Basketball Jones

          

Zebu had a game last night,
the first in the end-of-season tournament.

I did not go.
I am so glad I did not go.

Zebu’s team won but the opposing team and opposing team’s "grown-ups"
apparently behaved atrociously.

Blatant fouls.
Poor sportsmanship.
Shouts and jeers.
Taunting.
Pounding hands and stomping feet during free throws.
Overall ass-hattery.

As Zebu, Wildebeest, and Zippy described the game,
I kept saying, "No way.  They did not do that."
Especially in regards to the parents’ behavior.

I’m not sure why I’m sharing these details.
Maybe I’m hoping one of you has a magic remedy for dealing with this stuff
since Zebu plans to play basketball in high school,
and I’ll undoubtedly be faced with more of the same.

Have you encountered this during your kids’ sporting events?
If so, how do you cope?
            

One inch

Apparently Zebu and Wildebeest’s limit
for filth is one inch.

As in that’s how deep the dust was in their rooms
before they cleaned today.

And it seems that’s about as disgusting as they want to go.

Is it totally pathetic I’m celebrating the fact
my teen-aged sons have a Filth Limit?

Of Balls and Pens

   

Zebu found out he didn’t make the "gold" team in basketball
and is quite disappointed.
I ache for him because I know what that feels like to work hard
but still not reach a goal.

Yesterday we went out and shot 100 free throws each,
alternating sets of ten.
He made 74 out of one hundred.
I made 56.

I said, "Hey, at least I’m better than Shaq."
Zebu said, "I think he shoots 57%."
(I just looked it up and his career average is only 53%.  Take that!)

This morning I went out to shoot another 100,
positive I’d do better than yesterday.
Because, you know, practice always makes you better.

I made 44 out of 100.
I felt pretty cruddy as I missed shot after shot. 
In fact, I wanted to quit early on when in one set I only made 3 of 10.
But I kept pushing through to the end.
And eventually attempted the hundredth shot.

Did I then proclaim "Free at last!"
and head inside for the couch?

No.

Something inside me wouldn’t quit, and I kept on shooting.
And this time I made 56 out of 100.
Same as yesterday.

So does this mean that this morning’s first 100 free throws were a waste of time?
Does it mean I didn’t improve at all?
I don’t know.
On paper, I didn’t do any better than yesterday.

In basketball as in writing, there are no guarantees.
The only thing I know for sure is that if I don’t keep writing,
I will not improve my craft.
And the same is probably true for my free throw percentage.

Either way, just like with those free throws and me,
something inside won’t let me quit writing.
So I might as well get better while I’m at it.
            

Buster Comes A-Callin’

   

This afternoon we noticed a stray dog out in the street.
He was skittish but I lured him into our backyard with a bowl of water.

We couldn’t get close enough to read the phone number on his tags.
Not even with the binoculars.
Or the telephoto camera lens.

We took turns trying to read those numbers.
My old(er) eyes couldn’t do it.
Zebu’s young(er) eyes couldn’t do it, either.

Zippy’s efforts were thwarted by all the fur.
So he got down on the ground with binoculars and biscuits.
And coaxed the big boy closer.

It took quite some time.
But Zippy prevailed.

Turns out his name is Buster.
And he was brought to the shelter as a fence-jumper.
The good news is a new family adopted him.
Bad news is Buster’s been caught three times by Animal Control.

Today, though, he avoided an arrest.
And made some new friends.
 
                

Close-Up on my July 4th

     

Zippy, Zebu, and I spent about three hours
at a family picnic in a cow pasture.

You read that correctly.

Zippy’s mother’s family has land out in the country
and they’ve built a permanent picnic shelter out there.
In the midst of the cacti and cow patties.

I had a great time with my camera.

Globemallow (?) and Cow Poop

Bone At Rest

Ants At Work

Alien Insect Touring the Salad

Zebu Warding Off the Paparazzi

Wildflower Bouquet

Hope everyone had a wonderful weekend.
And that the fireworks have quit in your neighborhood.
Ahem.
                       

