Just some girls around a campfire

I'd been eagerly anticipating this night for months--well, ever since Christie G. convinced all the girls in our book club to forgo our monthly comfortable book-club night to brave the wild--the wild outdoors, that is.

Christie G. and Amber jointly own a pop-up camper; we could all go camping, discuss the book around the campfire, then spend the night (most of our book-club nights extend beyond midnight anyway, so what's a couple more hours?), then head home in the morning.

I jumped right on board. I used to love camping when I was a child (we didn't have a ton of money and there were so many kids in my family that anytime we went anywhere, we had to camp) and hadn't been but once with my husband, who isn't exactly a roughing-it type of guy, a couple years back. It would be great.

And it was great. Sitting around the campfire, I saw the exact moment I'd envisioned in my head in the days prior to our trip. It's rare to actually get the moment you hope for. The camp site was great, we had a nice view of the creek, and there was so much to eat and drink you couldn't want for anything.

The firewood Christie'd ordered wasn't waiting for us, so a man from the campground brought some by. He told us about the big, bad bears lurking in the woods, trying to scare the prissy girls that think they could hack it in the woods alone. We were more afraid of "Chester Molester" coming back and reaching his paws up through the opening at the edge of the camper. Bears weren't really the problem.

We did talk about the book. No one liked it, The Great Fire by Shirley Hazzard, which I tried not to take personally since it was my book choice this month. Reading this book just proved one thing to me: Just because you can put words together poetically doesn't mean you can write a book. This book had glimpses of truth surrounded by a boring plot line and mundane, uninteresting characters.

I'm trying to take it less personally, but what I couldn't take less personally was when Christie G. came dancing out of the camper with her copy of the book and started ripping pages out and throwing them into the fire. Ha ha, I see the irony: she was throwing The Great Fire into the great campfire, but it didn't help my anxiety to see the printed page massacred. It hurt me to watch. Still not taking it personally. I didn't write the book.

We ate tons of food, played the "Imaginiff" game, then laid in our beds in the dark and played truth-or-dare. Just no dares, I know I was too afraid to go out there alone and do something that would end up being incredibly stupid or scary. It was like the slumber parties of yore (or even bedtime at college for me) when we'd sit up talking until one or two of us drifted off and the rest followed shortly after.

We woke the next morning, built another fire, ate more junk food, and then headed home. It was a night of bonding, definitely of much too much sugar, and an epiphany. We're a group that doesn't need more than what we already have. Who could want more than a night full of intimate talk, good friends, and that wonderful smell of camping in your clothes?

My baby's growing up

Yeah, I know she's not a baby anymore, but she's all I got and sometimes I still carry her around (although as a mom, I know I shouldn't do this for a 4-year-old) and I let her climb into bed with me in the morning and we even pretend she's a baby (she crawls around the house with a bottle she prepares herself and says "goo goo"). But today I have proof that she really is growing up: today we took off the training wheels and she rode a two-wheeler.

This was precipitated by the other girls her age on our block that have been riding two-wheelers for a week or so now. I know she's felt a little left out; she doesn't ride as fast as they since she still had training wheels. Sometimes (which is so rare I knew something was wrong), she'd come inside and let me hold her and didn't even want to play with her friends who were still outside. She felt left out since she was still riding a bike with training wheels.

Tonight, after the coaxing of a couple neighbor kids and Bianca herself, I grabbed a wrench and a screwdriver and sat on the sidewalk and took the training wheels off. I didn't want to do it. I was convinced she really needed those training wheels. I was scared to death she wasn't ready. But I took them off and I held onto the seat and then I did it: I let go. And she kept going. By herself. I couldn't believe it.

She still has some work to do: she needs me to push her off at the beginning, but I promised her I'd teach her how to do it herself. I'm pretty sure I'll be spending quite a bit of time outside tomorrow. But at least she needs me for a little while longer. Well, at least until school starts in two weeks and she's in kindergarten and will probably never look back again.

