Dumpster Diving

Spent a lot of time over the weekend thinking about what makes me tick. What I DO. What I've always DONE.

Shenanigans are pretty much what I came up with.

(flashback)

I'm about 10. My two sisters and I have just finished helping my parents set up the tent, which means we're free to take the bikes off the rack and "stake out the territory." First stop, all bodies of water in the vicinity. Next stop, the camp store. Duh.

I spotted it near the back, leaning against the campfire pie molds. A child's bamboo fishing pole, complete with plastic bobber and fish gutter. No reel. Just a put-it-together-and-drop-in-the-creek sort of a pole. Three dollars and sixty cents, which was exactly three dollars and sixty cents more than I had.

On the bike ride back to the site, I plotted. Then I pitched. (Not the tent. That was already up, member?)

Me: Dad, I found something I want at the camp store. Mind if I take the girls and round up some pop cans to pay for it?
Dad: What is it?
Me: A fishing pole.
Dad: You can use mine.
Me: No. I want my own.
Dad: I can give you some money.
Me: No. Mind if I go for a bit?
Dad: That's fine. Your mother and I wanted to head into town for some supplies. Can you be back in two hours?
Me: (Running the numbers. Thirty-six cans divided my three girls, only one of whom is wholly invested in seeing the stunt through.) Yes. I can.
Dad: Go ahead.

Then I had to pitch it to my sisters. Lilu was almost thirteen (tricky). Jaime Lynn, almost eight (if you'll pardon the pun, like shooting fish in a barrel).

Me: (to Lilu) Wanna?
Her: (brushing hair or something of the kind) No.
Me: Did you see the guy working the counter at the camp store?
Her: (putting down brush) Yeah.
Me: It involves two trips to the camp store. And you can hand him the bottles. Some of them beer. You'll look way old.
Her: (dropping brush and hopping on bike) Coming?

Me: (to Jaime Lynn) Wanna?
Her: Yep.



(Cutting to the retelling, from my father's POV, the next day, and for years to come.)

Dad: Her mother and I were driving back into the campground and approaching the row of dumpsters where campers throw their trash on their way out of town. We saw a bike leaned up against the side of one of them, and two children hoisting another one over the edge, until everything disappeared but her flailing feet.
Then her mother said to me, "What kind of parents . . . "
And that's all she got out of her mouth before she realized WE were the parents in question.

Mother: "Is THAT OUR GIRLS?!"
Dad: (suppressing grin) Yep.

(Back at the campsite, slightly mussed and certainly not smelling my best, I prepared for the defense)

Dad: Mind explaining?
Me: (unloading bag as I spoke—I've found that spectacle always helps the defense) I have exactly 36. In less than an hour and a half.
Dad: You climbed into dumpsters.
Me: Yes. Yes I did. But time was an obstacle. And you said less than two hours. But you never said NO dumpsters. So I erred on the side of efficiency. Trash cans and beach bathrooms weren't going to cut it.
Dad: (grinning) Let's get these, and YOU, washed up.
Me: (upon examining the cans closer) SHITE. Twenty-four of them are from Canada. No refund.
Dad: Language?
Me: Sorry. CRAP.
Dad: (reaching in pocket and handing me a five) You earned this.
Me: Thanks, dad. And you can keep my cans.

I still remember how it hurt my pride to take that money. But the coffee grounds on my outstretched arm consoled me. I HAD earned it.



I caught a bluegill about an hour later. On my very own rod. It's a bummer that I didn't know how to get it off the hook, though. Poor thing made the whole ride back to my site with me, still on the hook. And he was scrappy, like me.

Any suggestions on how I can monetize shenanigans, at a higher rate than three dollars and sixty cents per ninety minutes, less two dollars and forty cents for error, and without gratuitous influxes of cash from dad?

I'm open.

And the Winners Are . . .

I know it's no Oscar, but I really want to thank everyone who played "Where's Miss Ive" over the weekend, and award them their bucket of M&M's. It made my adventure that much more fun, if you can imagine anything better than standing on a frozen lake, staring down a snowstorm. Perfect. I highly recommend a little head freeze for clearing the brain.

