What a difference a year+ makes, right?

Actually not so much. Life continues to be really good, thankfully.

The Bean just turned 11. She got a new bicycle, and pre-ordered the next Rick Riordan book. It comes out on October 8; she'll have read it a half dozen times by Halloween.

The Peanut, earlier this month, realized that 1) it is, in fact, August, and 2) September is next. She did a little fist pump/victory dance thing in the kitchen. That is how psyched she is to start fourth grade.

This morning, I asked them to finish up their "Dig Into Reading" logs for the public library so that I could turn them in for them when I went down there later. (The logs are due today, if you want to participate in the ice cream social/puppet show event that marks the end of the summer reading program). The Bean handed me a log with attachments, saying that she only wrote down books that she actually liked or would recommend. She is a reading machine.

The Peanut has been reading a lot, as well. They are both enthusiastic readers. It's the accounting for it that trips the Peanut up, a bit. She doesn't like to have to keep track of these things. Tell her to read a book, and she's happily absorbed for hours. Tell her to write down what she read and for how long, and she can't find a piece of paper, or didn't look at the clock, or doesn't remember the author. You see how it goes. Anyway she sat at the kitchen table, pencil in hand, trying to come up with a list of things read that's respectable enough to turn in to the library.

She wanted to know if the subtitles from the part of that X-Men movie* where the evil guy is in Russia might count as summer reading? "Probably not, but I did read them, Mommy."

Can't argue that.

Evidently our vacation has been more cinematic than literary. We watched all the X-Men movies. And for the record, there are also subtitles in part of Star Wars.**

She also wrote down that every week she reads all the police reports in the local newspaper. Our recent favorite is one in which a man walked into the police station early on a Saturday morning to report that someone had stolen his pants the night before. Said pants were later discovered in the bathroom of the man's house.

It's cool, living in a town where so much of the crime is imaginary. It's also frequently the best part of the newspaper.

So that's been our summer. We've swum at the lake, played with friends, done Camp Invention and archery camp and summer basketball and generally whatever else we felt like doing.

Mr. Sandy has been working flat-out on a very exciting scientific proposal. He surfaces for meals, and to oversee plumbers and such. Someday, our addition will be done. Someday.

Me? I tried stand-up paddle-boarding for the first time, which was really fun. I sprained my ankle playing backyard badminton, which was really not. I've been writing professionally a wee bit, which is excellent. I need a new computer, which is not. All is well, on balance.

Still a few weeks' worth of fun to fit in before school starts. I wonder if there are any subtitles in the Batman movies?


*X-Men: First Class
** It's the part where Greedo the bounty hunter finds Solo in the cantina in Mos Eisley. But you knew that, right?

That said... what an unusually mild winter we're having!

Yesterday wrapped up February school vacation. We're not skiiers or island hoppers (skiing looks fun, but it's the island hopping I could really envy), so we generally stick around. This week's been warm enough to go on a couple of really great walks. Watching my lovely girls "discover" a shallow pool along a trail through the woods of our town's little nature center took me back about four decades.

For a couple years when I was really little, our family lived in a college town just outside Boston. The college campus had a little pond. One fall day my mother packed a picnic and we sat on the grass by the pond and had lunch, then played around for a while. I couldn't have been more than 6. I distinctly remember the sensations of that day; the "ploop" sound of little stones tossed into the water, the endless circles of ripples they made, rough twigs in my hand and the sounds they made flicking mud and water around, cool damp moss at the pond's edge, brightly colored leaves floating about.  I remember it as a Huge Adventure.

I want my girls to have so many memories like this that they don't seem unique. I hope each of my daughters will walk in the woods as an adult and feel that it's a familiar thing, a thing she grew up doing with her mother and her sister who love her beyond measure, so that whenever she does it it's a comfort on some very basic level.  Assuming we can continue to avoid both poison ivy and Lyme Disease, we appear to be on track for these happy woodsy memories to be so plentiful they blur together.

Yesterday afternoon they came across this mushy puddly place in the woods and pretended it was Degoba and they were Yoda and Luke Skywalker. That's a memory I might single out, even if they don't.

So, how are you enjoying public office?

I always said I wouldn't write here about the particulars of serving on the local School Committee (= School Board, in most states), and these days that's probably a better idea than ever. Still, because many people ask me this in passing... let's just say "enjoy" is the wrong verb. "Regret" is the wrong verb as well, for the record. "Endure" is a strong candidate. Oh, I jest! But it can be frustrating.

It's wrecked my blog, for one thing. I don't give time to blogging any more, and I don't feel free to write publicly about a lot of the things that occupy my (admittedly limited) mental real estate these days. What's left? Who wants to read a post about what an unusually mild winter we're having? Nobody, that's who. If Daniel Craig himself called me up and wanted to talk about what an unusually mild winter we're having, I might hang up the damn phone.

Still, I can't bring myself to take Noted and Blogged down. I love some of the pieces I've posted here, I did enjoy (sometimes it is the right verb!) my intermittent writing hobby, and someday I hope to again.

Help! Police!

Our town has a weekly newspaper. Like many local weeklies, ours includes selections from the week's police reports. These are always worth reading. Yes, there is sometimes news of real crime (thefts from unlocked cars, mostly) and traffic accidents, but more importantly, we have gems such as these:

A resident from North Shore Boulevard called police at 9:27 PM to report a squirrel in the house.  Police contacted the animal control officer. The resident called police back an hour later to say that the squirrel was still in her home and had scratched her. Police suggested that she contact a private company specializing in ridding homes of wildlife.

 and

A resident called police at 10:33 PM to report seeing four coyotes wearing dog tags walking in the area of Quaker Meetinghouse Road and Route 130. Police checked the area but did not see any animals. Police determined that the report was unfounded since coyotes do not wear dog tags.

