LAX

That's the abbreviation for lacrosse. Tonight Ya-Ya's team played next to a team of boys, same age, same skill level. Yet, while the girls were equipped with goggles and mouth guards, the boys were OUTFITTED with full pads, gloves, guards, helmets, they looked like little storm troopers for Christ's sake. So, I watched the practice and I noticed that while the girls were running and leap frogging and standing in line waiting their turn to throw the ball into the goal, the boys were full throttle scrimmaging. While the girl's coaches were fiddling with the nets on the walls, the boys coaches were in their asses telling them to go faster, better, harder. (well, that statement could sure be misconstrued out of context)

After the practice, we hung around for a few minutes. There was a professional lacrosse player there practicing with his coach. I whispered in the ears of Ya-Ya and her friend, "If you're really on the ball, you'll watch what he does and memorize it."
"Oh we can't do that," said Ya-Ya's friend. "We're not allowed to play like the boys."
"Why not?" I asked in abject amazement.
"Because those are the rules. We're not allowed to play rough."
Mind you, this is the town sponsored, nationally recognized lacrosse league.

The girls don't get the proper equipment because they play gentler. They play gentler because they are told to do so by the adults running the game. There are literally two sets of rules, girl rules and boy rules. And I'm not really ok with that.

There are two sets of standards in the Corps as well, or at least there used to be. The argument was that men's bodies are better equipped for physical exertion than women's, so during Physical Fitness Tests, women's run time standards were slower. Women were allowed to do a flexed arm hang rather than pullups and less situps in the given time. And even though those lower standards made life easier for me, they smacked of danger because we would all go to the same battlefield and dodge the same bullets.

This whole boy/girl lacrosse thing reminds me of that double standard, made for whatever lame ass reason, but leaving girls back in the dirt. Now, you won't find me preaching feminism on anyone's soapbox. I love, no, I CELEBRATE the differences between a man and a woman. But, I believed then and I believe now that if a woman wants to be a Marine, she should be held to the same standard as a male Marine. And if my daughter wants to play lacrosse, she should be allowed to play the game, the way it was written, balls to the wall just like any of the boys. And if she can't hang, she can't hang. But she should at least be allowed to try.

Have Dirt

Will stick fingers in it. And plants too. And when I'm done, I'll write. My muscles are achin', my bones are cracklin but the whole yard is raked and ready for seed in it's manly little bald spots.

Our backyard is large for suburbia, .99 of an acre. Far back against an old stone wall that purportedly dates to the earliest settlers (But then again, Bavaria by any other name...) is the site of this years project du jour, a wildly luxurious perennial garden surrounding the weeping cherry tree I planted last fall. My mother and I were admiring the depth of my rototilling, the looseness of the soil, fluffy as chocolate cake mix, when my mother looked up and proclaimed, "Look, a pileated woodpeckerr home right in your half dead oak tree!"
And lo and behold, deep inside that narrow rectangular hole, is a family of Woody's.

Each year I plant a garden that starts out a well thought out and financed venture and ends up a tithe to our family of deer and our blubbery friend the woodchuck. Today, as I knelt down to loosen the soil, I found the tailfeather of a red-tailed hawk. A token of appreciation since it's certainly my mouth watering lettuce that draws forth his dinner most evenings.

We also found a big nest in the crook of another oak tree. It could be a squirrel nest, or an owl nest or a crow nest or even a hawk nest. I'll just have to wait and see.

I Get it Already

Everyone knows you're not supposed to be a sore loser or a boastful winner. You're supposed to find a mannered balance between the two, even if you have a secret stash of voodoo dolls hidden under your bed. But yesterday I realized the finer points of battlefield etiquette. What one must ask oneself, when engaged in a brutal campaign, is this: will I be embarrassed (after I've won of course) when he pulls out his belt only to find the band marked in pink sharpie and bearing the following, "Festering pus blister in the bowel of a syphilactic mole"? One should only write such bizarre epitaphs when one is sure she has lost the battle. And you know what they say, it ain't over till it's over. I'll tell you, when all is said and done, it really appears ungracious. So does a parade of mutilated boxer-briefs. The momentary gratification is not worth the lifetime of off-hand reminders that you are the mental equivalent of an untrained dog.

Re-Run

Today I feel like a big, fat, ripe orange and everyone else is thirsty for juice. And armed with razor sharp straws. I'm running over the same crappy crap that I thought was behind me. But there's a lesson in here somewhere, and the universe obviously thinks it's an important one.