Two people, both from Peterman's Eye, guessed correctly.

I was in Petoskey. Or as I like to say, Peeeeeeetoskey.

Technically, Rings90 (also a Lark from the Chicago trip) guessed it first. But since, as I told her, I hadn't left my driveway yet, and her answer came in the form a of a list of all the cities in this hemisphere that had ever hosted Hemingway, her win is still being scrutinized by Miss Ive's board of scrutinizers. (We've got one eye on you, Rings.)

And then there's House Guest, also a fellow poster at Peterman's Eye. Though not very frequently, always amusingly and with my favorite form of whimsy. If you have a second, you must click the link and read some of his musings. And what makes his guess even better is that he sent it to me via, Stoney, the poster of all posters at The Eye. And he later scolded Sir Stoney, for adding a question mark to his one-word email. Apparently, he did not approve of the hesitation. Still giggling over that.

Also, the very shrewd J. Free, a regular reader, spotted the pic I sent out of my room, and guessed The Perry, as she knows me too well.


So now you all have to email me with two pieces of information if you want to collect your prize:

Address.
Favorite flavor of M&M's (Feel free to get fancy and demand Peanut Butter or even the seasonal Raspberry.)

Forgive my uncharacteristically prosaic post, sans mania. I believe my brain is still frozen.

Where's Miss Ive?

I know. Not quite as catchy as Where's Waldo, but Emerson is boring. And I'm not.

Okay, maybe he's not, either.

This morning, I'm packing the truck. Dropping boys at Papa's. Heading north into Hemingway Country. Finding first ridiculously-sized snowbank. Snowplowing into it. Lugging out snowshoes. And getting some real air into my head.

Will send a random twitpic via Twitter, so you'll all know I'm alive. If you're not on Twitter, you can still see my Tweets to the right of this page, and the links to the pics will be in them.

But here's the rub, I'll be watching the Stop the Silence page from my phone, held with frostbitten fingers. Every time the gap closes, I send a pic. So donate some money, people. You know how slack I am to take up a cause. This means something to me. And I'll thank you with ridiculous pictures of myself on yet another lark. So do it. Gawd, I'm bossy.

The first person to reach me in the virtual void and guesses my destination city, wins a bucket of M&M's. Possibly hand-delivered. All depends on the shape of the vehicle, post snowplow ramming. Name the exact location of any pic, win two buckets. Sisters, you can't play. You already know my best hiding spots.

See ya on the other side of the moon.

My road trip music:



J

@SarahRobinson

The above title is something I can practically type in in my sleep these days (and often do) . My new friend on Twitter, introduced by @johnhaydon and @unmarketing, has entered my life like a tour de force, whipping me into shape with her mompreneur savvy. (For those of you not on Twitter, the whole '@' thing must really be freaking you out!) Good. It will shame you into coming over and joining us in the Twitterverse.

Twitter is like mini-blogging. Each "feed" has space for 140 characters. It's a puzzle—a word game, if you will. I believe I could compose a novel from the words and spare characters I've had to edit out of my Tweets, just to make them fit. And maybe I should.

I joined Twitter about six months ago. The same day I started my blog. After pacing for weeks, wondering if I was ready to put myself out 'there' like this, I just dove in.

My first Tweet: I just threw all my balls into the air.

And my first post? Terrified.

And now I'm here. Pulling shenanigans daily with you all. Very glad I put myself out there. Or is it "in here?"

And very glad of all the wonderful people it's help me stay in touch with and the people it's brought into my life, like @SarahRobinson, and the hooligans listed above.

My next goal—to bring a little more Jen here, too. I think it's time. Miss Ive could use a break from all the tomfoolery.

Which is why I agreed to take myself very seriously and send a 15 second video clip of myself answering the question "I am_______," for @SarahRobinson's latest viral video shenanigan. That's right, she does shenanigans, like moi!

