Cords and Fleece

I didn’t mind the wind. I thought I would. It’s very windy in Maui, especially on the Eastern side. Usually, the wind pushes me in directions I don’t want to go. It wants me to go that way when I want to go this way . I consider it a bully and most of the time a cold bully. But in Hawaii, I didn’t mind the wind. There, it was more like a playful child, warm and full of love that brought flowers to our feet and mischievously took them away again. So I didn’t mind. But Samantha didn’t like the wind at first. Because nobody -- not even the wind -- puts Baby Doll in a corner. No other object has soaked up more of Samantha’s essence than Baby Doll. She’s been dropped in the dirt, splattered with food, slobbered on, and torn. She’s been stuffed, re-stuffed, sewn and scrubbed. She sleeps with Samantha each night, plays with Samantha each day, and travels with us to and from school and work. There has been one and only one Baby Doll since Samantha was an infant -- she scornfully rejects any

I didn’t know I could laugh underwater. We (Michael, the girls, and myself) returned from Maui last week, and it’s going to be hard not to sound overly poetic when I write of it. I keep thinking of discoveries like the one above, and how I often found myself running for no good reason except that it felt good. (I don’t like to run normally, so this is pretty miraculous.) But Maui is poetry, at least to a first-time visitor like me, and I’m sure I will use trite, clichéd words and phrases to describe it. In a way, visiting Maui is like falling in love for the first time -- every person feels it uniquely and I’m certain Maui never existed until I arrived. So I’m compelled to write love poems to it. I miss it already and each day I scheme to return. Yes, I’m in love. Maui is magical, too. So magical in fact, that now that I’ve left it, I almost completely forgot that there were rough times, too. Times when I thought I hate this grumpy, whiny family! Times when I thought, It’s too late

  “Can you drive this morning? I have a headache.” Michael sniffs and rubs his sinuses. Usually, he drives in the morning and I drive in the afternoon. But today his sinuses are bothering him and his head hurts too much to concentrate. “Sure, I’ll drive. Want some Excedrin?” And so our weekday morning begins. Samantha is wearing her new birthday dress -- crushed black velvet with red trim. She looks like an angel. Despite his throbbing head, Michael grabs the camera and conducts a photo session with Samantha in the front yard. Lizzy joins them. We’re going to be late, but hopefully we’ll remember the pictures and not the tension that follows as we all scramble to get into the car. 15 minutes later we drive along the 52 on the way to school and work. The girls are eating Froot Loops and bagels and Michael leans back in his seat, closing his eyes. Lizzy suddenly bursts out singing. Michael jolts awake. “Can you sing lower?” he asks, holding his head. As usual, Lizzy interprets him litera

  I have a nemesis -- an archenemy, an antagonist in the story of my recent life. It is our car stereo. I hate it and I’m pretty sure it hates me, too. We bought a new radio from Best Buy a couple of months ago when our old one stopped working. Every radio at the store looked the same -- the same size, the same type of buttons, the same blue or orange digital displays. None of them looked like our old one. Which is fine. I can adapt. Except... What the stereo did not include (but should have) was a degree in How To Work This Stereo from Pull Out Your Freakin’ Hair University. Let me put it this way: I shouldn’t have to consult the manual to turn the stereo off . You’d think “off” would be one of those primary, easily accessible functions of a car stereo, right up there with turning it up or down (which, by the way, doesn’t work as you’d expect, either). But there is no Off button, and the volume knob is temperamental at best. To demonstrate, here’s an example of me trying to turn off t

  Brothers and sisters, I’m still holding my breath about Matilda . I just read that after a crab molts, I should NOT throw the exoskeleton away because the crab is supposed to eat it in order to obtain valuable calcium. (Fuckity fuck fuck!) Now I need to put calcium into her water dish to make her strong and healthy. What do you think -- Os-Cal or Viactiv soft chews? I also read that I should separate her from the other hermit crabs (i.e. George) since this is when cannibalism most often occurs. (Did I say fuckity fuck fuck?) Which could explain why last night I saw Matilda’s shell with the opening facing upward and George sitting nearby holding a lobster fork. Fortunately, I found her in time and turned her over. I also pushed some sand around her like a warm blanket to keep her nice and cozy. We’ll see. Tonight I plan to hold a candlelight vigil on her behalf. As always, your thoughts and prayers are welcome, as well as a casserole dish of your choosing. (Please, no seafood or imita

  I’m inside making spaghetti sauce for dinner: sautéed garlic and olive oil with balsamic vinegar, ground beef and tomato sauce. Michael is playing outside in the driveway with the girls. I glance through the kitchen window to see him affixing Elizabeth’s 3-wheeled roller skates to her skinny frame. And then the helmet. And then the kneepads. She looks like an American Gladiator in pink shorts. Using a mop handle, Michael guides Elizabeth along while she holds onto it for balance. She shuffles forward, grinning widely, while Samantha stands aside and watches, clenching her fists in front of her chest in anticipation of Elizabeth failing or succeeding. I secretly spy ( with my little eye... ) my family. I love Michael for teaching Elizabeth how to skate. I love Elizabeth for trying to skate again after a not-so-successful attempt a few months earlier. And I love Samantha for caring. Lizzy falls to her knees and Sammy grimaces. However, instead of becoming angry or sad, Elizabeth is ex