The good news, the GREAT news, is that Lost is all new tonight WOO-HOO

Tiara the Terrible

This weekend I was supposed to get some serious writing done. I'm tired of writing essays and I wanted to work on a story. But the universe, and one wily SuperNurse, thought not.

Saturday I took Ya-Ya to lacrosse. While she practiced cradling and snaking and all the other things which require too much exertion for me to think about, I alternated between staring at my notebook and catching my head before it fell over onto the folding table. Which never looks very graceful. Not that I'm celebrated for my grace, but narcoleptic twitching isn't the image I generally promote.

Saturday night Tiarra and Ghosthunter had us over for dinner. Tiarra had this Chardonnay that tasted just like white grape juice. I happen to love wine that doesn't taste like wine. So I had a couple glasses of that and a magnificent surf and turf dinner. Tiarra is not only a supernurse, but also a sorceress in the kitchen. After dinner, she pulled out some big funky martini glasses and made us some sour apple martinis. After I drank all the sour apple stuff, she switched me to mango. And when I drank all of that she gave me three cups of coffee with Baileys. And I'm not sure, but I think I vaguely remember her cackling. Finally, well past my bedtime, Ghosthunter came home and I remembered I was supposed to go on a ghosthunt that evening. But, Tiarra said we had fun, and I'm in no position to argue. I just wish I could remember.

So naturally Sunday was not a most auspicious day for writing. It wasn't good for much, actually. But Tiarra did come roust us for an invigorating bike ride in the vast frozen tundra of the local track. Luckily she knows how to cure frostnip.

Nine Years

Delta and I kicked off a series of five big anniversaries today. Tomorrow is the 9th anniversary of our 1st date. But not really. Our 1st date was actually the first Saturday of April, only I had to kick it back a month for leverage in another one of Delta's infamous decision making debacles. He was supposed to get out of the Corps and move to Charlotte. I wanted him to stay at LeJeune and wait for me to get out. One of my big arguments was that we had been dating over six months. I think back then that seemed like an eternity. I had a very black and white system of criteria : if I knew, without any doubt, that I could spend the rest of my life on a desert island with a man, he was the one I would marry. (Don't judge me - I was just a baby) Delta's criteria, as a recently divorced man, was to never marry again. My lame six-month argument, based on a lie, landed me the man I'd go to the island of "Lost" with. (Note to fate: please don't test me) I won, though one could argue it was a win-win situation. Eventually, long after he signed my marriage license, I told Delta Hotel the truth but since he can't remember any of our anniversaries or any of the kids birthdays anyway, it doesn't really matter.

I always get a little sentimental on these days. I bought him a new pair of underwear, green, for St. Paddy's Day and patterned with little hairy kiwi fruits. (Again, this sort of underwear humor amuses me greatly. ) He, not knowing it was a day of any importance at all, bought me nothing. But when I came into the kitchen this morning riding on a rogue, out of cycle hormone, complaining that nobody likes me, he opened up his arms and said "This person loves you." And there I was, on my island, with the one person I'd want to be there with. (Besides my kids. I'm NOT tempting you, Fate.)

Et Tu Brute?

Alas, after a week with my mouth full of foot, my firstborn full of parasite, my lips full of porkchop, the ides come and go. Is Lost all new tonight? I desperately hope so. My very happiness hinges on the newness of tonight's episode.

update: RATS!!! it's a re-run.

Oh That nasty little tick gave my Ya-Ya a bacterial infection. And then guess what? I found out that people who are allergic to pennicilan are allergic even when they touch the pill. Even when they take it out of the wrapper to give to their poor parasite infested child they will erupt in hives and their lips will turn into pork chops. And then I also found out that Childrens Benadryl makes some pennicilan allergic, Jar-Jar-Binks lipped people have hallucinations.

Oh poor CeeBeeW. When she came to pick up Jay after school today I looked like Kramer with breasts. Not a good look for a babysitter.