When she was riding her bike tonight, I instructed her that she shouldn't look back, that it would break her balance. But I guess in the back of my mind, I always want her to look back and see me there and care that I'm there. And I'll try my best not to let her fall, even though I know I can't catch her everytime. But I sure as hell will try.

The End of the World

Okay, so I've been hearing all these rumors--still not even sure what exactly this whole August 22, 2006 being the end of the world thing is all about--and I'm a little scared. No, not scared, actually more intrigued.

So, don't get me wrong: I don't actually believe it. But tonight as I sat at a table at The Pie eating a Greek pizza, Eric told me that tomorrow's been predicted as the end. Hmmm, I thought. Interesting.

Unforunately, we said this in front of Bianca who kept asking, "Is tomorrow really the end of the world" to which I answered, "No." Just to have her ask again and again. As we walked out of the restaurant, Bianca asked if she could swim in the fountain that has a plaque stating: No swimming or wading. "No, of course not." Then I thought, wait, if tomorrow's the end of the world, what's it going to matter? So I said, "Sure Bianca, jump right in--tomorrow is the end of the world." Well, she didn't jump in, but the guy walking past gave me an interesting look. Yes, I know what he was thinking.

As I drove home, I started thinking about why the end of the world wouldn't be such a bad thing. I'm not afraid of death. In fact, I welcome it. Sooner I can see Miranda. I wouldn't have to worry about vacuuming the carpet when I get home or order that book for Bianca's kindergarten class that I keep putting off. I was a little upset, however, that I've been working on my novel for so long and would never get to finish it.

But what would I do tonight if tomorrow really were the end? Hmmm, I'll let Bianca stay up late with us, won't make her brush her teeth tonight, and I'll leave the dirty dishes in the sink. Okay, that's the best I can do. I'm not going to go skydiving off point of the mountain just to say I've done it. It's just not me. I've never wanted to do something like that.

Regardless if the end is tomorrow or not, my world is about to change tomorrow. As my husband flies off to India again. I guess I'll go down and do the dishes after all. I wouldn't want to start off my new world alone with a sink full of dirty dishes.

What makes you smarter?

A couple months ago, I heard about a study done with a group of people who were taking two IQ tests: one with no expectations, the other assumed the people taking the test were college professors. The test-takers did considerably better, averaging around 10 points higher, when they were thought to be college professors. It seems ridiculous--or does it?

I'm in two writing groups. One I joined with a group of people I didn't know. I just heard they met at the B&N and I showed up and go every other week. The members are just ordinary people. Two of them write fantasy, one science fiction, and one suspenceful romance. Okay, I bring my chapters and they critique and I always feel a little like I don't know what I'm doing, as a writer. In fact, once, one of the people asked me if I'd never written anything before. It hurt my feelings, of course, but I brushed it off and kept going. But when I review their work, I never feel like I have anything important to bring to the table and they treat me delicately, like a child, when they're reviewing my stuff. I always drive home feeling a little empty--is this project worth continuing?

I met my other writing group after we were all taking the novel class at the Writer's at Work Conference (with Bret Lott) in June. We've continued meeting as a group. Once a month. One of the guys, Scott, decided to organize it and invited the top writers from the class. The group consists of a surgeon, a physician, a professor at the U, a lawyer, and the others I'm not even sure of. And they don't pigeonhole their work into any particular category. And when I attend these meetings (as I did last night), I feel like a professional writer, a good writer, and I feel like my opinion of their work really matters. It makes me want to keep writing, all the time. And I felt good on my drive home, planning how I'm going to start scheduling more writing time into my days.

So I wondered, what is it about this that is so different? Is it the expectation that I am smart (when the others think I am) as in the second writing group or am I just always the same, just feeling differently by how the first writing group makes me feel, like an amateur?

I still don't know the answer, but I guess I'll keep writing.

Dante, could you have been . . .?

Last August, shortly after the accident, a pigeon (or rock dove, if you will) showed up on the roof of my house. Just appeared there one day and sat gawking at me with its beady little eyes. And never left.