Zebu’s Bear

  

Last night Wildebeest’s friends trickled in
and headed down to the basement.
Zippy and I were reading in bed when
just minutes after the latest friend had arrived,
the doorbell rang.

Wildebeest went to the door.
"There’s no one there," he yelled to us.
"Someone’s playing Doorbell Ditch."

We all, including Wildebeest, assumed
it was one of Wildebeest’s less-than-mature friends.

Late this morning Wildebeest went out the front door.
And found this:

It’s a Build a Bear.
For Zebu’s birthday.
He turned 13 a couple weeks ago.

The same girl who left this bear for Zebu
last year gave him a hollowed-out basketball
filled with candy and other goodies.

She’s been Zebu’s friend since elementary school.
It makes me happy they have each other.

                 

The Pitfalls of Randomness

       

When Zebu and I go to the library
he pulls books off the shelves.
At random.

He doesn’t really look at what he’s grabbed.
And he stops grabbing once he has a stack.

He recently read a book about a chess tournament
which he said was really boring.
Hard to believe, I know.

Last night he finished a book about a spelling bee.
He said it was totally stupid.
Again, what a shock.

I asked why he didn’t just check out a novel about knitting while he was at it.

Rather than throw a pillow at me
he said my idea would only work if it was a story about competitive knitting.
Involving a race to knit a pair of mittens, hat, and scarf.

So if any of my writer friends want to run with that plot idea, feel free.
Zebu would probably read it.

                

Blame It On Cake

     

Elvis Costello might want to Blame It On Cain
but I know the real culprit is cake.
Specifically, Zebu-created chocolate cake.
Made in the evening.
Filled with sugar and caffeine,
ingredients not conducive to sleep.

Here it is in all it’s glory:

Don’t get too loud with your oohs and ahhs
because you might wake Zebu and Zippy.
And Lebowski and Coco and Zoey.

That’s right; it’s just me and the internets.
Blame it on cake.

          

Friday Five: Satisfaction Edition

     

1)  My new whiteboard is working out very well, despite the injury it sustained on the way home from the store.
For those interested, here are great directions for making and installing a whiteboard.

2)  With the help of the aforementioned whiteboard, I’m figuring out all sorts of stuff about my YA project
and am preparing to dive into the second draft.  And it doesn’t feel as if this dive will be a belly flop, either.

3)  My garden is lush and jungle-like because of all the rain.

4)  Zebu and Wildebeest have transitioned nicely into summer vacation and, dare I say it?, are getting along.

5)  Today is Zippy’s last day of cardio rehab following the stents he received, and I’m so impressed by his hard work
and dedication to good health. 

             
Wishing all of you a most satisfactory weekend!

      

Dodging the Truth

I needed to extricate Zebu from weekly lessons and
thought I was doing instructor and me a favor by dancing around the truth
and instead of saying he’s killed Zebu’s enthusiasm for drums,
saying we needed to take a break for summer because
of various basketball camps and a possible family vacation
which would make it impossible to keep Zebu’s lesson time,
a time slot we originally selected from a whopping two choices,
which clearly proved the man had a full schedule and wouldn’t miss us
and would understand our leaving the fold.

And make my excuse brief and painless.

Except for then he offered to be flexible and drive over to the studio
to suit our schedule since he lives nearby.

Okay, I’ve already learned that lesson about Truth = Best.
Even when that truth is painful.

So why’d I forget today?
            

Take Your Zebu to Work Day

This morning Zippy and Zebu headed downtown to Zippy’s office.
It’s Take Your Child to Work Day.

Zippy is an engineer.
Zippy is currently employed by a company that filed for bankruptcy.
Zippy doesn’t have a whole lot of work going on right now.
Zippy is terribly worried Zebu will think engineering work is boring.
I’m terribly worried Zebu will think engineering work isn’t boring.
(Just kidding!  Well, kinda . . .)