She's a wonderfully pushy girl, something you all know I can appreciate, and I'm posting about her, and all of you, today for two reasons:

1) I'm genuinely exhausted from this stunt and this is what's on the brain, so it's coming out here! I have learned how to edit and splice video now thanks to @SarahRobinson and @johnhaydon. See? Pushy!

2) I'm genuinely bowled over by how much "throwing all of my balls into the air" was the best thing I could have done with my life. Highly recommended.

Now, I have to sleep. . .

As we say in the Twitterverse,

G'night, Tweeps!

Running Mad

(Pulled out my favorite running post, for all my new Twitter running buddies)

When you have hot beverage in hand, please come back and read about my Friday adventure, and laugh.

I guess you could say it began on Wednesday, when Miss Ive decided to add a tag line to her blog title, a slogan of sorts. She thought long and hard and then resorted to common thievery, as she often does, by pinching her favorite Jane Austen quote, which begins with "Run mad as often as you chuse (old English spelling)," and is already plastered all over the rest of her life. It is engraved on her pink iPod, it is silk-screened on her favorite running shirt, and now it is etched permanently into her blog masthead. And, after this weekend, she is beginning to wonder if she is not starting to internalize the directive and perhaps take it too literally. You read, and tell me what YOU think.

Friday afternoon, she returned home after a very long work week. She found her house quiet and vacant, a rare treat. So she decided to indulge in an even more rare treat, an afternoon run, something always relegated to early morning hours.

The sun was shining and she was looking forward to an evening of weekend wine-down and vintage eighties movies. She was giddy, so she decided to begin her run with this song:



Can you hear how playful? And Miss Ive was in a very playful mood. So playful, in fact, that when she rounded the last corner of her first mile lap and saw three men, her neighbors, standing in the middle of the sidewalk chatting, she decided to be sweet and go around—even though they were LOOKING STRAIGHT AT HER AND DID NOT SHOW ANY SIGN OF MOVING. Can you hear how calm Miss Ive sounds, even now? GRRRRRR. But Harry Connick soothed her. And she ran out into the street and waved. And they WAVED BACK! Apparently they were able to move their hands, but not their feet. Still, she remained calm, smiling, and ever the lady. But, can she just add one important little piece of information to illustrate just how CALM and SWEET Miss Ive was being considering her neighbors' blockhead-ed-ness? She would like to tell you that one of said neighbors is a runner. A runner that Miss Ive often passes in the morning on her runs. And so she knows that HE KNOWS how annoying it is to have to run into the street because SOME PEOPLE do not know how to step ONE step over and out of said runner's way. Just saying. And can she also add that ALL THREE men were staring directly at Miss Ive as she ran (barreled) toward them, and that she is SURE THAT IT HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH HER SPANDEX and everything to do with platonic neighborly curiosity. GRRRRR. Anyway, I digress.

And then something happened. And this sort of thing generally happens to Miss Ive as she begins her second mile, so it really came as no surprise. It is actually, arguably, THE SOLE reason she runs. Remember her theme line?



Well, that's exactly what happens. She remembers those words. And then she speeds up her pace and shuffles through her iPod in search of this song. (You'll want to pause Harry, if he's still crooning, for the full effect. But go back to him later. Great song.)



Can you hear it? Miss Ive is not exactly sure if it is the beat or the voice, or both, but something in the mix of these elements and her endorphin-charged pace causes her eyes to glaze over. The minimal amount of testosterone she contains in her person begins to race through her limbs and attack all reasoning function in her brain. She becomes a cage fighter.

And, unfortunately, on this day, all these forces aligned just as she rounded the final corner of her second mile, and again, came across those very same neighbors—who had not budged an inch. AND who did not show any signs of BUDGING ONE INCH EVEN THOUGH THEY ALL STARED DIRECTLY AT HER FOR A SECOND CHANCE AT A SPANDEX SHOW, AND SMILED THEIR PIE-EATING GRINS AT HER.