Naturally, friends and family visiting from more cosmopolitan settings grab the local paper as soon as politely possible after arrival. You just never know if a "suspicious person" will turn out to be a Comcast employee, or if maybe a goose will be observed walking down Main Street at dawn, with or without dog tags.

in which kickball isn't just kickball

The Peanut's 2nd grade teacher is the same terrific person the Bean had that year. We love this teacher. One of the wonderful things she does is to have the children keep a composition notebook in which they write a letter to their parents, and the parents write back on the next page, back and forth throughout the year. I loved my letters from the Bean. They captured her personality and school day moods differently than any other way we communicated, and gave me an avenue to be playful with her, when so much school day life is sucked up by just telling kids to do things/having grown-ups tell you to do things. I've tried to continue her notebook through 3rd grade (she refused) and 4th (I get an occasional note). Maybe we'll do it in pulses, but it's a line of communication I want to keep open. Sometimes a letter does what conversation cannot.

Anyway, this is today's letter from the Peanut, for those who know her and/or would be amused:

Dear Mommy,

I dissected my paere today and it had 5 seeds inside.

We are going to the book fair next Tusday at nine therty. Thank you! Finaly! Choclit cupcakes! I love you Mommy! OK. Bad news. I got another blister on the monkey bars.

I love you!

Peanut

They have been spending the week studying "seeds and how they travel"... hence the pear dissection. Walking to school, the Peanut has held a plastic bag at the ready, gathering whatever seed-related items she could find. Garden string bean, pine cone, seed pod from the iris, all went in the bag. She was so focused on seed hunting that she almost stepped in dog shit. I wish the dog owner had been carrying a plastic bag.

Y'know... occasionally, there will be some discussion on the town level about where/when dogs are allowed to be on various town-owned properties. I always feel for the many responsible dog owners who take care that nobody will likely step in their dog's poop. But all it takes is one pile of dog shit on the freakin' sidewalk to harden my heart and ensure my vote against allowing dogs anywhere. Too bad really. If we could trust people not to be assholes, what a better world this would be.

But I digress. Monkey bars! That Peanut has been a monkey bar fiend for a couple of years now. She spends every possible recess period practicing swinging from end to end and back, and frequently comes home with serious blisters on her palms. The kid won't stop until she bleeds. Then she cries, not just because it hurts, but because she has to take some days off. She has got it in her head that recess is boring, and that the only part of the playground that's any good is the monkey bars, and other than that there's just the dumb ol' field, where some kids play kickball. Why don't you play kickball, too? I asked her. She said that no girls play kickball, but she wants to, and on Monday she is going to do it!

This is brave, because earlier this week a boy asked her why she was playing a baseball-like game with the boys in gym instead of hula hooping with the girls, and she came home pretty upset. It had never even occurred to her that she was the only girl in the game, let alone that there was anything peculiar about it. I couldn't help but remember my first day of middle school, when I sat with the boys at lunchtime because that's who my friends were, and I didn't realize until it was too late what a social gaffe I'd made. Painful, painful stuff. I'm trying to remember that she is not me, now is not then, etc., etc., but I can see how she feels different, and hurts, and I understand completely. It is how I know, too, that no matter how awkward it feels not to, she will never pick up a hula hoop and join the girls just because they are girls and she is one too. She'll pick up a hula hoop when and if she feels like freakin' hula hooping and not before, and if what the boys are doing looks more fun then that's where she'll want to be.

Today, while her sister was at soccer, we took a ball of our own and practiced kickball so she will feel ready. She made me pretend all the other players were on the field with us, and shouted out what they were doing and where we had to run, and whose turn it was to kick, and whether we were tagged out or not. Needless to say I was exhausted before the first inning was up, and when older boys in baseball uniforms showed up to use the field for their practice, I was secretly relieved. (One boy threw a ball to another, overshot him by a fair bit, and my Peanut ran and got the ball. She fired it back to the nearer boy, and her throw was perfect. I couldn't believe it. Made a nice smack into the kid's glove when he caught it, too.)

I really hope her entrance onto the 2nd grade kickball scene goes well. In the meantime, I know what to write about in our letter journal this weekend.

How's 2012 -- is 2012 good for you?

We're building an addition on our little Cape Cod house. Contractors will do the things that licenses are required to do, but Mr. Sandyshoes is doing most of the rest himself. You may remember he has a full time job as an oceanographer at a university. Yes, he's on sabbatical this year; but that relieves him of teaching and faculty meetings, not of his research, which continues at a greater pace, if anything. He's actually at sea for a month-ish, as I type.

Getting a building permit was a long, complicated, expensive process, riddled with really, really boring conversations, even though it's my house and I'm supposed to be fascinated (support beams! rebar! sub-slab plumbing! Honestly, all I can manage is a Beavis-like snicker whenever anyone says "double hung.")  Eventually the permit was granted and work began.  Astute readers may remember my account of the Bean's 8th birthday festivities amid the chaos of a new septic system installation and destruction of our deck and alcove, just days before I left for our short-term move across the country. Good times.

Since then, various, usually pleasant representatives of the Board of Assessors like to come visit. "Hello," I tell them. "It's not done yet." "Oh, OK," they say, "can you give me some idea of your timetable?" I explain about Mr. Sandyshoes and the full time job, and they say gotcha, and everything seems cool. Lather, rinse, repeat.

By the way, there is nothing against the rules about taking a long time to do a permitted project, as long as work is ongoing, which, as the pit o'dirt in front of my soon-to-be-demolished garage makes manifest, it is.

When the most recent emissary came up the driveway this week, clipboard in hand, I came out to greet him as usual. "Hello," I said, cheerfully. "It's not done yet." For some reason, this one seemed kind of annoyed. "Well," he said, gesturing at our foundation, then back at his clipboard, "this doesn't look like an 'addition.' It says here, 'addition.' This just looks like a garage."

Actually, what it looks like is a garage foundation around a pit o'dirt in front of an existing garage, but let's not quibble.  What you see there, is what we've got so far. The plans for what it will become are at the Building Department. It's an addition.

I explained about the parts that, looking only at the foundation, you can't deduce will be built. I confirmed his information about our existing house.

After a short, inconclusive silence, he said, "you know, when this is all done, we're going to have to come in and look at your whole house." At which my inner Beavis struck again, but I managed to keep it at "yes, I know."

It's still not done yet. 

And, y'know, I'm sorry about that. We are not on a mission to dupe or inconvenience the Board of Assessors. It's just not finished. Believe me, nobody would be happier than I if it were. Summer's going to bring banging of hammers, screeching of power saws, and a spike in ibuprofen consumption. Also, that pit o'dirt isn't nearly as charming as it sounds.