Still, Zebu chose to accompany his father rather than his mother to work.

Could it be because Zebu already knows
my work involves multiple trips to the kitchen to see if something tasty showed up since I last checked?
Did Zebu avoid my workplace because he knows  
I’m likely to spend considerable time pacing the room, talking to myself?
Or could it be Zebu is avoiding me and my work because
yesterday as I sat writing in front of the window a turkey vulture circled my house?
( assures me the vulture was only there to carry off dead words, but it’s still worrisome.)

Either way, I was left alone to contemplate my career choice.
I’ve gotta say, no matter how tough this road to publication,
I’ve never, ever contemplated being an engineer.

And that’s okay.

             

Friday Five: The Z Edition

  • Good news:  Zebu’s nose is not broken (despite getting elbowed while playing basketball). 
  • More good news:  Zippy goes in this afternoon for his second stress test to adjust his target heart rate and blood pressure.
  • It’s official: My zombie-like cold symptoms are in the past (ht to C.K. who suffered her own never-ending zombie illness this winter).
  • Were you aware that Z-therapy is a form of psychotherapy in which the patient is forced by a group of people into a cathartic release of pent-up emotions?  But when the group of people is made up of three household males who insist on stacking dirty dishes on the counter above the dishwasher, does the ensuing shrieking cathartic release truly qualify as psychotherapy? 
  • This is the result of Zippy hearing a whoo-whoo outside the window in the early morning but realizing  too late the zoom lens wasn’t mounted on the camera: 

Wishing everyone a wonderful weekend.

         
                   

School Daze

I just got off the phone with Zebu’s middle school principal.
The rumors are true.
Next year school will start at 7:10 A.M.
You read that correctly.
7:10 of the freaking A.M.

Our county, the largest in Colorado, did not pass the mill levy last November.
Budget cuts are necessary.
Transportation is getting the axe.
The district is cutting 16 drivers and buses.
The buses used to serve one or two different schools.
They will now each serve three or four.

For most of the next school year Zebu will walk out of our house into the dark.
And wait for the bus.
In the dark.

His school day will end at 2:05 P.M.
The sun will be high in the sky by then.
Sigh.

What time does school start in your area?
             

The Big Splash by Jack D. Ferraiolo – discuss!

The treacherous, hormone-soaked hallways of Franklin Middle School are the setting for this sharp, funny noir novel about tough guys and even tougher girls. “The Frank” is in the clutches of a crime syndicate run by seventh-grader Vinny “Mr. Biggs” Biggio, who deals in forged hall passes and black-market candy. Double-cross him and your number is punched by one of his deadly water-gun-toting assassins. One hit in the pants and you are in “the Outs” forever. Matt Stevens is a proud loner with his own code of justice. He’s avoided being pulled into Vinny’s organization until now: Mr. Biggs has offered him a job he can’t resist, one that leads to the surprising downfall of Vinny’s top assassin, the beautiful and deadly Nikki “Fingers” Finnegan, at the hands of an unknown assailant. Matt thinks he was used, and he becomes determined to find the trigger-guy or -girl, even if it means bringing down one of his oldest friends.

 

I just read this book.
I liked it very much. 
It made me laugh and remember how much I love reading Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler.
But.
This book wasn’t written for me, it was written for children (shelved as YA in my library).
Zebu, who is twelve, read it.
When I told him I’d finished it and thought it was great,
he replied, "Really?"
Wildebeest also read it.
He wasn’t all that thrilled with the book, either.

So I’m wondering if this is one of those children’s books that mostly appeals to adults.
Adults who love hard-boiled noir detective stories.
My kids haven’t read any of those stories so the sly references in The Big Splash went over their heads.

Have any of your children read this?  Have you read it?  What were your reactions?

