage kissing, I did some stage combat, and I learned how to use a whip. Why people came to see it remains a mystery.

One of the funniest showcases I’ve ever seen was by a pack of twenty-somethings in a torrent of random, shocking and totally senseless scenes. One such scene took place in a subway where a hot actressy-thing changed the diaper of a full-grown man-baby using a giant diaper, wipes, powder, and all.  His kopfegashlagen flapped around like a dead fish and, being a small theatre, was too close for comfort. If the two “actors” weren’t snorting throughout (the kind of laugh that makes chocolate milk come out of your nose in the cafeteria) it very well may have been an exercise in fetish.  What made it worthwhile were the two French tourists who’d wandered in off the street.  We were few steps from Hollywood Boulevard and the Walk of Fame and the production was banking on walk-ins. The tourists paid full price and sat diagonally in front of me.  There were maybe twenty-five of us in the audience. The couple became exceedingly dumbfounded.  Their mouths hung open.  They stole confused, disoriented glances from each other. I contracted an immediate and severe case of the giggles, which probably served to motivate the cast. As I writhed and crowed, the husband turned to his wife and said in his native tongue what I believed was, “Ah… I get it now… it’s nonsense… it’s theater absurd… it’s absurd!  Just for fun!”  She fixed her eyes on him and said nothing.  What could anyone say? Four male actors were pretending to take a piss on the audience. I almost peed myself for real.

My second favorite atrocity took place at the Beverly Hills Playhouse where yet another desperate actor decided to write, direct and star in… I don’t know what to call it, really. The set was bare except for a floor to ceiling background curtain.  The actors mimed to distraction almost everything including reading a news paper.  Then came a scene about a phone.  Apparently, this was the singular prop used. How unfortunate that the prop master forgot to replace it. The writer, director and star searched in vain for the ever-ringing phone, panicking as time ticked on. It was an excruciating two minutes for the audience. I worked with aerial-stuntmen of drama who had no trouble riding mishaps (mishaps were in fact our specialty), but the poor lad on stage was at a loss. Someone actually yelled, “Just go with it, Dude.”  But it was beyond him. Finally… a frantic ripple of the curtain… footsteps… slowly, strangely, an old-school telephone peeped out from behind the curtain… and in the most peculiar staccato fashion… shove… shove… shove… shove… it cleared the fabric and thus sat hapless on the floor.  It took on the ominous quality of the typewriter in Naked Lunch. The actor was near tears. “My God!” he cried as he rushed to the phone and just as he picked it up it rang.  He hung it up.  Silence.  He picked up.  It rang.  Up down, up down, ring silence, ring silence.  A bona-fide actor’s nightmare.

If this kind of thing happens in Portland, I’ve yet to see it. I’m approaching a place where I’m almost able to write again, so for the last two years I’ve gone to lots of shows around town. Just last week a commercial director from L.A. said, “Where will you do a reading? The theatre in Portland isn’t very good, is it?” The assumption is that Portland is too small to count. It reminded me of a run-in I had with a NY agent last summer. When I asked why he represents playwrights (who are notoriously poor and can’t possibly make much money for him) he jumped down my throat. But he never actually answered my question. All of the agents and managers I used to know practically died laughing when I told them I wanted to write plays. They berated me for not trying to write for television. I was hoping this NY agent would tell me that playwrights deserve representation in spite of their meager earnings, that theatre was his passion, that it wasn’t about money. I questioned him about the scores of playwrights who ultimately pursue more lucrative writing jobs. He more or less explained that he was speaking in terms of Portland. In NY he speaks NY. In L.A. he speaks L.A. I get what he meant, but it was clear that Portland didn’t rate a professional answer because we’re not really in the game. The truth is, Portland thrives with some of the most talented and motivated artists I’ve ever known. Of the four productions of Hamlet I’ve seen (Boston, New Haven, Los Angeles, and Ashland) the Portland production with its five-member cast is by far the best. (It’s in its last weeks – please see it if you can!) Perhaps it’s that the actors, writers and directors here are actually in it for the art. Their reward is not a shot at a better agent, a pilot or a general at a big studio, it’s the work itself. In a way it reminds me of the underground theatre scene in New York minus the pace, abruptness, and all the scarves. While it is true that Portland is a little pond, it’s also true that there’s an abundance of big fish here. And these big fish tell me that rather than heading to the big cities as it is Written, they’re staying put. Ah, yet another reason to bask in the coolness of Portland. Thespians from NY, L.A., San Francisco, Chicago, etc., choose to be here. Something special is stirring in this little pond. Don’t take my word for it. Check out a few shows and see for yourself.

