Partly serenissima. Partly deliziosamente bizzaro. Partly magnifico.

When we decided to get tickets to a masked ball for Carnivale in Venice, I didn't really know what to expect. 

We had decided to take another big trip. It had been a while, and we wanted something fabulous.

So we made a plan to go to Italy in February, over the week of my birthday and, coincidentally, over Venetian Carnival, which I didn't ever know was the OG carnival celebration. 

The plan was Venice, where I had never been (Greg had, of course). Skiing in the Dolomites, which I had never done (Greg had, of course). And then impromptu tooling around for a couple of days without a set destination (which is the way Greg prefers to travel).

Carnival meant we should try to attend a masked ball. I had visions of elegant people in fabulous costumes in opulent rooms with plush furniture and a buffet that looked like something out of a movie about life at Versailles. Dancing a quadrille. Maybe to the music of a string quartet. 

And given the price of the tickets, it was not an unreasonable notion.

We bought clothes and wigs. A big dress and a big crinoline for me. A coat (I don't remember what you call that kind of coat) and pants (I don't remember what you call those kinds of pants) for Greg. We got the masks in Venice. It was quite fun and exciting.

Dressing up is fun! Costumes are fun! Venice is fun!  

It felt very appropriate. The night we arrived, we checked into our hotel and strolled around the beautiful rainy streets of Venice, and were delighted by all of the people walking around in extraordinarily beautiful, fancy costumes. 

Back when Venice was its own republic, it's official name was La Serenissima de Venezia - the most serene. That's what it felt like on that late night stroll after an extremely long day of travel. 

Our costumes were cheap ones we ordered on Amazon - it didn't make sense to pay hundreds of dollars to buy them ((even renting the fancy ones was crazy spendy). We still looked awesome, as far as I was concerned. 

On the night of the event, we first went to hear some classical music - Vivaldi's Four Seasons, which was lovely. Then we went and got some dinner. We were fully in costume, which many passers-by found charming, and then headed over to the venue.

It ended up being enormously entertaining. 

We walked in and up a very wide, grand staircase. So far, so good.

Then we walked into a grand room. There were very few people, most of whom were not talking and were sitting on sofas on the side of the room. Occasionally some would get up and walk around in a very stilted stylized way. The vibe was weird. 

As you can see, in the far corner there was a sad clown jester. He was weirdly dancing and keeping time by hitting a tambourine that appeared to be hidden in his pants over his groin. 

Oh, and all of this was happening to the piano accompaniment to ABBA's "Chiquitita."

It was at this point that Greg and I started laughing hysterically. 

Immediately people started looking at us as if we were the most vulgar, inappropriate people they had every seen. We tried to laugh quietly, but they continued to be very disapproving. 

After a while, I had a realization. 

"I think I know what's going on," I said to Greg. "I think these people are participating in this unironically. They don't see what's so funny or bizarre about it."

We tried to stifle our laughs.

Over time, the room, which did not have open windows or any other discernable ventilation, began to heat up. It became quite oppressive.

Which is when they brought in the next episode of entertainment - a belly dancer who played with fire. Exactly what you want in an unventilated room that is eleventy-billion degrees.

We watched (and giggled) for a little while, then I got to the point of being so seriously overheated that I needed to get some cooler air.

Downstairs we went out on a little landing that was right on a canal. The air was cool and the lights were shining on the water.

Venice is so beautiful.  

After a little while people were herded downstairs and into a tiny, unventilated room playing club music. I vogued because, much to Greg's delight, I am incapable of not cheesing it up.

Eventually the organizers abruptly kicked everyone out and we made our way back to the hotel. We walked over the Rialto bridge in the middle of the night and took pictures with a drunk lady who was delighted by our costumes and who came close to passing out with her head on my shoulder. 

We made our way back to our hotel where I managed to figure out a way to watch the last half of the Super Bowl on my phone. 

Pretty much a perfect night. 

Serene. Delightfully bizarre. Magnificent.

Vezzini always said, go back to the beginning

We always knew that for the 10 year anniversary, it would either be something epic or something familiar. Ten years is a big one. A milestone. 

Epic would have been Mt. Elbert, the highest mountain in Colorado. It's not a technical hike - a well marked and easy to follow walking trail - but it's long with a lot of elevation gain. The mountains we have done in prior years have averaged about 3000' of elevation gain and 7-8 miles round trip. Elbert is a 4500' climb over almost 10 miles. 

It's a lot. Doable, but a lot. 

On the other hand, the familiar was the Longs Peak trail up to Chasm Lake in Rocky Mountain National Park. It's not a 14er (not even close - it tops out near 12,000') with about 2500' of elevation gain. But it's absolutely beautiful and still a strenous, rewarding hike.

It's the one that started it all. 

This is the hike Christin and I did 4 days before Emma died. It was the best hike and the best day with my funnest friend. It was the one that made me crave being outside and moving my body and feeling so alive. 

It was the one that spurred me to start walking to work every morning. Walking and hiking became a source of healing. 

It was the one that made me decide to do a fourteener the following year to scatter Emma's ashes on the anniversary of her death, her Yahrtzeit. 

And then it became a thing that I did every year, and I started carrying the names of the lost loved ones of friends up the mountain with me, saying the Mourner's Kaddish for them all. 