EDITED:  I checked with Wildebeest and my memory was incorrect.  He liked the book just fine but didn’t get any of the hard-boiled detective references.  So maybe I’m off-base with my ponderings; either kids like the book or they don’t (same as any other book).             

Bring the Cheese, I’ve Got the Whine

Zippy called yesterday afternoon to say he was sick and headed home.

Told my parents who were visiting they must leave so they don’t catch the plague from Zippy.
They need all their strength for their drive across the country to their winter home in Florida.

Zebu arrives home and hugs grandparents goodbye.
Then Zebu reveals he felt sick at school.

Parents rush out front door as Zippy enters from garage.
Parents swallow much Vitamin C before driving away.

Wildebeest arrives home with sniffles but says "I’m impervious to colds."

This morning – a workday, a school day – the house is quiet.
Zippy tucked into his bed.  Zebu reading in his bed.  Wildebeest snoring in his.

Mother calls me from my brother’s where she spent last night.
So far, so good.  Maybe they got out in time.

Me?  I’m still blowing my nose from the cold that started two weeks ago and hoping I don’t get sick again.
I’ve got a conference this weekend.
And JoNo writing goals.

Please pass the tissue.

         

            

On basketball and writing

Zebu and I have a lot in common these days.  After years of playing on the same rec league team, he’s now playing on two competitive basketball teams (I know, Basketball R Us).  And for the first time, he’s not a starter; he’s the last or second-to-last kid rotated into games.  Two nights ago I watched him matched up beneath the net with a kid about six inches taller and twenty pounds heavier, and had tears in my eyes.   Zebu was working hard for position, knowing if he messed up, the coach might pull him out and make him watch the action from the bench.

And as I sat there fighting the tears, I realized I was weepy for both of us; Zebu’s been working hard to prove himself to his coaches and I’m trying to produce a book an editor will fall in love with and buy.  

There have been some low moments over the past few months.  We have both cried.

Last night Zebu played in a championship game.  He played well.  He showed his coaches what he was capable of and played an important role in the team’s victory.  Zebu went to bed with a smile on his face.

So today I’m going to keep revising my novel, pushing back against the outside forces trying to knock me out of position and throw me off my game.  And if need be, I won’t hesitate to throw an elbow.

                

How many Whiteheads can there be?

Zebu is home with the flu and is listening to the audio version of HARRIET THE SPY.  I loved this book as a child and read it over and over.  However, Zebu just asked a question I don’t think I ever pondered:

What relation, if any, is there between Harriet’s classmate, Pinky Whitehead, and their teacher, Miss Whitehead?

Do you know?

             

         

A little of this, a bit of that

Saturday night Zippy and I went to Red Rocks for the concert. 
Mavis Staples – WOW!
John Butler Trio – very good.
Michael Franti and Spearhead – TRANSCENDENT.  One of the most moving experiences of my life.  MF is angered by the daily dose of bullshit and criminal behavior we’ve been subjected to for the past six and a half years BUT he’s also filled with hope for the planet.  He’s a minstrel bringing messages of awareness and hope to the masses, and the people respond.  I absolutely recommend seeing Spearhead’s live show, especially if you’re feeling so worn down you just can’t go on.  Did I mention you’ll dance?!

Wildebeest and Zebu are back from camp.  I picked them up Tuesday morning.  Monday afternoon I received my one and only letter from camp.  It was from Zebu.  Dated Friday, June 29, the letter began:  “Dear Mom, For me, the past two days sucked.”  He went on to document how the powdered Gatorade container he volunteered to carry on their hike up a mountain opened in his pack, covered all his stuff, and coated his arms which made him “a feast for the mosquitoes.”  He listed other travails which I read through my tears.   I got there early on Tuesday morning, expecting a sad little camper eager to leave the mountains.  HA.  We were the last family to leave.  My two guys kept laughing and talking with the counselors, doing card tricks and taking photos.  It’s nice having them home again.