Each year an invoice arrives in the mail.  Hundreds of dollars are due.  At first, I was convinced we’d birth another baby, so paying the embryo storage fee seemed justified.  I’d been curious to know what a singleton pregnancy was like plus five (kids, that is) felt like a good strong number.  But two open birth adoptions, one twin pregnancy, and four kids later there’s no denying my exhaustion.  I’m an over-scheduled mom, part-time music teacher, and very frustrated writer – none of which provide enough money for us to live on.  Having been laid-off last spring TC is still taking contract work here and there.  We do OK, but not without effort.  To our credit we have a knack for hashing things out based on our value system and not money.  When seeking answers, our policy has always been to search our hearts and do what feels right regardless of finances, somehow we’ll find a way.  But this is a broader subject.  It deals with agreeing on delicate terminology, raking over a new set of ethics and making choices with weighty consequences.  What to do with the embryos?

Stem cell research had always been our top choice.  Researchers typically allow blastocysts/early-stage embryos to grow to a 150-cell cluster before removing the valuable inner mass.  Obviously, development then stops and the embryo dies.  Most left-over IVF (in-vitro fertilization) embryos go unused.  Of the ones that are used, only about half survive the thawing process.  Few will ever become fetuses.  A human embryo becomes a fetus eight weeks after conception.  Sure, it may look like an alien peanut, but all major human structures are in place.  This is not about whether I think it’s wrong to use left-over IVF embryos.  I’m a big supporter of stem cell research.  It’s about the image on the monitor that day and the babies I hold in my arms today.

Sometimes when I stare at my children I can hardly believe we actually found each other.  The pain of longing for each one of them comes back in a flash.  I think of how our oldest daughter came straight to us after only ten days in the birth pool.  I held her birthmother’s hand as she was born and sobbed with her the day the papers were signed.  I think of how many situations were rejected before our younger daughter’s birthmother came along and made everything right again.  We spent that Christmas night in the hospital waiting for Z to be born and when she came, it was the greatest gift of all.  My mind snaps back to that summer afternoon at our fertility clinic.  The embryologist was giddy.  “They’re just breathing-taking!” she said of the blastocysts.  I asked how she’d decide which ones to transfer.  “Ordinarily,” she explained, “it’s about finding the ones with the greatest potential.  But in this case, it’s literally eeny meeny miny moe.”

Who was next to T and D in the petri dish that day?  How many girls?  How many boys?  Given the opportunity to grow who might they become?  When I consider donating our embryos to a worthy recipient, I find myself coveting the baby-to-be.  I’d feel attached to him or her.  Considering the openness of our blended family I can’t fathom not fostering a relationship with the child.  All this, despite the fact that our embryos were created with donor egg and sperm, and the previous offspring of both donors will never assume sibling roles in our family.  The donors helped create children expressly for us.  They’re loving and proud, but not involved the way our birthmothers are.  We examined the terms of embryo-ownership for this very reason – what to do with the frozen embryos would become our sole responsibility.  They are full genetic links to two of our four children.  And now, as predicted by our counselor, I have grown attached (however illogical) to those frozen little buggers.

Some people opt to take their frozen bits home and transfer their thawed embryos on their own.  (The outdated term “implant” was replaced by “transfer” a while back, because embryos actually implant themselves.)  Self-transferred embryos might live for a short time before being absorbed into the woman’s body like any other dead cells.  I’ve never heard of one sticking in this instance, but I suspect some people hope against hope that one will.  I would.  Presumably the person is then able to grieve and move on.  My husband thinks this is a selfish option for us.  But I understand what motivates a woman to do this.  I also understand why a woman might choose abortion instead of going to term with an unplanned pregnancy and then choosing open adoption (88% of all abortions are performed within the first twelve weeks of pregnancy and as of several years ago less than 5% of all U.S. adoptions were open).  None of this data comes with a map or instruction manual.  Do I really want to have another baby?  I don’t know.  Do I really want to help cure disease through stem cell research?  Yes.  With embryos that might turn out to have the same eyes as T or the same smile as D?  I don’t know.  Do I really want to give these embryos a chance to become babies and give someone like me the chance to love a child as much as I do?  Yes.  No.  Maybe.  I don’t know.  How does anyone decide what to do in this case?  Where do the answers lie?  I honestly can’t say.  All I know is that it’s impossible for me to separate logic from emotion when it comes to the eighteen who were left behind.  And so, we pay the fee and give the eighteen another year in cryogen-limbo.