So, you're now reading the blog of an elected official!

(Whaddya mean, "whose"?  Why I oughtta...)

And... that and $2 will get you a medium coffee. But yes! I did win a seat on my local School Committee, and am now getting into the work of being on the local School Committee, about which, as promised, I will not write in specific terms here.

Campaigning, though. That was something.  Longtime readers, you know me; you know that ordinarily, I am a bit of a loner, with a self-deprecating sense of humor and quiet, non-confrontational hobbies.  I'm just not used to talking so damn much, not to mention being interviewed and photographed and quoted and being in the newspaper and on television (just local cable, but still). For a few weeks, among the other candidates' signs, there were white-on-purple signs with my name on them all over town. People gave up their Saturday mornings to hold these signs and wave to voters. Amazing.

I spoke to everyone: Town Republicans, Town Democrats, the local fish and game club (at which "where's the rest of this moose?" went over like a lead balloon... sigh), gatherings of retirees, gatherings of parents, gatherings of first graders, gatherings of puppies. Everyone. I walked around town knocking on people's doors to talk to them. I talked in coffee shops and grocery stores, playgrounds and parking lots. Wherever a registered voter, or anyone, really, would listen to me, I talked.  More importantly, wherever anyone would talk to me, I listened. 

I got very tired sometimes, and quite sick of my own voice, and my mouth felt dry a lot. I'm sort of a worrier about health-related things; Mr. Sandyshoes and I joke about that, because it is silly. One night during all this madness I said to him, "what kind of cancer does it mean you have if your mouth is dry all the time?" and he said, basically, "the kind that comes from talking constantly for weeks on end. Now shut up."

If only.

I became necessarily, utterly, reluctantly self-absorbed. At some point during the campaign I was pulling into the grocery store parking lot, and a white-on purple sign caught my eye, and for a split second I thought, "COOL! Who got one of my signs in such an awesome location?!" Then I read the sign, which said "Please return shopping carts here," and I thought, now I have lost my mind.

It became important to get out of town for a couple hours every few days just to clear my head.

At one point Mr. Sandyshoes and the girls decided to take me out to dinner to give me a break from campaigning and talking about the election. We went to a local restaurant and were seated in a booth near the door... and proceeded to campaign and talk about the election with a steady stream of well-wishers who paused to say hello on their way out.  It was really lovely. But it was not a break.

How do you feel, people would say -- how do you think it's going? And I felt good, I really did. I was a bit concerned about being in an echo chamber of sorts; the people I spoke to almost always responded positively, but surely somewhere people were responding just as positively to a candidate with a different message, and I had no idea how many. Voters really did seem to want a change on our school board, though, and that's what panned out.

It's now time to get to the real work ahead, which feels just fine to me... and also to get back to writing here, which feels pretty good as well.  Thanks for waiting out the hiatus! 

Local politics: in which we prune a new library branch before it buds (or something)

Our town's week-to-week governing body, the Board of Selectmen, consists of seven elected volunteers with various, largely non-governmental backgrounds. The ultimate, twice-a-year governing body is Town Meeting, which potentially consists of all registered voters in town.  It is cumbersome, unwieldy, and sometimes frustrating, but it's pure democracy. You're a registered voter + you show up = you get to vote on the warrant articles at Town Meeting. Your vote will be disproportionately powerful, too, because not all eligible citizens are registered voters, and further, only a small subset of registered voters actually attend.

It has been amusing to see, over the years, how many candidates for public office have had virtually no history of attending Town Meeting or voting in town elections. I think that takes a special kind of arrogance. But I digress.

Like everywhere else, our town has no extra money these days. Budgets are being cut, cut, cut. It appears we can't afford to maintain, let alone construct, the buildings we need. (Actually, we can't afford not to maintain them, but that ship appears to have sailed. After all, it's so much easier not to spend money, look like a hero, and let the folks elected after you inherit a bigger problem. Anyone who served on previous boards and running for election again now should maybe be asked about this strategy.) 

Yet... yet. Sometimes opportunity knocks.  There is grant money available from the state to fund part of the construction cost of a new library in our town. The Library Trustees have been working on the plan for quite some time. They have the land. They have the architect.  They have the plans. They have this grant opportunity. To be eligible for the grant, they need a vote by Town Meeting to agree to accept the money, should it be offered. To get a Town Meeting vote, the issue has to be on the Town Meeting warrant.  To get on the warrant, they had to go through the Board of Selectmen.

And that's where the project died last night. Our Board of Selectmen voted not to allow the presentation of the library idea to Town Meeting, saying a new library is not a priority, and we can't afford one, and the proposed building is "over the top" in any case.

All that may be true. I just don't get why we couldn't have voted on it at Town Meeting, where the idea would pass or fail on its merits after having been considered by more of us who'd be paying for it if it went forward.

Frankly, it would have been a hard sell. Town Meeting is chock full of naysayers to expenditures of any kind. I have serious questions about the project myself, and I consider a robust public library to be a primary indicator of a healthy community. Clearly the Library Trustees faced an uphill battle to get their building project approved by the voters. Why not let them fight it? Why do the proponents not get a say in front of us all? The Selectmen wouldn't have been endorsing the project by allowing that much, and could in fact have spoken against it as private citizens, if they wanted to. They said that it would send the wrong message to approve the Trustees' request for a Town Meeting vote, but what 's wrong with the message, "let the voters choose"? 

And -- scene.

Phew.

Christmas is finally over. It was eventually lovely, and we have some cool new toys to play with. My brother came to visit and that is always a good time. The now-annual Christmas meatloaf (I know, but it's kind of a fancy meatloaf, with sun-dried tomatoes, basil, and provolone cheese, and everyone loves it) was delicious. My cheesecake crust was too thick but nobody complained except me.

May I take a moment for shameless bragging about my daughters? They waited an extra week for our Christmas this year, and even then they didn't wake us up early, and even then they waited patiently to begin opening presents until midday when my parents joined us. They are so good, and I am so appreciative and proud, and I hope they're really listening when I tell them how awesome they are.