(As an aside, I know this post is very link-y. It was helpful to me to look back at what I'd written over the years.)

As I thought about it, it became clear to me that going back to the beginning for a milestone anniversary was what I wanted to do. 

I have my list of names for the Yahrtzeit and I asked people if there were any they wanted me to add. The first year of the expanded ritual, there were 20 people on the list. This year I had 104, which astounds me. 

But then it became unclear as to whether we would be able to do it at all before the weather got bad. 

We scheduled the hike for September 7, but we had to reschedule because I got COVID. The following weekend Christin was out of town. The following weekend it snowed. The following weekend we were both out of town. The following weekend I made an impromptu trip to Virginia to hang out with my dad while my mom was out of the country. 

Finally, this past weekend, we made it happen, over a month after the originally planned date. 

Once again, the weather was perfect and it was beautiful and the hike was hard but rewarding. 

Walking up through the forest

Peacock Pool below Chasm lake

The final push 

Chasm Lake, with the Longs Peak diamond face just above it.

When we arrived at the beautiful lake, we found a rock to sit on. We ate and rehydrated, admired the view, and then I did the yahrtzeit ritual. 

For some reason I had a calmer feeling than I had had in the past, like I wouldn't cry (not that there's anything wrong with crying). Reading out the names was solemn but my breath didn't catch. 

Then halfway through the Kaddish I started to cry. 

As ever. 

We talked about some of the people on this list. We talked about Emma. She would be 27, a fully formed proper adult. Maybe she would be an airline pilot. Maybe she would be a lacrosse coach. Maybe she would be married with kids. 

As more time passes it becomes harder to envision. Life can take so many twists and turns between the ages of 17 and 27. When I was 17, I was living in India and starting college. When I was 27, I was living in Atlanta, practicing law, and dating someone who I loved but who would ultimately break my heart. I guess the practicing law part was somewhat predictable, but the rest of it was a big "who knew?" 

But then again, I was never one to be able to envision what the future was going to hold. At a job interview many years ago when my children were very young, the interviewer asked me where I saw myself in five years. I said, "you know, I have a baby and a toddler, a husband who works out of town during the week, and a full-time job. I'm just trying to maintain my sanity, get through the week, and keep everybody alive. I have no idea what five years from now is going to look like." 

I got the job, so I guess it was an ok answer.

Maybe a childhood spent moving from one exotic locale to the next gave me a level of comfort with the unknown, so I didn't worry about it. Que sera, sera.

Anyway.

As we descended, we talked about a million other things. The issues that some of Christin's therapy clients are experiencing. Interesting cases I've got going on at work. The fact that after two years of egregiously dicking around at school, Zeke suddenly decided to buckle down and now he has straight As (as does Josie). How my parents are dealing with my dad's Alzheimer's. A book I'm reading about the Civil War. The generational changes in sex discrimination in the workplace and elsewhere. Our families. Our relationships. 

The magic that is living in Colorado. 

Next year I definitely want to do Elbert while we can. Christin has pointed out that as the years go by, the 14ers are only going to get harder to do. 

But with each hike, however high or long, Emma will continue to be with us. 

A long, long time ago, I can still remember how that music used to make me smile

Throughout the eighteen (!!) years that I've been writing this blog - or lately, not writing it - my goal has always been to write the way I want to write, and write well, and write truthfully, and not censor myself. I certainly will respect peoples' privacy and confidences. I've changed names where necessary or altered the details of a story in a way that doesn't make it recognizable while still maintaining the essence of the story, but I always bristled at letting someone else dictate what I write. 

But over the past couple of years, it's been increasingly difficult.

My children are in their mid-teens. They are entitled to their privacy. They would be horrified and furious if I wrote about the details of their lives, or my experiences as a full-time single mother over the last few years, or the specifics of why it has been so, so difficult and draining and anxiety-producing. 

Enough people who read this blog know me pretty well, so there's no way to write about the kids without airing their dirty laundry in a conspicuous way.  

So I haven't.

I'm also in a relationship with someone who, except for LinkedIn, makes a point of having a minimal  online presence. He's not on Facebook or Instagram or any other platform. He's very private.

To my own credit, I have made a point of providing almost no identifying information about him. I have only ever used his first name, which I could go back through the blog and change to an alias. The Dude, perhaps. 

In any event, I have never provided any detail about what he does for a living or anything else that would allow someone to figure out who he is. You know that he likes to ski and hike and bike and see shows at Red Rocks and travel, but that could describe the majority of men in the state of Colorado. 

Still. I'm very careful to the point that I don't write nearly as much as I would if this were an anonymous blog. 

I also work for a public school district with an active and vocal parent community, some of whom have an eye on me and regularly curse my name on private Facebook groups because they think I'm a terrible person whose overriding goal is to make life awful for their children. 

Spoiler alert: hurting kids with disabilities is the opposite of why I'm excited to go to work every day.

The result has been that the things that have shaped my life over the past few years are the same things that I can't write about very much. 

So for the past 8 months, I haven't written at all. 

I've lost my time machine. 

I know I've talked about this before, but I can't emphasize enough how important memory is to me. Some people don't look back fondly on the past. There's a person I went to school with in India who has basically erased any mention or memory of our India life as much as possible, because she had bad experiences and hates thinking about it. 