Every now and then we get a spectacular ice storm.  Houses look like they’ve been encased in glass.  Glistening power lines criss-cross and sag over the streets.  Stairs are off-limits.  Ice skating on sidewalks is possible.  We haven’t had one for a little while, but the next time it happens I’ll post some pics of it.

Portland also gets what other cities would call dustings of snow.  We call it Arctic Blast.  But I think most of us who’ve lived here a while would agree that our climate is changing.  The summers are hotter, the winters are colder and my rickety old house can hardly keep up.  It wasn’t built for this kind of weather.  The furnace is running round the clock.  We have space heaters in two rooms.  Judging by the reaction of my children I’m afraid Boston is going to be a wee bit challenging for them.

Yesterday  TC was craving what he called the commercial side of Christmas (“Remember how exciting it was when you were a kid!  Santa was at the mall!  Music was playing!”). We hadn’t been near a mall during the holiday season in many years (since Santa brought D hermit crabs when she was two).  I was very pleased with this achievement, but since I’m a good and faithful wife (wink, nudge) I went cheerily along.  “This is part of the magic, Kids!  We drive around and around until we find that lucky parking spot.  It’s exciting because you never know how long it’ll take!”  After scratching their heads, they decided they might as well join in.  Soon they were pointing and cheering, “We did it!  We did it!  We parked!”  We suited up in our hats, scarves, mittens, diaper bag and double stroller to make the hundred yard journey inside, but within seconds Z, a sun Goddess by nature, was losing it over the cold.  Except for the insane shrieking, her tantrum resembled a football player doing tire drills.  Meanwhile, the boys followed by shouting, “Cold, cold!  Owie, hands cold, owie hands cold! No like it!”  D who was built for snow made an announcement: “In Boston this is warm, People!”  After sprinting through the parking lot we arrived inside Washington Square Mall.  It looks like every other modern mall of America, but I must admit it’s been so long since I’d been to one of these places it felt a little like Disney World.  All four children were astonished.  TC exclaimed, “This is going to be fun, Everyone!  Just look at this place!”  None of the children had ever really experienced a big mall let alone one at Christmas time… throngs of shoppers, piped-in carols overhead, salespeople calling out, “Hi, can I ask you a question… do you like to save money?… wait, hello?  Hi!  Can I ask you a question…”  And when the children asked, “Daddy, daddy, can we look at the twirling wind chimes?”  Daddy answered, “Of course we can!”

We consulted the directory and charted our course: due north to Legoland just west of Build a Bear.  People have been hitting this Legoland for ages, but it was our first time and it was pretty cool.  My absolute favorite part of all was the twenty-something boy who so passionately explained the lego-artist’s vision of a Japanese garden and koi pond.  As long as I kept asking questions he (blue eyes, wide shoulders) kept talking.  I looked around at all the moms and dads, especially dads.  We were all so ragged looking, but there was an unmistakable twinkle in their eyes that said, this is what they do with legos now a days – awesome! More parents were jamming their cups with legos than kids.

We did it all.  The kiddie tumbling area.  The fleet of stationary cars that rock back and forth for quarters.  The Sleep Number store.  We even investigated the J.C. Penny family photo center (they were booked, of course).  Then we hit the food court for mounds of Panda Express (“Please! Please! It’s the best!” begged the girls).  On the way out we took some Cheesecake Factory slices to go.  We hadn’t had it since L.A.  I never learn my lesson.  If the menu says carmel sauce, peanut butter mouse, butterfingers, Reese’s peanut butter cups and a chocolate graham cracker crust, I lose all self-control.  It’s like holding a bag and a needle out to a junkie.  Later, after almost vomiting, I begged TC to intervene if I ever try that again.  Plain cheesecake.  It’s the only way.

In the car TC said, “Was that fun or what!?” as he searched for Jingle Bells on the radio.  “Yeah!” the children cried.  The whole way home I couldn’t stop thinking of the Griswolds and how I never dreamed I’d end up married to Clark.  It was a great day at the mall.  In another six years maybe we’ll do it again.