I can't remember the last time I got to bed before 2:00 AM. In the two weeks since we got home from the West coast, we've had two major snowstorms and two feverish girls, leaving me two days to do all the gift and food shopping after Mr. Sandyshoes got home. Pre-holiday stress brought to you by the number two. Then we had one Christmas celebration, and, just as I thought I could sleep the sleep of the righteous: one 3:00 AM emergency room visit that same night. It was nothing too awful, and all is now well, just very bad timing for a simple thing to need checking out. This left us one day to recover, and tomorrow: back to school.

I will be busy with a ton of stuff. There are piles of laundry to do, books to shelve, wrapping paper to put away, boxes to flatten, outgrown clothes and toys to donate, papers to file. There are thank-yous to be written and phone calls to be made. There is the 2011 dump (does anyone call it the "transfer station," really?) sticker to be bought and the recycling to be brought there. The calendar is beginning to fill with appointments and meetings and the running "TO DO" list needs updating. I do love an updated TO DO list.

At some point I plan to make a big cup of tea, head down to Sandy Neck, breathe deeply, and watch the waves roll in. Have I mentioned it is good to be home?

Happy New Year, all.

Things I will miss when it's time to head home, part the first

I love my home.  I say that a lot, and I mean it.  A lot.

Happily, I love it here, too; I'm going to miss several things about living here.  Rather than wait for a comprehensive list to spring from my mind to the keyboard and emerge from these hallowed intertubes crafted, complete and suitably comical for your brief amusement, I figure I'll just post stuff as it occurs to me.

Pause, sip, savor... mmm.  Here's what occurs to me first:

I will miss being able to buy wine in grocery stores.  They even sell it at Rite Aid here, fer cryin' out loud.  Not just the cheap stuff, either, although particularly for wine, even very good ones are much less expensive than at home... by half, in some cases.  And cases are what I should be buying, because I'll be back in the land of overpriced "package stores" (= liquor stores.  It's a New England thing) before Paul Giamatti can holler "we are NOT drinking Merlot!"  (What did he mean by that?  I love Merlot.)

A while back there was a ballot question in Massachusetts about allowing supermarkets to sell beer and wine.  I honestly can't remember how I voted on it; I do like the idea for its convenience, but I think in the end I was concerned that losing grocery store shelf space to beer and wine would make for fewer choices in the food aisles, which are largely full of mainstream junk as it is.  The bigger worry for most people (well, maybe for less selfish people) was what effect (not "impact," goddammit) it would have on the folks who own package stores, who wouldn't be able to compete with prices the big grocery store companies could set. 

I don't know how that plays out in places like this.  There are wine shops here practically adjacent to supermarkets that sell wine, and neither seems to be suffering for it, but I really don't know.  I think that at home, unless being able to sell beer and wine would result in the food stores immediately adding square footage, my concern about allocation of shelf space is valid.  Grocery stores here are freakin' huge (about which more later).  Wine shops are nice for getting advice and discovering new things, but to stock up on familiar wines, I want to go where they're least expensive.  Here in my home-away-from-home, that means one-stop shopping.  Bread, milk, eggs, peanut butter, bananas, Pinot Noir, IPA.  Cool. 

The Massachusetts ballot question failed, so for better or worse, package stores will remain for the foreseeable future.  In my home town of some 23,000 people, I can think of at least ten stores that sell wine; probably there are more.  My favorite (I would link to it, but its home page appears to have been designed by used car salesmen) has a good sale on the first and third Thursday of the month.  Even so, I'm in for some sticker shock on my return.

Do you think it's a good idea for supermarkets to be able to sell beer and wine?  How does it work in your neck of the woods? 

house and home

We are renting a three-story Tudor which sits prettily on a small corner lot with a neat front yard and the back garden made private by dense vegetation between neighbors and a fence on the street side. Thick, tall rhododendrons block the front and side windows. There is an enormous white pine, an herb and flower garden, and a hot tub in the back. The driveway is very narrow. Since the dense hedge of sharp-leaved holly alongside it scratched my arms to ribbons on Day 1, I have decided street parking is the way to go.

It's a very different setting than at home, where we have a neighbor on one side, nothing but woods on the other side and behind, and a treed island in the circle between us and the neighbor across. Here, houses surround houses on streets laid out in a tight grid. Some blocks are charming, some shabby. Everywhere has sidewalks and bike lanes, low speed limits and lots of stop signs. (After a couple of weeks here the Bean asked me, "Mommy, are there really stop signs every 15 feet in this town?" I guess I had been grumbling about it.) The density is nice in some ways -- it certainly feels less wasteful than the acre+ subdivision zoning we're used to, and the neighborhoods have histories which if I lived here, I'd want to get to know -- but not so nice, in others. It's noisier, obviously. I really, really like quiet. I savor it, at home, and when I am home again I am going to savor it all the more.

It is strange, living in someone else's house, with all their stuff. We have settled in, but everything still feels not-quite-right, and we won't be here long enough to make it so.

The girls have been given the third floor as their play space; it's cool to play at the tippy top of the house, and by happy coincidence, that room has the fewest antiques. For a bedroom, they are sharing the one opposite ours on the second floor. They're doubled up in a queen bed. I wasn't sure about that at first, because they have very different getting-to-sleep and waking-up styles. At night, the Bean needs quiet, and the Peanut is almost incapable of quiet; you can guess who's the early bird and who's hard to roust. But they felt strongly about having each other close in this unfamiliar place, and with the other bedrooms on different floors from the master, this seemed the best option. It hasn't been entirely trouble-free, but working things out is good for them, and I think they'll treasure the memory of When We Shared A Room Even Though You Sometimes Drove Me Nuts.

We spend a lot of time in the back of the house, an addition to the original structure, which has a sunroom with the TV/DVD player, and a cozy library where we've set up our desks. Well, Mr. Sandyshoes has the proper desk. I am perching at a corner table. I tried out the desks in the other two studies (yes), but the wireless is strongest here and, well, I need those Daily Show clips to stream smoothly, damnit.

I am still not used to the noises this house makes, or the shadows cast by its big dark furniture and the foliage which seems in constant motion outside the windows. It is impossible to move around quietly through the main part of the house; every floorboard makes a deep squeak. In the darkness, I see movement where there is none, and hear sounds I can't identify from rooms with nobody in them. More than once, very late at night, there has been a kind of brushing sound from the main part of the house while I worked in the library. One night, with the girls long in bed, I walked by a hallway and a light was on that hadn't been on earlier. I turned it off. Next time I walked by, it was on again. The next night it happened again. This was, of course, while Mr. Sandyshoes was back in Massachusetts for a week. Were I easily unnerved, I'd have been pretty unnerved.