And so MISS IVE—the cage fighter—did not budge either. She just kept running (barreling) straight at them. Surely they would move, she thought. Surely they were not entirely raised in a barn. They are educated men, dressed in medical scrubs, surely they had LEARNED something about manners on their road to M.D.'s. Surely.

But no. They did not. And, unfortunately, neither did the tree that Miss Ive ran directly into as a result OF HER MISCALCULATION OF HER NEIGHBORS' LEVELS OF ASSHOLE-NESS. Her entire right side was introduced at high speed to the well-established oak tree in Dr. Asshole's yard. And she hit hard.

See how hard?



See even closer?



And as she stumbled back to the sidewalk, grabbing her mutilated shoulder with her left hand, surveying the damage, all the blood in her body rushed to said shoulder, and even further away from her reasoning brain. And when she saw the blood beginning to surface on said shoulder, the quantity of platelets left in her body began to boil and she fixed her eyes on her scrub-wearing neighbor who was mouthing the words, "That looks like it hurts."

Miss Ive is not even kidding one little bit. That's what this DOCTOR said.

So she walked slowly toward him, crazy eyes fixed. And, if you can believe it, THAT look made him MOVE ONE STEP OVER and away from Miss Ive.

As she began to compose the litany of insults that were forming in her throat, she pushed pause on her iPod so she could thoroughly enjoy the exchange, not that she planned on letting him speak.

And when the music stopped, guess what happened? Can you?

All the whipped-up testosterone levels subsided. They settled quickly and were replaced by her regularly high levels of estrogen. And then, girls, can you guess the very NEXT THING THAT CAME INTO HER ESTROGEN-FILLED BRAIN?



Her Portrait Dress—what else? Because estrogen is logical, right? And she was in a panic, such a panic that she turned her back on stupid-scrub-wearing-man and sprinted, left-hand-on-right-shoulder, all the way home, up the stairs, and directly to her computer where she could load a picture of her Portrait Dress. And while she typed the address w-w-w-j-p-e-t-e-r-m-a-n-c-o-m and waited for the page to load, her mind was screaming with THIS VERY IMPORTANT QUESTION:

HOW MUCH SHOULDER DOES IT SHOW?

And then, HOW MUCH TIME DOES SHE HAVE TO BATHE IN VITAMIN E AND MAKE THIS WOUND GO AWAY? And then, WHAT THE HELL WAS SHE THINKING MIXING TESTOSTERONE AND DRESSES?

And then she calmed down. And then she remembered the trip was more than a month away. And then she plugged in her iPod and deleted all remnants of Eminem from it. Just to be safe. He can come back after the trip. Maybe.

Until then, Miss Ive will nurse her arm and remember that her theme line is just that, and nothing more. Breathe.

My Serve

(My post on Peterman's Eye, in response to the topic of whether or not parents should, or do, push sports too much on their children)

Nothing changed my life or taught me as much as tennis. Nothing. Not school. Honestly, not even church. I was a skinny dreamer who sat in trees reading books. I was awkward and shy. And then I found a racquet one day when I was bored, my thirteenth summer. And then I found a ball. And then I introduced them to the garage door about 1000 times that day. And then I fell in love with it.

When you stand by yourself on a court and take 200 consecutive serves and only nail two aces, you learn how integral failure is to success. The two aces wouldn't have happened without the 198 that went out or caught the net. Period. And books don't teach you that. And NOTHING in this world feels better than those aces. And without the failures, they wouldn't feel that good. They're inseparable—failure and success. And pondering things doesn't teach you that. And just think of how liberating that is concerning a child's fear to fail, if they learn early that it's a necessary component of an ace.

I imagine this is true of practicing anything physical. Music. Dance.

(and here's where I apply this theory to sports and kids—stay with me)

Some parents don't care enough. They don't go to the matches. Don't ask if you made the team.

Maybe their serves never quite make it over the net.

Some parents care a little too much. Maybe their heart's in the right spot. Maybe it's not.

Maybe their serves are always a little too long.