But I've had the extraordinary good fortune of living a life that for the most part, has brought me great joy. That I love looking back on. It's why I love reunions. It's why when we go to our parents' house, my brothers and I always make a point of looking back through old photo albums (of which there are at least 20). It's why I make photo book after every trip I take. 

I hate it when I can't remember details. 

When people say, "don't you remember the crazy bus ride to Rishikesh when we went white-water rafting at the beginning of senior year? It was terrifying." 

And I don't remember that detail, and the not remembering upsets me.

I bring all of this up because my dad was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease.

Fortunately, he is still highly functional. His short-term memory is pretty much nonexistent, and he repeats himself constantly, but he knows his life. He can still drive to familiar places, like McLean Family Restaurant to have breakfast in the morning, or to the gym. He walks the dog and reads books.  

He knows who he is and where he is and when he is. He knows who we are. And his love for us is boundless. 

He's never been much of a phone talker. He's always been loving and affectionate, but conversations consisted of, "how's everything? Are you ok? How are the kids? How's your car? Do you need money? Ok, here's your mother."

Not much has changed, except the statements are more overtly love-y.

"Hi sweetie. How are you? How are the kids? I just want you to know how much I love you. I love all my children. And I love my grandchildren. And I have the best wife. I'm so lucky. I've had a great life. Ok, here's your mother."

He has doted on me from the day I was born. 

He repeats that over and over. But those are repetitions that I don't mind at all. 

I'm thankful that he hasn't shied away from the diagnosis. He's not in denial. He's been proactive about seeking medical care, and recently started participating in a clinical trial for a drug that may help to slow the progression of the disease. 

I have a number of friends whose parents are also dealing with Alzheimers, or whose parents had it before they died. Some of them absolutely refuse to acknowledge it or talk about it. They won't go to a doctor. They are in complete denial. 

Not Barry.

He understands that in all likelihood, the disease is going to kill him. He has said, in so many words, "if this is what takes me out, I have no regrets. I wouldn't do anything differently. I've lived a life of adventure, had the best kids, the best wife. All of it. It's ok." 

We know what's ahead. We know that he will start forgetting more than just what he had for breakfast, or where he left his keys. 

Throughout my life, he has been such a force of nature. So funny, so smart, so crazy, so cool. 

Check out this cool mofo. "Effete Snob for Peace." Heh.

But he is noticably slowing down. He seems frail. It breaks my heart. 

It breaks my heart for my him, and selfishly, it also breaks my heart to think it will probably happen to me. 

So I am determined to continue making a record of my life, for myself and my family and my children.

I read back over this blog and it brings memories to the forefront. They stay in my brain rather than fade away. It means that my sense of myself is more comprehensive. I want to keep that going as long as possible. 

Which is why I need to start writing again. On a going-forward basis, and also to try to backfill events from the last 8 months. 

And that's where I am. 

The Evergreen Thanksgiving

Remember Wheel of Fortune? 

 My first year of college, we watched Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy most nights with the guys in the suite down the hall. To clarify, it's still on, so I'm not suggesting it has gone anywhere. But I haven't watched it in a million years, so it feels like a dinosaur to me.  

Anyway, in the Olden Days, when the winner got to the final puzzle, they got to choose five consonants and one vowel that would populate the clue, and then they had to figure it out from there. Without fail, they always chose R, S, T, L, N, and E. 

The evergreens. 

At some point, those were automatically populated and the contestant got to choose 3 additional consonants, which always made it more fun. 

But the evergreens were the evergreens. Always relevant, always reliable. 

Which brings me to Thanksgiving.

Specifically, the ubiquitous Thanksgiving tradition of going around the table so that everyone can say what they're thankful for. It's a lovely exercise that embodies the spirit of the holiday. 

And the things people are grateful for tend to be the same, at least in my house.

Family. Friends. Health. 

Always relevant, always true. Evergreen.

I think it was last year when we were going to start going around the table that I was like, let's each of us come up with something in addition to the the usual stuff. 

I wasn't suggesting that the usual stuff isn't great. Just that I'd love to hear about something else that people are thankful for. 

Eyes were rolled and I was quickly shot down. 

And I get it. The evergreens are evergreen for a reason. 

We went to Virginia a few days earlier than usual because Kristin was in the U.S. and she and Lisa and I planned a mini-reunion. We are in regular communication via WhatsApp, but we haven't all been together since 2016. I love these women. I miss them so much. 

So we met up at Lisa's house in D.C. and spent the entire day talking and laughing and being ridiculous. We squeezed Lisa's new boobs. We chatted with Kristin's son Lorenzo, who is a jillion feet tall and adorable and who may be the only 17-year-old on the planet content to sit around gabbing with a bunch of middle aged ladies reminiscing about high school in the 80s. We had yummy Mexican food and gelatto. 

Then we asked Lorenzo to take some photos and all hell broke loose. I have no idea when it got so crazy but by the end of it we were groping each other and laughing uproariously and at one point I was half squating in this weird way that looked like I was about to poop standing up. 