I miss my shamelessly huge home theater screen and sound system. Movie-watching is so awesome at home.

I miss the Atlantic; but I love the mountains and big national forests that are everywhere here, and the great Pacific right within reach.

I miss my pantry, clean, bright, and stocked to keep us going through the zombie wars if need be. Paradoxically, in order not to accumulate too much stuff here, I feel like I am shopping all the time.

I do not miss having a bathroom right off my kitchen. Having it down the hall is a really, really nice difference.

I have learned that I do not like dark cabinetry, half-ring dresser drawer pulls, or kitchen counters made of tile, but I do like a Tempur-pedic mattress, a gas fireplace, and a good radio in the kitchen. The kitchen radio seems an obvious thing, but I don't have one at home, and now it's on my wish list. Sadly, I have no hope for a Tempur-pedic of my own, as Mr. Sandyshoes hasn't taken to it. (I won't even comment on a gas fireplace. He wants a wood stove, and I hate them, and round and round we go, but we'll end up with a wood stove.)

He has taken to the hot tub, though, and what's not to love about that? Well, besides the electric bill. I'm not sure I could stomach that part of owning one myself, but as the nights get chillier, soaking in the heat under the stars makes not-quite-right feel just fine, for a while.

Leaving tomorrow

Packing's done... I think. I hope. There's room in the car if I've forgotten something, but it's a matter of time, now. I'm ready to get going, and don't want to spend the morning loading "one more thing" a dozen times.

Turns out everything I need to wear for four months takes up about three cubic feet. Remarkable. I don't know whether to be proud or embarrassed. I'm a simple dresser and I didn't pack anything fancy. Talking about this trip over dinner with some friends earlier this summer, they asked if I'd started figuring out what to pack yet, and if I was anxious about it. Nah, I said. What do I have to pack? Clothes for fall, right? And how complicated can that be, when all I wear is jeans, turtlenecks and fleece vests?

The girls are a little upset. I haven't taken this long of a trip without them before. I do get away for the occasional long weekend -- Mr. Sandyshoes is very good about accommodating visits to friends on my own -- but not for ten days. This time, when the girls see me again it will be on the other side of the country, after a long flight to a completely unfamiliar place, at the home of people they've never met. It's all feeling pretty momentous to them. Plus, their backyard is wrecked and the driveway's all torn up, and the deck is pulled apart. It must seem like a lot of upheaval. It seems that way to me, and I'm not 6 or 8 years old.

I've told them they can call me as often as they'd like, and say "where are you now?" and Daddy will show them on a map. The Peanut thinks it will be hilarious to call me before I've even turned the corner and ask me where I am. She is planning this and giggling. The Bean isn't finding any of it funny yet, but that will come in due time.

I drove around a bit today, saying a mental farewell to my favorite parts of town -- library, beach, pretty town center. When I return, it will be wintertime, and I'll have missed a Town Meeting (I know, the horror! but I almost never miss one, and this will be a biggie) and two elections (got my absentee ballots though), and many school committee meetings. It is probably for the best that I miss those latter, as I'm starting to feel more frustrated than is useful with all the goings-on of late. I love this town, but I fear the school district is being taken over by Bears of Very Little Brain, and this in a critical budget year. It'll be refreshing to spend time in a place where I know none of the ins and outs of how it's being run, and I won't be there long enough for it to matter anyway. I can stay in the loop online, of course, but it might not hurt to disconnect a bit, either. We'll see if I can manage it.

Right now though, the important thing to manage is not to stay up all night wondering what I've forgotten to pack.

in which my Peanut is Six and we have a busy but lovely spring break

Phew.  We've been busier than one-armed paperhangers around here.

Last week was school vacation.  The Peanut's birthday fell on a weekday, and we had her party on the weekend.  I made a small cake for her birthday, and a giant cake for her party.  She requested a "sunshine party, with a yellow cake with yellow icing and an orange sun and a big orange 6!"  Okey dokey -- as long as she keeps the frosting colors down to two, I can manage.  Shopping for presents was also fairly easy, as she'd written up a wish list which included things like a "real purse," and a Zhu Zhu pet (= a battery operated hamster-looking thing that scoots around and makes noises.  Definitely a playroom-only toy, and knowing how to make it "sleep" is key). I also got her a cute little watch.  The Bean got one on her 6th; it just seems like the right year for it.  So, we got presents, party supplies, favors -- all manner of errands got run.

On her birthday itself we went to the public library to get her very own library card.  All our library staff are great, and the children's librarian is exceptional.  "No, no, Peanut, you have to be six," he told her.  "I AM SIX!" she said.  "Oh, well, then, you have to come in with your Mom or Dad."  "MY MOMMY'S RIGHT HERE!"  "Oh, but you have to know how to spell your name... " etc., until eventually she'd proven herself worthy and was presented with her very own wallet-sized card which she had to sign, and a little globe keychain to attach the smaller card to.  She was fit to burst with pride from the whole transaction.  Have I mentioned how much I love our library?

What else?  We had picnics at playgrounds and beaches, and Mr. Sandy took a day off to join us on a trip out to Race Point to look for whales from the beach.  We had a wonderful time but didn't see any whales.  I still think they were probably all breaching and dancing on their tailfins just around the corner from us. 

So it went... and now we are back to our regularly scheduled routine, which is always a pleasure in itself.  Next stop, summer vacation!

Give me liberty, or... actually, just give me liberty. Please.

So, last week was school vacation.  For the last few days of the break, we had seven (7) overnight guests at the Sandyshoes house.  I don't have a huge house, so it was sort of an ambitious undertaking, but it went quite well.  The guests are lovely people and we were happy to have them stay with us.

As happens after hosting houseguests, I have extra sheets and towels to wash, in addition to the regular household laundry, which I do all on Mondays because I hate having it drawn out for the whole week. 