I haven’t written a whole lot in the past few days but I did manage to get over that bad spot and find my way back into the story.  I’ve gone back to keeping the book secret as I write this second draft, and it feels better.  William Faulkner is doing a good job guarding the circle.

I have a new addiction.  I learned about Betty Hoop when there was an article in the paper about her Bolder Boulder run.  She hooped the entire 6.2 miles without the hoop hitting the ground!  Anyway, I just love my hoop because it’s made for adults (heavier) and stays up when I twirl.  I always thought I couldn’t hoop but now I can go nonstop and am feeling all sorts of stomach muscles I haven’t used in years.  Hooping mellows me out but also energizes me at the same time.  Plus, it makes me smile!   (If anyone is interested in getting one, the GAIAM hoop/DVD  was on sale for $24.50 when I ordered by phone.  I haven’t used the DVD yet, am having fun just twirling and staring into space).

Tomorrow morning we take off for a week in Yellowstone and Montana.  It turns out

 will be in the same Yellowstone lodge at the same time!  We’re going to meet!  I’m so excited!  Can you tell?!

I’m taking my travel hoop on the trip.  Hooping next to the geysers!  (Right.  As if Wildebeest and Zebu would allow that).

Wishing you all a wonderful week.
     

Zebu’s birthday

Yesterday was Zebu’s 11th birthday.

He spent the day at Water World with his friend and Zippy Ramone.
(The way I saw it, if I could handle 26 hours of labor Zippy could handle six hours of heat, wet shorts, crowds, lines, and sunburn).

Zebu’s friend gave him a birthday gift.
A ticket to join friend and friend’s father here
for a Bob Dylan concert.

I’m the Dylan fanatic in the household
and I didn’t get to see him in concert until I was 15.
Zebu probably couldn’t name three Dylan songs.

But he’s very excited
and I’m happy for him.
A Red Rocks concert is something he’ll never forget.

When the Dylan tickets went on sale, Zippy and I debated buying two.
However, I’m feeling a bit disconnected from old Bob these days
in large part due to this.

We passed.

But we suddenly had a craving to see a show at Red Rocks Amphitheatre.
It’s an incredible setting.
Magical.
We really wanted and needed one concert experience there this season.

We checked the roster
and bought tickets for Michael Franti and Spearhead
(and Mavis Staples!!)

I’m probably done seeing Bob Dylan in concert. 
I have a slew of memories from all those concerts.
I’ll never see him at Red Rocks
but that’s okay.
It was time for something/someone new.

Zebu can’t wait for his concert
and neither can I.

  

Random Stuff

I just watched a great blue heron wading in the run-off pond near my house.  That’s what I want to be in my next life.  (Um, a heron, not a run-off pond).

The Bolder Boulder photographers just sent the link for me to check out my race day photos.  Yikes.  The photo of me running in the stadium toward the finish line shows one very tired woman.  Zippy had five photos taken of him and I’m in three of them, running behind him like some oxygen-deprived stalker.

The official race results are now available and I discovered my time was nine seconds faster than I thought.  Woo Hoo!  But even more exciting, out of the 448 44-year-old women in the race, I had the 26th fastest time. (Technically I’m 27th but one of the women is listed as “Steve” which Zippy insists is a mistake.  I pointed out there was a female character named Ralph on “Green Acres” but he insists that fact is not germane to the discussion).  Anyway, I was pleasantly surprised by my race position and it took the sting out of getting a much slower time than I’d hoped for.

I’m trying to sort out plot issues for my middle-grade WIP but started feeling overwhelmed by all the possibilities.  I was writing ideas, many of which were “maybe X does this because such-and-such…”, and I started to feel panicked by not having anything to hold onto.  So I started a THINGS I KNOW list.  I’m writing one-liners about story details I know for sure, and it’s helping me figure out what else I know.  Now I don’t feel like I’m drowning! 