Now, to be clear, this is not surprising. We were supremely silly when we were in high school. We used to refer to each other as Lisa-Pisa, Wendy-Pendy, and Krissy-Pissy. We referred to the Bananarama song as "I'm Your Penis." If we were excited about something, we would say that we were getting a BH - Kristin's phrase for "boob hard-on." And on and on. 

So not much has changed, and I wouldn't want it to. It was the absolute best.  

Lisa and her family then came to my parents' house for Thanksgiving, which was lovely. We had such a big crowd that we moved everything to the living room. It took a long time to go around the table for the "I'm-grateful-fors." 

The number of people allowed my mother and me to go wild and mix and match
her impressive collection of glassware, napkins, and pottery. 

I tried to go rogue on my list, but in the end defaulted to family. And friends. And health. I'm grateful for my life.  

You know. The evergreens. 

No backpacks, dahlink. And would you like some creamed cod, a typical northern Italian dish?

It's weird to be with someone who has traveled more than I have, by a long shot. 

I'm used to being the worldly one. It's been over thirty years since I left the peripatetic lifestyle of my childhood, during which I lived in 5 different countries before graduating from college, and travelled to many others. I still see myself as a world traveler. In a group of non-Foreign Service brats, I'm usually the one who has been everywhere.

So dating Greg has been an eye-opener, and somewhat humbling. 

He has been everywhere. His everywhere far exceeds my everywhere.

Whenever we plan a trip, it's always an exercise in whittling down options to places he hasn't visited. And we rarely succeed.

With our first trip together in the spring of 2021, when there were still lots of COVID restrictions in place, I said, "what about driving down the PCH? I've never done that." 

"Oh, I've done that. I did it with an old girlfriend. We argued a lot."

"OK. How about a road trip through Idaho? It's so beautiful and I've never been."

"I did that a couple of years ago."

We've gone through multiple rounds of this over the years. Ireland? He's been many times. Prague? Yep. Spain? Claro que si´. Portugal? Indeed. Cambodia and Vietnam? Check. Turkey? Uh-huh.

At some point, I may have said, "oh for fuck's sake."

When we settled on Iceland, I took a certain satisfaction in having been there before, whereas he hadn't. 

With the Alaska cruise, I had been to Alaska to run a marathon a million years ago and he had never been, so that was another check in my ledger.

That's where the list ends. But I can get a leg up if and when we go to Cyprus, Venezuela, Israel, or Egypt.

The good thing is he doesn't mind going places he's already visited. Another good thing is he always has great ideas.

Because of my work schedule, it's easiest for me to take a trip when school isn't in session, i.e., in June after the school year ends, or over winter break. But winter break is a particularly expensive time to travel.

A few weeks ago, we were spitballing about winter trip options, and he mentioned skiing in Europe. Maybe the Dolomites, and we could also see Venice. 

"Oooooh," I responded. "That sounds amazing!"

I have never skied the Dolomites (or anywhere in Europe). I have never been to Venice. Of course, he has done both, but is happy to go back.

So I started looking at flights and discovered that they were outrageously expensive in December. 

Then I thought, what about later in the winter? Maybe in February over my birthday?

The flights were a third of the December price. 

So that's what we're going to do. We got our tickets three nights ago.

I've started looking into developing a schedule for where we'll be and when. Checking out hotels. 

Greg, on the other hand, likes to wing it as far as making reservations goes.

"I've traveled all over the place and frequently don't make reservations - we can just find something!"

No. 

We will not be doing that. Ever.

He actually suggested that when we were planning our 2021 Iceland trip, during which we would be road-tripping around the country. In one of the only countries in the world that was allowing travel-starved tourists in. Over the summer solstice, which is the high season. Or we could just rent a camper-van.

Again, no. 

I ended up making reservations without telling him. 

For skiing in the Dolomites, the pass gives you access to a bunch of different resorts that are near each other. You can do these incredible tours and ski from resort to resort and town to town.

"Where do you think our home base should be? Which town?" I asked via text. "I can start looking for hotels."

He responded that we'll be skiing from town to town and he'd need to map it out.

I was confused about the logistics.

"Where will we stay? Will we be staying in a different place every night?"

The answer was yes. Under his plan, we would ski with backpacks carrying toiletries, shoes, and a change of clothes.

In my head, I was Gary Coleman. Whatchu talkin bout Greg.

"Where will we put our other stuff?"

"A locker." 

"A locker where? I don't understand."

"Any hotel or train station."

No.

So today I went online and found a company that will transfer your luggage from hotel to hotel in the various ski towns. I don't want to ski while carrying around my clothes and toiletries and shoes. I don't want to spend three days wearing the same change of clothes. I want to have my stuff and be able to go out for a nice dinner and not look like a shlub. 

He agreed that that would be a viable option, even though he didn't think carrying our stuff in a backpack was a big deal. 

Then he sent me a gif of Zsa Zsa Gabor wearing a fur coat, dripping with diamonds, and drinking in the back of a limo. 

I'll admit that it cracked me up. He's a funny dude.

I dunno. I feel like there's a happy medium between the woman who said, "I've never hated a man enough to give him his diamonds back," and being 53 and skiing with a backpack and traveling like a college kid with a Eurail pass. I'm a grownup, dahlink. 

In any event, we have a solution. 

Now I can fire up my Mango app and start brushing up on my Italian. 