Sunday night, for the first time in -- 3 years?  4 years?  ever? -- the Peanut wet her bed.  So, more sheets need washing, plus PJs, a duvet cover, mattress pad, and a down comforter.   Not good fun, but not a big deal, until:  Monday morning, my washing machine was diagnosed with terminal cancer of the bearings.  

Monday afternoon, Mr. Sandy wished me luck and left for the west coast, to hobnob with his fellow oceanographers at an annual conference.

With nothing to lose, I kept running the washer until it truly blew its innards.  Laundry sorting became triage, as every load could have been its last.  I got a fair bit done until it well and truly quit, which it of course did mid-cycle, and refuses to pump out.  So I have a load of wet soapy sheets in there.  Not bad though, and we did get 10 years out of it, which I'm told is unusual these days, although why that should be I don't know.  Are new machines crap, or do people just abuse them?  Whatever.  We need a new one.  

As of Monday evening we appeared to be in good shape.  Most of the laundry was done, the rest could wait until we get a new machine after Mr. Sandy gets back. With a husband like him, I don't go hiring people to install things.  So, not a big deal, until:  This morning at 4:30 the Peanut wet her bed again.  Now I have mattress pad, sheets, PJs, duvet, comforter to wash again -- and no washer.  

I gave her a bath and put her to sleep in the Bean's bed, and the Bean in with me.  Going back to sleep I didn't feel right.  Stomach thing coming on?  I tried to chalk it up to being woken from a deep sleep, but you know how you can just tell... ugh.

Kids off to school on time this morning but I am feeling wretched, though trying to deny it.  A bowl of Cheerios later I know for sure I have a stomach thing.  Cancelled yoga, cancelled piano (oh I know, boo hoo).  Back to bed with an alarm set to meet the Peanut's bus midday.  For some reason I still thought that an hour's nap would make it all better; it didn't.  Feeling really weak, I drove up the street to pick her up, with a plastic bag on the passenger seat Just In Case.  Back home, immediately to the couch.  I heard the Peanut pulling a stool around the kitchen gathering ingredients for making her own PB&J for lunch ("Mommy I can spread but not cut... is it OK if it isn't in little squares?").  Then she put blankets over me, and popped The Lion King in the VCR.  We set an alarm to wake me to meet the Bean's bus.  I fell asleep sobbing for loving her so much and feeling so bad. 

I had some crazy-ass dreams of  floods and car accidents in the front yard, and someone riding a wheelchair into my living room and hollering that my game of Monopoly is actually hers, and who knows what else. 

Then we drove up the street again to get the Bean, because I still didn't think I could walk the 500 feet, or whatever it is.  Peanut said I seemed a little better to her, which is frankly not saying much, but it's better than nothing.  Somehow I manage to help the Bean "build a weather instrument" for her homework.  My stomach feels rotten and my head hurts.  Need to drink some water.

Later I hear a cry of dismay from the Peanut's room - for the first time since learning to use the toilet, she's wet her pants (and, naturally, the carpet).  So add more pee-soaked clothing to the growing pile.  But of greater concern, I now think there's something really amiss with her.  The on-call nurse says to give her a bath with a cup of white vinegar in it -- although she doesn't know why this would help -- and bring her in to the office in the morning. 

So that's our plan.  White vinegar in the bathwater, check.  Dirty laundry accumulating in a pile until I can think straight about how to deal with it, check.  Get the Peanut to the doctor to see what's up with her bladder.  Drink some water and get myself to bed again, and hope to feel better in the morning.  Somewhere in there I fed the girls dinner.  One advantage to having had a ton of houseguests is that I now have plenty of delicious leftovers. 

In I-wish-it-weren't-related news, there is a laundromat opening in our town soon.  I drove by it today, hoping it was ready for business.  Signs are up... LIBERTY LAUNDRY, with an American flag/Statue of Liberty theme (give us your soiled?)... and the washers appear to be in, but the sign on the door still says COMING SOON.  Not soon enough for me, maybe, but I'm glad to see this business in town.  When I first moved here in '99, I didn't have a washer/dryer in my apartment, and though I usually brought it to the soon-to-be-Mr.-Sandy's house, there was a laundromat in town I could use in a pinch.  It's since gone out of business, and I've been wondering what people do.  LIBERTY LAUNDRY (I think you have to say it in all caps like that) to the rescue. 

Anyhoo.  Here's hoping for a dry overnight for the Peanut, and a settled stomach and decent energy level by the morning for me.  That'll feel like liberty enough.

Voted.

Done!

My polling place is the Bean's school; Mr. S. works home on Tuesdays, so I'm usually there anyhow to have lunch with her (and the rest of the first grade, omg) and do some stuff for her teacher. Today I snagged us some cookies from the bake sale, bought an obligatory raffle ticket for something, and joined her in the cafeteria.

The kids are choosing sides, in their own way. Overheard:
"Obama's going to give us like TEN MORE HOURS of recess!"
"Who do you like? PLEASE don't say Obama!"
And my personal favorite, "I'd vote for Obama 'cause it rhymes with my favorite animal: llama."

After lunch I led her class back to their classroom, pausing to let elderly voters make their way through the line o'kiddos to get to the polls across the hall. It was a good day to have another grownup there as shepherd.

Returning to vote myself, I asked the poll workers how the day's gone. (It's the same old ladies every time; they always tell me (unasked) whether or not my husband has been in yet, as if he bears watching. Hm.) Steadily busy, they said. In this small town, that means no wait, but a constant flow of voters. They had a bit of a line in the pre-commute rush, and they'll have more in the after-work rush. But they much prefer that to knitting all day while hardly anybody comes, which also happens.

We use the old-fashioned, fill-in-the-arrow style ballots, which I really like. It's hard to do the wrong thing by mistake, but if you do, you can get a new ballot. No worries.

In addition to the national race, we in Massachusetts have someone trying to unseat Senator John Kerry (late of the Kerry-Edwards '04 ticket). Political views notwithstanding, I do think it's good for a long-time incumbent to have reason to at least pay attention around election time. The same thing's happening with our local state representative race, though the parties are reversed.