This morning I woke up with bluebirds singing on my windowsill, coffee brewing itself in my kitchen, the very sun himself smiling in my general direction and then Ya-Ya came in with a disgusting, hairy, bloodthirsty, disease-carrying, sharp-toothed tick burrowed down beneath the flesh of her chest. Delta tried to smother it with Vaseline (don't do it. It's a wives tale) but that hungry little sucker wouldn't let go. Ghosthunter told us to stick it with a red hot pin. Ya-Ya's history of panicked flailing vetoed that idea. Finally, we had to go for the good old fashioned counter-clockwise twist. By we I mean Delta. I was busy dry-heaving in the toilet. Anyway, that tick kept a chunk of Ya-Ya with him, and she's got a bit of a rash so tomorrow morning she gets to skip school and go see the doctor.

Today was a Good Day

First, I got to sleep till 9:30! In this crazy house that's like hitting the sleep megabucks. Phrases were uttered the likes of: "Be quiet, Mommy's still sleeping," and "I'm sorry, she can't come to the phone right now, she's sleeping." So I was only half sleeping. I did my best.

Then, we went for a three mile bike ride! I know what you're thinking. three miles pshaw. I've smoked longer cigarettes than that, Didi. But I ask you this: was your three mile cigarette on gear seven the whole time? Did your three mile cigarette have a thirty pound baby in a rickshaw bolted to the back of it? I thought not.

After that we went to Whimsy for a birthday party and had so much fun because Whimsy is not only the coolest place in the world for a birthday party, it's also full of cool parents who think like me and a cool artsy owner who knows my name and food.

THEN as if that weren't enough, we finally remembered to take the propane tank out of the back of my truck. What could be better? Fresh air, exercise, friends, food and erasing the risk of spontaneously combusting in traffic. All in all, a good day.

Mercury's Retrograde

Who didn't have spring fever today? We drove with the windows down and the skin on my arms squinted in the sun after such a long time under sleeves and everyone within half a mile experienced momentary blindness by the light reflecting off their ghastly whiteness.

I'm a German/Italian hybrid. My German genes keep me near transparent for my lack of melanin, my Italian genes protect me from sunburn. I used to be so unaffected by the sun that I could sit ON it and not turn pink. Then the year Delta Hotel was deployed I spent the day at the Cape with my soul-sister. I was heluva lot of pregnant with Oscar so getting in the water was inconceivable lest I upset the tides. I sat on the beach, looking very much like this, all day long. When it was time to haul myself up and go home, everything moved the way it was supposed to except for the skin on my upper back which felt as though someone had periodically doused me with spray starch throughout the day. The next day I had blisters - BLISTERS - on my poor back. The next day the blisters cracked open and bled and the next day they supernova'd into millions of brown constellations across my shoulders. You just never know when your Italian genes are gonna quit on you I guess. Now I'm way on the SPF kick. Nothing comes between me and my sunscreen. And if that's all you ever learn from me, I am satisfied. Wear sunscreen.

I went to Jodi Picoult's booksigning tonight. I would have had a lot more fun if all of Wellesley didn't come along with me. I sat behind a row of forty-somethings in denial about the last two decades passing and who had enough hairspray between them that had I decided to lick their heads and throw them at the ceiling, they'd still be there two and a half hours later. After listening to their incessant mindless Oscar-like commentary on every person unfortunate to walk through the doors after them, I actually felt myself slipping into my old high school alter ego and I only caught myself after sticking my gum on the head in front of me. Just kidding.

I waited 45 minutes in line after the reading to get Jodi's autograph. Last time I went to one of her readings, my little Oscar was whining so Jodi called us up front and talked to us and wrote a nice little note but today since all the damn stepford wives were there sucking the life force out of the air, it was pretty much assembly line style. There was a reception afterwards, but I didn't stay for that.

Doggie's foot is almost healed. Thank you all for your concern. Now I shall go clean the kitchen. No matter how I leave the kitchen, when I come home it looks as if Delta and the girls have invited the Iron Chef's over and then let them go home without cleaning up. Sometimes that annoys me, but I just remind myself that I am OBVIOUSLY the only licensed kitchen operator in the house.

This weekend my dog ripped half his foot off, my dad turned 66, Tiarra found that halfway between a dog and a cat is a guinea pig, Delta Hotel actually let me boss him around, ElEn's house was invaded by all the turds in the neighborhood and I wrote, for 2 1/2 hours, without anyone wanting me to do anything else. And that, my friends, is BETTER than a spa vacation.