My tennis coach used to spit in my face when screaming at me between sets. When I made it to states and to the final round of the tournament, he screamed two inches from my face as the entire crowd looked on because I'd missed a volley after diving and landing on my chin. I passed out on his feet.

So maybe the chair umpire should have pulled him off the court a long time ago.

And now it's my serve. Now I'm the parent. My Number 8 heads into his second season of T-Ball in a few months. And the only thing I know how to do, the thing I learned from all my missed serves and all the missed serves of my parents and coaches, is to keep hitting the balls and aim for the box.

With my sons, I imagine they are a new sailboat. Yare, but green. And so I keep them in the harbor protected from big winds, with my hand guiding their rudder. And I like this because the key is that I am behind them, watching carefully to see how their unique shape handles in the water. I don't push. I don't tow them around by a rope. But I do steer. And it is my prayer for both of my sons, that someday when I guide them to the open water, a powerful wind will catch their sails, whatever, or whomever it may be. Just as long as they have passion, and a decent handle on their rudder, everything else will fall into place.

My lawn chair is ready.

And for those parents, like myself, who have difficulty harnessing their competitive spirit at their childrens' games, I highly recommend competing in the "best-snack-bringing-parent" competition. Otter pops, a cooler and scissors always bring home the gold.

Seriously. Just ask the other team moms whose arses I took DOWN last year! Sorry. It's just in me.

The Sound of Silence Stopping

I know I took down my shingle a while back and posted my sabbatical notice. But I'm stepping back in to say something important today.

(squinting and tapping the mic)

I almost forgot how bright it is in here. I'm going to crank the volume on this thing today, so brace yourselves. It's important that you all hear this. We need noise. I'm not gonna be silly, either. I gave MissIve the day off.

A Very Good Man invited me to write about the 12for12K Challenge . Every month, for 12 months, they aim to raise $12K for a worthwhile charity. February is dedicated to Stop the Silence, a nonprofit that works with others toward the prevention and treatment of child sexual abuse.

So I sat for some time thinking about what it means to stop the silence. And I thought about the sounds of childhood, and what they should be. And I thought of my own life and how, though it eventually became, well, life, my childhood was idyllic in many ways.


I remember the sound of water running from the hose as I drank from it, the blades on my ice skates cutting across the frozen pond, the pounding army of feet running underground as I pressed my wet ear against the beach sand. Do you know that sound? While the cicadas buzz in the trees overhead and the gulls cry over the crashing waves? But my warmest memories are of stolen sleep in hidden corners of our home, and the sounds that made my eyelids heavy. Fires cracking in the fireplace, my father reading Paddle to the Sea, a Simon & Garfunkel album playing in the background. Now, I watch my sons sleep. And I remember how nice it felt to rest, unburdened by life.

But today, I'm thinking about the children whose memories are built on different sounds, and the horrible silence that follows.

I'm thinking of the children who are afraid of sleep, and the sounds that keep their tired eyelids open, well into the night. The terror that stirs from the squeak of a floorboard. And I'm thinking of all the other things that are stolen from them during those hours, like the sweetness of unburdened sleep.

And I want very badly to tell those children, even if they're grown now, that I wish I had been there to make a sound for them.

And that's why I'm writing today about 12for12K and Stop the Silence.

I know people always say we need to stop the silence. But if you press your ear to those words, you'll hear them say, We are not an idea—We are an action. My fingers, as they type this, stop the silence. One-key-at-a-time, making noise.

Please Make a Noise by Clicking Here right now. Give $10. An action. Not a thought. And DO NOT be deterred if you don't have a PayPal account. I MEAN IT. You've signed up for a Target and an Amazon account. You can push through. DO IT. An action. Not a thought.

It matters that you do. You'll know that you DID something because you'll hear a sound. A click. The Sound of Silence Stopping.


This is one of the sounds I remember drifting off to as a child, on the rug in front of the fire.

Listen to the words. Listen to the sound. Hear how one 'click' can Stop the Silence.





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