I've always liked birds, especially since that bird-watching class I took in college. At first, I was amused. Bianca and I named him Dante. He'd strut past between two shaded underhangs on my roof depending on the time of day and from where the sun was shining. We liked him.

I thought it, but am not sure if I said it aloud then, that maybe, just maybe, Dante was the spirit of my baby Miranda who had died just weeks before in the aforementioned accident. I shrugged it off mostly, but babied Dante, just in case. I even sometimes left food out on the sidewalk for him to nibble.

I started getting fed up with him weeks later when I noticed he was leaving bird droppings on my porch from the perch where he sat all day. I set a box underneath, to catch the poop, in my lame attempt at keeping the mess to a minimum. And then he brought his girlfriend to our roof to live in peace. Bianca and I promptly named her Dorian and continued to tolerate them.

Two months later. The mess is out of control and my roof is spotted and I have no patience with the birds left. I don't know what to do. I research how to get rid of pigeons on the internet. The most helpful piece of advice I found was to get a peregrine falcon as a pet to demolish them, albeit this advice was not humane.

I didn't get a peregrine falcon. But I did tie some balloons onto the roof to bob in the wind and scare them away, which worked like a charm, for a couple days until the helium of the balloon deflated. I then decided to tie plastic shopping bags on the roof, again to make rustling noises and flap in the wind. Didn't work. My last futile attempt came in the form of a gag gift we'd received once that I found under our bed. It was a motion-sensored toilet that sang "Flush the toilet, flush, flush, flush" to the melody of Rockin' Robin. I climbed onto the ledge and set the plastic toilet squarely on the rain gutters. Then left. It was the perfect plan, but alas, it didn't work either.

Another couple months. Snow on the ground. Dante shows up with his no-good, free-loading cousin DeWayne who moves in with Dante and Dorian. Eric brings a pellet gun home from work. He shoots it a couple times, not truly intending to hit them, and they fly away. A couple days later. All three are back. We're all fed up and Eric aims a little closer and hits DeWayne on the wing. Dante and Dorian fly off, leaving DeWayne who can now not fly. He waddles off down the sidewalk (which was the last time I saw any of them).

Last month, I was reading Bianca "Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens" each night before bed when I was struck sick with the following paragraph (mind you, Dante was not a swallow, but still):

"[Peter Pan] has still a vague memory that he was a human once, and it makes him especially kind to the house-swallows when they visit the island, for house-swallows are the spirits of little children who have died. They always build in the eaves of the houses where they lived when they were humans, and sometimes they try to fly in at a nursery window, and perhaps that is why Peter loves them best of all the birds."

What do you think? Am I crazy or just plain mean? (By the way, animal rights activists are not allowed to have an opinion here.)

Walking Down Memory Lane

Dani and I started our after-dark walking ritual shortly after the accident last year. We chose after dark because I was worried to see people I knew and knowing they knew the worst thing that can happen to a woman happened to me and even worse, they'd ask about it as they tried to avoid looking straight into the horrendous gaping wound on my forehead. Nevertheless, we've been walking at night fairly regularly throughout the entire year. And a lot of weird things have happened during those night walks (I'm not even going to mention--well, okay, I will in passing--the guinea pig running loose through the streets that bit a chunk out of my finger or the night all the cats were racing through the neighborhood after visible mice).

But last night, we got to take an amusing trip down memory lane. It all started as we were walking by a house with a driveway stuffed with trucks and teenage boys and two giggling girls. As we walked by, we heard "Hi" and said hello back. The two girls ran over to us, "I like your outfit." I'm sure they were talking to Dani because I was wearing pajama bottoms. We said goodbye and kept walking.

We turned around at the top and headed back by this house about twenty minutes later. The girls saw us again and ran up to us and said, "You guys are cute." We thanked them and they stepped into our pace, wanting to walk with us for a bit. They were 13. And cute. And wore a little too much make-up. As we were walking, I heard one of the girls say, "Do you think I should do it right here?" The other one nodded. Then the girl started running on the street and did a round-off back handspring. I smiled inwardly. And said, "Wow." The other one started blurting out, "I do kick boxing, and I sing, and play the piano and the guitar." We kindly dismissed them after a while and told them to be careful around those guys and they shouldn't be dating guys who can drive at their age. And were they okay staying at that house?