Along with Cookies

Comes Garden Fever. It's different than Jungle Fever and Yellow fever (which I misdiagnosed just today in fact) and even Spring Fever. Garden Fever leads me to the delirious purchase of expensive, glossy books about things clearly beyond my thumbs given the rogue misbehavior of my gardens for the past six years. Garden Fever inspires me to cook eggs six times a day so I can save the cartons to fill with potting soil and marigold seeds that I will then forget to water and throw away sometime in July. Garden Fever brings on hallucinations of warm, rich, freshly rotated compost bins and lush abundant borders which I plan carefully on the BHG website. My back yard is like a minefield full of all the gardens I start when the ground is like a half-thawed steak and abandon when I remember that gardening, when it comes down to the nuts and bolts of it, is a lot of work that only ends up in the stomach of a deer or a groundhog. But I don't care about all that right now because I've got the fever. We are going to be up to our eyballs in beefsteak tomatoes. We are going to see cucumbers and pole beans even when we close our eyes. Cosmos and peonies and wild roses are going to pull up their roots, walk down the street and plant themselves in my yard. That's how wonderful my garden will be this year. OOH I just can't wait.

Not as Satisfying as I Thought

Today, while on a scavenger hunt for some Delta Hotel lotion, I pulled into a parking space next to a woman who looked very familiar. So I stared for a minute, until she noticed and iced me with her sinister eyes, the very same January blue, mean-as-hell eyes that tortured me for while in high school after I dated her ex-boyfriend. At first I shrank back into my seat but then I remembered running into my Arch Nemesis a couple of weeks ago at the gas station. I shrank back and hid then too, then kicked myself for it when I realized I had missed a prime oppurtunity to unburden his cranium of it's scalp via the fire extinguisher on the wall. (Just kidding. Remember, I have PMS.) Anyway, I leaned over and looked at her real good with calculated recognition in my eyes, and made sure she got a good look at me too. The closer I looked, the more I realized that this little hot-to-trot biatch had grown up to be the most pitiful, greasy, crusty-eyed acne-scarred '90's-hair-wearing sniffling crack-head lookalike that there just was no fun left in the encounter. I was forced to pretend my phone was ringing. I guess it was like remedial nemesis confrontation for dummies. I hate it when I work up a good catty-ness only to have it smashed down by feeling sorry for someone. Curse you, conscious!

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Girl Scout Cookie season.

The Girl Scout Cookie boxes always have these obscenely happy little girls and slightly deranged looking troop leaders doing the most wonderful and adventurous things like rappelling from towers and gymnastics and riding horses. For some reason, that sends me back to the bowels of my childhood. I was a latch key kid - remember those? This one time, I saved up my lunch money and used it to buy a box of Thin Mints. All the way home from the bus stop I thought about those cookies until I could hear the crinkling of the wrapper and smell their minty deliciousness. Most afternoons I alternated between after school specials, Donahue and running out of the house scared shitless that Church, the stupid cat from Pet Cemetery, was hiding in the afternoon shadows. That day, I poured a glass of milk, sat down at the dining room table, took the Thin Mints out of my bookbag and ate the entire box all the while studying the girls on the box and reading their little blurbs about how happy they were to be Girl Scouts . I remember feeling like my life was like a box of girl scout cookies (sorry, Forrest, I thought of it FIRST and I want royalties) Everyone else was out there having fun, swinging fire hoses around and whatnot and I was stuck inside, stuffing my face with the proceeds. Oh, how desperately I wanted to be a Girl Scout. Then I got sick and ate an entire bottle of multi-flavored TUMS, but that's another story.

My most favorite cousin, PTCakes (Holla) brought me over three boxes of Girl Scout Cookies today. Caramel D-Lites (formerly known as Samoas), Peanut Butter and, of course, Thin Mints. I was looking at the box and chuckling to myself, remembering that crappy feeling of being on the outside looking in that pretty much sums up my childhood. That wasn't the funny part. The funny part was, my Ya-Ya was a girl scout. One of my best friends, OHM, was her troop leader. There are lots of pictures of everyone doing fun things and smiling and laughing, and I'm even in some of them so I remember that just before the posed picture, real life was going on with all it's catfights and boredom and aggravation. (Don't get me wrong - Girl Scouts with OHM was great fun. When she was forced to give up her position by the nagging need for a job that provided benefits, Girl Scouts just wasn't the same. We quit.) I realized that there is no outside looking in, it's all a matter of perspective. And given the choice, I'd rather be where the Thin Mints are. Yum.