I used Mango to learn Italian six years ago, when my parents went to Lucca for a month after my mom retired from the State Department. It's not a program that is going to take you to fluency, but it's great for learning enough to speak comfortably as a tourist.

As with many language learning apps or books, some lessons focus on a particular sentence or phrase that you work on. Mango's most hilarious offering came in the section when you learn about cooking and food and how to order in a restaurant. 

"Prendo il baccalà mantecato, un piatto tipico del nord italia."

I'll have the creamed cod, a typical northern Italian dish.

At the time, my mom and I were both using Mango to study the language, and the baccala mantecato lessons cracked us up to no end. We would practice speaking with each other and no matter what we started talking about, some how we brought it around to creamed cod. Which neither of us has ever eaten, largely because it looks and sounds disgusting. I'm not a fan of creamy fish.

Before we go on trips, Greg likes to watch YouTube videos about the places we'll be visiting.  Other people Netflix and chill. We watch YouTube and yell at the people who post boring travel videos.

"No one is interested in the fact that you got the check-in time wrong for your hotel, bozo!"

One of the videos we watched takes you through the nightlife in Cortina d'Ampezzo, one of the ski towns that is supposed to be super fun and have great food. 

Including, the guy said, creamy cod, a dish that is popular in northern Italy.

My eyes grew wide. "Baccalà mantecato! Baccalà mantecato!! A typical northern Italian dish!!!" I exclaimed. 

Greg looked at me like I was deranged. 

I was very excited. 

Nonetheless, I'm not going to be ordering creamed cod when we go to Italy. 

But if I did, I could do it in Italian. 

I've got sunshine on a cloudy day with my girl

When I was pregnant with Josie and found out she was a girl, I was worried that when she became a teenager, she was going to turn on me. 

The cliche´ of the teenage girl gremlin is so entrenched in the parental ethos. I know I was a little bit gremlin-ish when I was 14, though my mom says that it was more mood-swingy-ness than anything else. Being happy one minute and then crying the next. And it was short-lived. I'm not exaggerating when I say that I haven't really had a fight with my mom in almost 40 years.

As for my own daughter, all I ever wanted was for her to be sweet and smart and funny and happy. 

Holy shit, did I ever hit the jackpot. I keep waiting for the gremlin to appear, but she never has, and I'm getting the feeling that she never will.

I know I overuse the term "delightful" to describe her. Out of curiosity, I checked the thesaurus to see if there was something else that captured it. And the answer was, not really. 

She gets up for school in the morning without a fuss. She is sweet and agreeable in her demeanor - for her to get fussy with me is incredibly rare. She has a tendency to drape herself over me like a sloth. We'll be at the grocery store and she will put her arm around my shoulders and sort of hang there. She has cool taste in music and movies. She studies and gets good grades. She is truly, truly one of the funniest people I know. She surrounds herself with lovely friends. 

She is also beautiful, but to me that is the least interesting thing about her. 

She is extraordinarily sensitive and self-aware in her relationships with people. Last week she came into my room one night, crying and upset about a situation and needing advice. She felt that she was involved in something that wasn't good for her, but also didn't want to give it up. She talked about going back and forth between the two positions in her head and her gut. Her friends were telling her she was messing up and needed to take certain action, but she was at war with herself about what to do.

We talked and I told her that her friends needed to calm down. She wasn't messing up or putting herself in a bad situation. There was nothing about the situation that required any particular action at that point in time. If and when it got to that point, she could figure it out then, but right now, everything's fine. 

I can say with absolute certainly that I never had that level of emotional intelligence when I was her age.

She calmed down and I made her laugh. Then we watched the Barbie movie together.

This past Sunday, it was her 14th birthday. 

A while back, Greg and I had talked about going to Crested Butte for the weekend to do some mountain-biking and hang out at this festival that struck me as supremely silly. When he suggested it, I said, please tell me that we would be attending this ironically, because I am 100% certain that I will find it ridiculous. I took to calling it Woodland Fairy Burning Man. 

Anyway, the weekend coincided with Josie's birthday. Crested Butte is six hours away, and we wouldn't have returned until late afternoon. Josie had made plans to do something with her friends, and I asked her if she wanted me around or if she cared if I was gone that weekend. 

Initially she said it was fine. She said this repeatedly. 

But as the time approached, there was something that felt off to me. Maybe it was my own feelings of guilt. Maybe there was a vibe I was picking up. Maybe both. 

So last week I said, "I want you to be completely honest with me. Would it bother you if I went out of town and didn't make it back until 6 or 7 on your birthday? It will not upset me at all if the answer is 'yes.'"

She was quiet for a second and then said softly, "I want you to stay here. I only said that before because I didn't want you to feel bad."

"Then I will stay here and have a great day hanging out with you," I said. "I can't wait." 

And she gave me a big hug. 

On Sunday a few of her friends came over.  One of them made a piñata for her and filled it with candy. Josie is the absolute queen of trashy snacks - her favorite is Flaming Hot Funions, which should tell you everything you need to know.  So I bought lots of junk food. The girls jumped on the trampoline. They listened to Josie's vinyls (apparently nobody calls them "records" anymore). They gabbed about everything and nothing.

One of her friends stayed for the night. We had birthday cake and Chinese food and watched Some Like It Hot, one of Josie's favorites. She loves Marilyn Monroe movies.