We also have ballot questions. One aims to eliminate the state income tax. Supporters of this wacky proposal say that doing so will not result in higher local (property) taxes, or an increased sales tax. They also don't think cops, schools, libraries, roads, etc. are essential government services. (In short, they are either patently stupid, or crazier than shithouse rats.) But they have an enthusiastic if short-sighted following, because the Massachusetts legislature was (by binding referendum just like this ballot question) supposed to have lowered our income tax years ago, and just never did it. People don't like to be ignored.

Question 2 seeks to decriminalize possession of an ounce or less of marijuana. It'd still be illegal, but wouldn't result in a criminal record. I'm inclined to favor this one.

Question 3 would abolish greyhound racing. This question has come up before, and if it doesn't pass, it'll probably come up again. I can't think of a reason why NOT to abolish greyhound racing, frankly. If half the things people say about how greyhounds are treated are true, then good riddance.

So there you have it.

How's voting gone in your neck of the woods? What's the buzz?

T - 53 days and counting: Happy Independence Day!

And wave them we did.

Our little town has a cute parade of floats made by different groups, [hopefully just some of] the town fire and rescue vehicles, boy scout troops, etc., etc. Kids can decorate their bikes or scooters and ride in the parade, so we got the Bean's and Peanut's rigs all decked out in red white and blue, and hit the road. There were streamers, bows, sparkly stars, tiaras, flags, you name it. I was very, very glad we had cloudy skies and temps in the low 70s. Doing this same parade in searing heat and sunshine feels more "forced march" than "happy stroll." But today's parade was delightful, and we barely broke a sweat. It felt a little odd when someone thrust bottles of Poland Spring in our hands, saying "ICE COLD WATER!" as if we were in the middle of some great athletic feat, in danger of collapsing from the strain at any moment. They must've had it leftover from the road race held earlier in the day, from which I'd naturally kept a very safe distance.

It also felt a little odd that I know by name so many of the people we passed. I was fairly anonymous here until my Bean hit the school system and I joined the local "Moms' club," and now it seems everyone I see is familiar to me from one activity or another. I have mixed feelings about this. On one hand, so many familiar faces around town means a lot of people to chat with, and I truly enjoy that. Friendly acquaintances are important to me. However it also means that I really, really have to keep my snark under control, which, let's face it, isn't always easy. Not that I habitually badmouth or berate people by any means -- I don't. But for instance: my insurance agent was being kind of ditsy about arranging the new car's coverage... not returning my calls when she said she would, asking the same questions over and over again, and generally bringing out my impatient, "how hard can it BE, lady?" side. My expectation of that kind of interaction is that I will say things once, and the professional on the other end of the line will use a pencil and paper or whatever technology suits them, and, you know, record the appropriate details. Or better yet, that because I am a long time customer, there might be an actual folder in their office with my name on it, to which they could refer for needed information. You think? Or am I setting the bar too high?

But I digress. Point is, this person I was admittedly getting kind of terse with on the telephone and went to meet in person turns out to be involved with one of the schools in town, and of course we know some of the same people, and of course these aren't people I necessarily want thinking that I am some sort of frayed and raving bitch. They're good people. I'm a good person too, impatience notwithstanding. So while this small town familiarity is warm and happy, it can also be dangerous for someone like me, who has yet to fully master the urge to spit barbed wire and nails when provoked. I don't expect this conflict to go away any time soon. If I were going to outgrow the nail spitting, I would have already. Sadly, hope for greater maturity in that regard dims with each passing year.

In any case, after the parade, ice cream and field games: sack races, egg toss, all that. The Bean wanted to do the egg toss with me until she figured out it meant throwing a real egg, at which point she wanted no part of it. Mr. Sandyshoes tossed an egg with a friend, and they did pretty well, but not well enough. At some point, you have to switch from underhand to overhand throws to make the distance, and then it's much harder to control. There was some real competition from kids in baseball uniforms. Next year though, look out.

Then, after a brief tour of the portable toilets from which the Bean recoiled in horror rather than make use of, it was time to head home. I was looking forward to some quiet anyhow, after all the shouting and sirens and egg toss bullhorn. On to a lovely, uneventful rest-of-the-day, and the popping sound of distant fireworks all through the evening.

Hoping your 4th was good fun as well!

Oh yeah, and hands up all who'll miss Jesse Helms. Anyone? Anyone?

Town Meeting

It's Town Meeting season across Cape Cod. Best form of local government ever! The whole town (potentially) gets together and votes on our budget, capital expenditures, zoning issues, etc.

Whaddya mean, "zzzzzzzzzzzzzz"? It's cool! Really!

I've been to just about every Town Meeting since we became homeowners in this lovely community, almost 10 years ago. They are held in the high school auditorium. The Selectmen (elected to run the town), Town Manager (a town employee who oversees all the municipal departments' operations and budgets), and Town Counsel (lawyers come in handy) sit on one side of the stage. The Finance Committee (appointed to work through the budget and oversee the town's long-range financial condition -- I won't say "health," as these are trying times -- ) sits on the other side with the Town Clerk (appointed to do various things you'd expect one with that title to do). The Town Moderator (person elected to conduct town meetings and appoint the Finance Committee members) runs the show from a podium between the tables.

We townsfolk sit in the auditorium. People seem to have their favorite section and return to it every time. There's a special place for the press and other non-voting parties. A podium is set up on the auditorium floor, from which anyone can speak on the issue at hand.

The meeting begins with a little prayer led by one of the clergy in town -- this year it was the local Coast Guard chaplain -- which always causes pockets of the audience to grumble about the separation of church and state. It doesn't bother me; the invocation is always short and generic, sort of a humble plea for wisdom. Were I an atheist, I think it would amuse rather than offend me. (It sort of amuses me anyway: Dear God, please let us approve a budget without causing bloodshed or heart attacks, Amen.)

We also say the Pledge of Allegiance, which doesn't outrage me either. However, I might note if any of our Selectmen are wearing flag pins, especially if running for reelection. Should I hold it against them as pandering? Should I esteem them as True Patriots and wonder why the rest of them don't love America? Decisions, decisions.

Then it's on to business, and we address the issues at hand. There are a few familiar characters who can be counted on to come to the podium every year. Town Meeting is the only time I ever lay eyes on some of these folks. This year one of my perennial favorites, a guy about my age, needed reading glasses to see his notes. He fumbled with them a bit. "Don't start my time yet," he said, referring to his allotted five minutes to speak, "this is my first time with these."