After they giggled and ran off, I admitted to Dani that I used to do back flips anywhere--at gas stations, the beach, restaurant parking lots--to get attention when I was that age. My insecurities were that I was never the prettiest of my friends (I've always had really pretty friends) and I needed some way to stand out. I used the one thing that came naturally to me--tumbling. Yes, an obvious, far-fetched cry for attention, I now see.

Then Dani admitted the other one was like her--well, I play the piano and I sing and I do this and this . . . We both laughed, walking off, realizing that we had just met ourselves 15 years before.

The girls had gasped when we told them our ages. But I have to say, I like the person I am at 30 three times as much as I liked the crying-for-attention girl I was at 13.

My Organized Life

MY ORGANIZED LIFE--TAKE ONE: While I was in St. Louis in July, I resolved I would begin life again organized. I decided to get a planner at Target for $3--the kind normally sold to college students, I suppose. I started filling it out. Unfortunately, I forgot to add "pack new planner" onto my to-do list for July 25, because I returned home without my new life-altering planner. I called my mom and she found it in the room where I was sleeping. She asked me since I left it, could she have it? Of course it would cost just as much to send it as to buy a new one, I said sure. It's yours, mom.

MY ORGANIZED LIFE--TAKE TWO: I only had three days here before I left with my husband Eric on our trip to the Oregon coast, so I swung by Target and bought a new one. I nearly forgot to go, as I didn't have a planner to put it on my to-do list, but managed it between stocking the house full of groceries for Bianca and grandma and pulling cash from the ATM.

A couple days into our trip, Eric and I were fighting over what to do in Cannon Beach. Unlike Eric, who likes to just get into the car and see where it takes us, I wanted to plot out our week. We fought for an hour, then spent the next fifteen minutes putting everything we wanted to do in my new planner:

TUESDAY: Drive to Tillamook to tour the cheese factory (boring--I wish we hadn't listened to that damn girl at the bed & breakfast who said we just had to do it). Eat at Newman's at 988 (which turned out to be an overly stuffy too-expensive-to-feel-comfortable-in restaurant that left me hungry as they ushered me out, which gnocchi always does, why do I keep ordering it?). So much for that. We ended up fitting a nap into our day that was not scheduled into the planner, but I'm glad I made room for it.

TO DO: Find conch shell large enough to hear the ocean for Bianca. Stop letting Eric pick fights with me about planning things. (He scribbled in later: Stop provoking Eric into a fight.)

WEDNESDAY: Eric golfing nine holes in Manzanita (while I do a little writing at the B&B by the fireplace watching the ocean view from my window). Check out the caves at Hug Point. Drive back to Astoria to retrieve my jogging clothes I'd left on Monday. Then pick up a pizza and eat at our room. Yes, I was sick of eating out already. Too much seafood. However, the pizza was filled to the brim with crab meat. Good, nonetheless.

THURSDAY: Five-mile hike at Cape Falcon. (Unmarked two-hour nap before dinner) Dinner at Nehalen River Inn (best food of the trip by the way)

FRIDAY: After B&B breakfast, check out of Arch Cape House and drive to Ashland. Grab a quick bite. 8:00 pm. A Winter's Tale at Oregon Shakespeare Festival. (Worth every penny.) Ridiculous hour drive to our B&B in the mountains.

SATURDAY: Drive home.

As I sat in the car long after I had the patience to be pleasant, I marked in my planner things I need to do in the next several weeks: finish getting pieces of uniform for Bianca to start school, shop for school supplies, get-to-know-teacher meeting, get my chapter two ready for my writing group meeting next week. My vacation is over. I'm now the mother of a kindergartner and have a lot of responsibilities. Much more than last year. I'm pretty sure Bianca gets reprimanded if I get her late to school in the morning. Now, with all these added pressures, I've got to stay organized.

AND CUT--THAT'S A WRAP