It was a super fun night and I was thrilled that she wanted me to be a part of it. 

Happy birthday, my darling girl. You are one of the great blessings of my life.

Apple, meet tree. Tree, meet apple.

So last week I bought this new mountain bike and she's adorable and cool. I was all excited to ride her. She's mint green and built for a shorty like me and has less than 100 miles on her. Practically new. 

I'm calling her Minty, per my friend English's suggestion

We decided to go mountain biking on Sunday. Greg suggested a ride that he described as mellow and flow-y, and then sent me a link with a description. 

I immediately had a stomach ache. Mountain bike rides are rated similarly to ski runs - this one was rated a blue/black, or "intermediate/difficult." I found a YouTube video of it, and it looked terrifying to me. It still seems daunting, though after getting a ride in, it's definitely something I can aspire to and probably try later in the season. 

But not yet. I asked if we could start with something easier. 

I am a novice mountain biker. I have done it maybe 10 or 15 times in my life. I am a good athlete and always up for a challenge, but mountain biking can be scary and dangerous and it requires technical skill that I do not yet possess. 

This ride would be like a total beginner skiing down a blue/black run after a few days of lessons. No one would recommend it. 

So we decided on a local mountain that is definitely on the easy side. You climb up to the top of a mesa and then it's mostly flat and pretty easy. But it was still a little bit scary. 

We started fine but then headed up a part of the trail that was a bit rocky. I have ridden on rocks before but it had been awhile and I don't have muscle memory built up for this sport the way I do with skiing. I was too much in my head and I couldn't remember what I was supposed to do. Within the first 5 minutes, I fell twice. 

Which made me tense up and feel super anxious. 

Which made me grumpy and disagreeable. 

I caught up to Greg and said, "I think I'm going to sell this bike. I'm not enjoying this."

To be clear, I fully realize how idiotic and unreasonable I was being. 

Predictably, he said, "WHAT??" 

I grumped around and generally acted like a pill. 

I felt stupid and incompetent. I felt like once again, I was in a situation where Greg was an expert and I was a moron who couldn't do anything right. He's better than I am at just about everything.

After a while, we made it to the western edge of the mesa where you can get off the bike and climb up for some great views of the front range. I was still out of sorts and I could tell that Greg was (understandably) annoyed with me. 

But then when I got back on the bike, something clicked. My brain and my body remembered what to do. I started riding comfortably and realized how much fun it was. It was a beautiful day and everything was green and flowery from all the rain we've had. 

When we got back to the car, I said, "that was fun!"

He gave me a look. 

I acknowledged that I had been pissy and childish, and I apologized. 

We decided to head to a local biker roadhouse - like, a legit biker place where everyone wears leather vests with their club's logo on the back and lots of American flag patches - to have some lunch. On the way, I told him the story of when I taught Josie to ride her bike. How crazy and unreasonable she was. 

And then it hit me. 

I had just recreated the entire experience. 

Convincing myself that I couldn't do it? Check.

Getting on the bike and then lacking confidence and making mistakes as a result? ("I couldn't go - the rock was in my way") Check. 

Acting like a crazy asshole? ("Mama, this bike is broken! It doesn't work! This bike is stupid!").

Lamenting that I was a loser? ("I ride like a baby and everybody thinks I'm stupid")  

Figuring it out and exclaiming cheerily how great it was, thereby giving the people around me whiplash? ("Boy, I sure was complaining a lot, but now I'm doing really well") 

Check check check. 

I don't know why it had never occurred to me. My darling daughter, whom I had always thought of as taking after Jason, is just like me. 

Or I am just like her. 

Greg reminded me that it's a dangerous sport and that he respected the fact that I could do it at all. He reminded me that the hard part is what makes it great. It's something to be conquered. 

He's right, of course. 

I mean, I will still probably act like a crazy person sometimes. It would be boring if I didn't. 

On the way home, we stopped and got ice cream. 

As I told Josie all those years ago, ice cream makes everything better.

Summertime, and the livin' is easy

 Yesterday was the last day of school in the school district I work in. My kids' schools get out for summer next week, but as far as I can tell, they stopped doing anything of substance about 2 weeks ago. 

My role in the district involves student matters - special education, discipline, truancy, civil rights matters, the day to day of school administration. 

Which means that the day after the last day of school - today - my workload and my stress levels drop precipitously. Teachers go off-contract and everyone is on vacation. My phone stops ringing. The flow of emails reduces to a trickle. I can work on the stuff that has been sitting on the back burner, but at a leisurely pace. 

It's so nice. It's so chill.

Greg and I are leaving for vacation a week from today. We're going on a cruise from Montreal to Boston.

I truly never saw myself taking cruises on the regular, but this one is going to be awesome. I've never been to either Montreal or Quebec City, and we're going to have time in both cities to sightsee and stroll around and soak up the beauty. We will enjoy the charm of Prince Edward Island and towns in Nova Scotia. Kayaking in Halifax. Hiking in Acadia National Park in Bar Harbor, Maine. Seeing Ali and Josh in Boston. 

The ship itself will be a means of transportation, but with beautiful views and yummy meals and dressing for dinner and being gently rocked to sleep by the movement of the ocean. 