Some of the regulars rise to speak on every question, whether or not they have anything to say. Others repeat the "my taxes are the highest on the Cape!" mantra, whatever the issue, and whether or not it's relevant or even true. There is some overlap. We also have the one-issue folks -- once the school budget's passed, they'll leave in droves, happily abandoning the zoning questions to the senior citizens and town government geeks. I suppose I'm in that latter category, and will eventually be in both. I always stay till the bitter end, partly because I care about the zoning as well as the school budget, and partly because it's only once or twice a year my opinion matters this much, so I might as well make the most of it.

Often, amendments to the questions we vote on are proposed from the floor. Ideally, these proposals are made by well-informed people who've read the questions before the meeting and alerted the Moderator in advance what they plan to suggest. However, the more entertaining ones are sudden inspirations scribbled on scrap paper mid-meeting; the Moderator has to determine whether these are even valid proposals. She has her work cut out for her, with amendments galore, keeping discussions on track, keeping us clear what the vote is specifically about, and whether it requires a simple or 2/3 majority to pass. (For some reason people can't seem to keep track -- are we voting to vote on the question, or are we now really voting on the question? Are we voting on the amendment, or the question as amended?) As an added bonus, this year's meeting featured the visibly twitchy presence in the audience of the former longtime Town Moderator, who was defeated in last year's election. By the end of the night, he was actually shouting at her from the back of the room. It gets crazy, I tell you.

Part of the difficulty of Town Meeting is that the questions we're called to vote on have been discussed, wrangled over and otherwise hammered out in months and months of committee and board meetings, and it can be hard to get the nuances across to the general public in a few minutes. But this difficulty is, I think, one of Town Meeting's great advantages as well. It forces our leaders to be able to distill and explain each question to every one of us who cares to ask what it means, even if they (and I) would prefer that by Town Meeting time, people be more aware what's what.

Lately most of our Board of Selectmen has been bickering with most of our Finance Committee. The Selectmen wanted to pass a 3.5% budget increase over last year. The Finance Committee thought 4% would be healthier. The difference amounts to $153,000 or so. They went back and forth over it for weeks, with varying degrees of temper in play. At Town Meeting, after hours of discussion, amendments, discussion, more amendments, voting down the capital improvements budget(!) and then voting to vote on it again, and passing it; after many consultations with Town Counsel, and prolonged confusion about what's the question, again? -- well, as it turns out, the 4% budget passed.

Much of the fuss was about whether the additional money should come from the stabilization fund vs. tax funds. One speaker put it well: "it doesn't matter which pocket you take it from. We are talking about the same pair of pants." Yet, the pocket sort of did matter, because it had implications on what kind of vote was required to approve it.

What what what? You're bored!? OK, how 'bout a Town Meeting Drinking Game. Sneak in a flask, sit with your friends. Drink whenever:

• someone mumbles about church and state during the invocation
• speaker declares "I've lived in this town for ___ years!" Two slugs if the number's over, say, 40.
• someone yells "CALL THE QUESTION" from the back row.
• Moderator says "please confine your remarks to the question at hand, which is _______." Two slugs if she gets it wrong.
  
• Moderator says "hold your applause."
• someone submits an unintelligible amendment. Two slugs if it causes Moderator to consult with Town Counsel. Three, if it is an amendment to an amendment. Four, if we vote on the wrong one and have to do it over.
• Add your own rules! By these alone, I'd have been completely snookered about a half hour into the meeting.
  

So what's your local government like? Do you pay attention to it? I know not everyone will be riveted by a Town Pavement Quality Survey broadcast on local cable (for some reason I found this fascinating), but give it a shot. Democracy favors the participants -- might as well participate! It probably won't turn you into the kind of goober I have clearly become.

No guarantees, though.
.

1 Stupid Street, Smalltown, MA

There is a street in my town called "Triangle Circle." I make that pissed-off Marge Simpson noise whenever I see it.

Homogenization

There is a new-ish radio station on Cape Cod called "Frank FM." They have a good playlist, for commercial pop radio, and relatively few ads. I'd found myself listening pretty often, in the car. Until I realized: they have no DJs. It's just this prerecorded growl of a voice that makes generic transitions between tunes, touting the station in a few canned phrases that they rotate through, or randomly generate, or something. However they do it, it's kind of creepy, and now that I've noticed it I don't like the station anymore.

It reminds me of box restaurants. Chili's, Uno, Friday's, Tuesday's, Olive Garden, Outback Steakhouse, Applebee's... not that any one of them is particularly bad (though I'd rather have a day-old vending machine sandwich than set foot in a Hooters), but must every flat, numbered state highway business district in America look exactly the same? Cape Cod is truly lovely in so many ways. But if you were driving down Route 132 in Hyannis and suddenly went into a fugue or something, you'd have no immediately obvious way to tell if you were in Cape Cod, Massachusetts or, say, greater Kansas City. Which is sad for both places.

Another Dunkin' Donuts just opened in my little town. That makes FIVE.

How many is enough?

Sad Girl

You don't have to live in a small town for long before everyone looks familiar. Took me a while to get used to that (let's just say I'm much more careful about, say, gesturing at other drivers than when I lived in slightly more crowded places, such as Los Angeles). With the girls' activities our circle of acquaintances has become huge and I'm rarely out and about without running into a friendly face. I spend a lot of time in the car trying to figure out how I know the person I was just talking to, and what the heck her name is, again.

Anyway, one of the girls we see pretty often gives me pause. She's four. In the two and a half years since we met, I've never seen her smile. Not at preschool, the gym, the library, the children's museum. Now, anyone who's run into us has a decent chance of witnessing an exchange that ends in "I don't listen to whining. Please stop it. Now. WHAT DID I JUST SAY?!" We are not all giggles. But this little one... shoot. I've never seen her scolded, she just always looks so profoundly miserable it takes me aback. It would be less unsettling if I saw her crying all the time (then she'd be merely annoying. KIDDING! sort of). But she doesn't make a peep, or change her expression. It makes me wonder what's up. I don't get the same sad vibe from her older brother. Poor little one. Cheer up, kiddo! It's not that bad. I hope.