And no cell service. No calls from children asking me for money, no coworkers saying, "I know you're on vacation but I have a question..."

It's romantic and fun and relaxing. 

I need it. It's been a tough year. 

Zeke completely cratered his first semester of high school. It took every bit of effort I had to cajole and nag and cry to get him over the line. 

This semester has been a massive improvement. He is objectively incredibly smart - all he needed to do to get As and Bs was to go to class and pay attention. And he did. It's been an incredible relief.

But he's still a 15-year-old boy. He's mean. He's ornery. He argues about everything. Every day it's a struggle to get him up and out to school on time. He's a slob. 

I love him. He also drives me insane. 

Josie, on the other hand, is easy and delightful. It's like she knows I can only handle one gremlin at a time.

Work is fine, but things are always hectic during the school year. 

So summer is welcome. I'm looking forward to time with Greg, time with the kids paddleboarding at the reservoir, the Boulder shows for Dead & Company's final tour, a visit from college friends, seeing my family at the Outer Banks. I bought a mountain bike to replace the one that got stolen last summer, so I can do some hiking and biking. 

I sent a picture of it to Greg. He said, "let's go to Fruita!" and sent me this:

I do appreciate his confidence in me, even though there's no way in hell I have the skills to do something like that.

More likely, it would be another in a long line of outings with Greg that ends up with me being bruised. There have been a number of falls off the bike - both mountain and road - that resulted in gorgeous bruises on my ass. Taking a tumble while roller-skating and having massive bruises up my hands and arms from putting them down to catch my fall. Getting bumped around on rocks that we climbed while hiking. And of course, the ruptured ACL.

But at this point, it's funny. I'll take it. Life is an adventure.

So yeah. Summer. All good.

Girls on film

I’ve come to the realization lately that when it comes to my age, there is a disconnect between how I feel or how I think I look, and how I actually look, at least as far as younger people are concerned. 

I mean, for the most part, and most of the time, I feel like I look OK and probably a little younger than I am. I’m not down on myself in the looks department. 

Maybe this is helped by the fact that my daughter, who is my lovely and enthusiastic cheerleader, routinely tells me how beautiful she thinks I am and that I look 35, tops. 

“Mom, everyone in my school thinks you’re so pretty.”

“I’m not sure how that could possibly be true given that I know maybe 6 or 7 people in your school, but that’s very nice of you to say.” 

I digress. This is not about whether or not I am pretty. 

What makes me think about this is that when Greg and I are out in public together, we tend to be very affectionate and a little PDA-ish. Not inappropriately so, but it’s there. He often has his arm around my shoulders (probably because with our difference in height, it’s comfortable for him, like leaning on a counter) or we’ll hold hands or give each other the occasional smooch.

I’ll joke that the younger people around us are probably like, “gawd, why are those old people making out? Gross.” 

We went to New Orleans for the week between Christmas and New Year's. We both adore the city, and I was particularly excited because while I have been in recent years, I haven't been there as a tourist since I was 20 years old. It's such a sexy place, and I wanted to go as a grownup with my dude and have a week of fun and romance.

We did all kinds of great touristy stuff. We walked all over the city and rented bikes and rode up to Lake Pontchartrain. We rented a car and went to see a plantation that focuses its historical presentation entirely on slavery (much like the Holocaust museum, it is powerful and astoundingly well done, and it wrecked me emotionally). We went to the World War II museum. We did a riverboat jazz/dinner cruise. We went to a Billy Strings show. We went to the Sugar Bowl.

We also partied non-stop, listening to live music, eating all the things, drinking all the cocktails. 

I am not exaggerating when I say that I ate bread pudding and/or Bananas Foster every day, sometimes more than once. Breakfast was eggs and biscuits and grits and bacon and whatever else I felt like loading onto my plate. Po’boys. Jambalaya. 

Both. Each. 

“Hey, let’s have lunch! Time for a Hurricane!” Or a Sazerac or a Vieaux Carre or a Paloma - you get the idea. 

No lie, by the time we came home, I was so bloated that I looked 5 months pregnant. 

It was totally worth it.

The ultimate party was New Year’s Eve. We bought tickets for the party at The Spotted Cat on Frenchman Street. It’s a great small music venue, and rather than leave the place open to the public as it normally is, they sold tickets to provide music and drinks and fun on New Year’s while also assuring that they would have a reasonable number of people without insane crowds. We put on party clothes, i.e., he wore a shirt with a collar and I put on a dress that showed lots of cleavage, and we danced and took advantage of the open bar and had a blast. 

At least recently - now that I’m old – I haven’t gone to New Year’s Eve parties and the goal is to make it to 10 p.m. so I can call my family when it’s midnight on the East Coast. This year we were out partying until almost 3 in the morning.

  

After we left The Spotted Cat, we walked down Frenchman, smiling and happy and schmoopy. At that point, we were wearing gold top hats.

There were lots of blue and purple lights. We did not eat the magical gum from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory that turned Violet Beauregard blue. 

This group of kids (and I say “kids” but they were probably in their mid- to late twenties) passed us and one of them said to us, “oh my god! You guys are gorgeous, and looking way too elegant for this scene!” 

We laughed and thanked them and wished them a happy new year. We chatted with them about the party scene and then mentioned that it was late and time for us old folks to think about packing it in for the night.

“No way! You don’t look old at all!”

“That’s very kind of you. I have a daughter who tells me that but I think she’s just being nice.”

One of them said, “I have an older sister who has kids - you’re not that old! You look fantastic for your age!” 

It reminded me of that scene in Clueless when Cher and Dionne are trying to set up their teachers - who are in their thirties - and they see them flirting on a bench and say, “old people can be so sweet!”

One of them had one of those cute instant cameras that takes mini photos, and they asked if they could take our picture.

"Sure, why not?" we said.

Now, remember how I said that our PDA isn't inappropriate? That's not entirely accurate. Occasionally, for example, Greg will let his hand slide down my back to the point that I might have to point out the obvious - that we're out in public and not invisible.

It happened a few times in New Orleans.

"Still not invisible!" I'd remind him.

Anyway, so the kids on Frenchman Street want to photograph us, and one of the guys said he was a photographer and would pose us.

"Cool! We can finally get a well-composed picture of ourselves instead of relying on selfies!"

I was imagining him having us stand at a certain angle and facing a certain way so that the light hit just right, and it would be worthy of a frame and a prominent place on the mantle.

But then he said, "now Wendy, you face the light pole and hold onto it like you're bracing yourself, and Greg, you hold onto her hips and push up against her from behind like you're ---"

"Wait, what??"

"No really, trust me, it'll be great!"

So he took the picture and it is beyond hilarious. I am holding the lamp post and laughing so hard and Greg is behind me with this huge shit-eating grin and I truly wish I could post it here and show it to you.

But alas, I work for a large public school district and enough people in the community - and their attorneys - know me that I have to be careful. And while the picture really isn't dirty or unfit for public consumption, I'm not putting it up on the internet. If you know me well and have my email or phone number, reach out and I'll send it you. It's so funny.

In any event, we were still not invisible, but I didn't even care. I guess we're not such old fuddy-duddies after all.

Happy New Year!

Oh what'll you do now, my blue-eyed son?

My dearest darling beloved Zeke. This is my belated birthday post to you.

Even just writing those words - dearest, darling, beloved - makes me choke up a bit. The love I have for you is so intense and boundless, it overwhelms me sometimes. Which is a good thing, because the past few months with you have required me to draw on every ounce I have of strength, patience, and parental abilities. 

If I didn't love you so much, I wouldn't bother. 

I had high hopes for the start of high school. You were so motivated. You signed up for a panoply of challenging classes. You were excited to be in a great school with all of the neighborhood friends you had known from kindergarten and beyond.

But you immediately started hanging out with some non-neighborhood friends who were leading you down a bad path. You were making truly terrible choices, some of which were just irresponsible, others of which were truly dangerous. 

Because I will always respect your privacy, I won't get into specifics. Suffice it to say I was dismayed, worried, and occasionally terrified. 

I have cried and raged and nagged. I get headaches from grinding my teeth at night. I have anxiety dreams and restless sleep. 

I have leaned heavily on my mother to try to figure out what to do. I have asked my brothers to be mentors to you. Even Greg, who also did some stupid shit when he was in ninth grade, offered you some guidance.

Thankfully, the lightbulb seems to have come on. You ditched your trashy friends and are hanging out with kids from your school who appear to be better influences. Because I'm not naïve or stupid, I am under no delusion that you guys don't do stupid shit. But mostly you do normal teenage stuff like go to the mall or hang out at each others' houses or go skateboarding nearby. 

I still nag. I'm crying and raging less often. But we are on a positive trajectory, thank goodness.

It's been frustrating because you're so smart and talented. In terms of sheer brain-power, of an inquisitive approach to the world, of breadth of interests, you could have it all. It would take minimal effort to be a super-star, which is one of the things that has so frustrating to me. 

My approach to you and Josie (and most situations) is to try to assess what's going on from an objective and reasonable place. I examine what outside stressors you're dealing with, why you might make the choices you make, and what you're capable of from a maturity/developmental perspective. 

So I understand that 15 year old boys are morons whose brains aren't done cooking yet. I have to take that into account when you're making dumb decisions. 

But still. You have gone above and beyond in this regard.

On the other hand, it's not all bad, or even mostly bad. When you are on your game - which is most of the time - you are one of the most delightful people I know. You're funny and affectionate and sweet. You're witty and clever and fun to talk to. When you're not sulky, you constantly give me hugs and tell me how much you love me. 

I know this is true. As you have told me in the past, I am your person. The one you lean on the hardest, but also the one who bears the brunt of the bad stuff because you know that you are safe with me and that I can handle it. That I will never turn my back. 

Sometimes the relentlessness of your need for me feels crushing. But it has also made me a better mother and a better person.

This shit isn't for the faint of heart, that's for sure. I also know that it will pass. You will mature and it won't be so hard.

You are 15 now. You are charming and a gatherer of people, your peers pulled in by your heliotropic powers. You are truly gorgeous. You're a talented athlete. Kind. Sensitive. Brilliant. 

Complicated. 

Anything you want to do, you could accomplish. You just need to believe in yourself and put in the effort. I will always have high hopes for you.

And you know I will be there for you however I can. 

All the love in my heart,

Mom