Wildebeest had his last day of 7th grade on Wednesday and Zebu finishes 5th grade today.  We’re all quite happy putting this school year behind us.  We plan to celebrate tonight with some dinner and bowling.

This morning I went to the nearby tech school and bought a bunch of perennials from the student greenhouse which means I need to get outside and figure out where to put them in my various flower beds.  I bought two forget-me-not plants because they remind me of Alaska.  Now if only I could get a moose to come hang out in my yard………

Wishing you all a wonderful weekend.

 

My Sunday

Sunday is our cleaning day.

Wildebeest and Zebu cleaned their rooms, vacuumed, and “scoured” the downstairs bathroom. 

Zippy Ramone vacuumed and cleaned the two upstairs bathrooms.

Guess what I did?

Here’s a close-up in case you need another hint:


I’d forgotten you’re supposed to be able to see the contents of the fruit and veggie bins. 
(Visibility!   What a concept!)

So long, expired vitamin powder.  Farewell, fossilized chile relish.  Ta-ta, coagulated strawberry syrup.

Oh my .  Get outta here, half-cup of sauerkraut.  And take that furry whatever it is with you.

(Confession:  I keep opening the fridge to admire my handiwork.  That tells you a little something about my worth as a domestic goddess).

 
 

A Laugh and a Sob

First the laugh:

I got tired of referring to my guys as Elder, Younger, Mate, etc. when posting on LJ and so asked them to supply me with identities for my journal.  Please allow me to introduce:

Zippy Ramone (formerly known as the Mate)

Wildebeest (formerly known as the Elder son)

Zebu (formerly known as the Younger son)

There, won’t that be so much easier to keep straight?!  (I’m a little disappointed Zebu chose that name.  Earlier, he’d opted for Phenomenon which has a certain lyricism when combined with Wildebeest –  try saying Wildebeest and Phenomenon aloud.  See?  But then Zippy Ramone, Zebu and I played BOGGLE and Zippy Ramone formed “zebu” and, well, the rest is history).

So what if my LJ will read like some bizarre hybrid of African safari and punk?!

Okay, now for the sob:

I’m computer illiterate.  But I’m a functioning illiterate.  When I’ve learned how to do something, I follow those directions each and every time.  I don’t necessarily understand what I’m doing when I save a file to a certain place but as long as it’s worked before, I keep doing it.  Each and every time.

For instance, I save my file throughout the day and then when I’m done working, I “Save As” to another location.  For some reason I don’t understand, this drives Zippy Ramone crazy.  Last night he wanted to show me a new method for saving my file since we have a new computer, new backup thingies, upgraded Word program, etc.  He likes the click and drag approach.

Somehow in the process (in case you haven’t guessed, here comes the climax of the Sob portion of this post), he overwrote the HOURS AND HOURS of revisions from yesterday with the file from the day before yesterday.  All my revisions are gone.  GONE!

Why couldn’t Zippy Ramone let me Save and Save As?  Why, I ask you?  Why?

(Okay, I don’t really want to know the why so please don’t try explaining it to me.  If I haven’t grasped it yet in all these years, it ain’t gonna sink in now).

SOB.

I’ll stop whining now, seeing as I need to get back to work on my revisions.  Thanks for listening.

 

Gals Write for Gals Read – ?


I bought this book at my son’s school book fair and everyone in the household (me plus the three males living here) has read at least portions of it.  (For those even more behind the times on their reading lists than me, GUYS WRITE FOR GUYS READ edited by Jon Scieszka (2005), is a compilation of stories/memories from 90 male children’s writers and illustrators, including our own[info]davidlubar). The project is part of Scieszka’s literacy initiative designed to encourage boys to read.

It’s a great book.  Now that I’ve finished all the stories, I plan on taking it to the library and looking up some of these writers’ books so I can expand our household reading horizons.

But . .

This book makes me wonder what a GALS WRITE FOR GALS READ compilation would look like.  Guys’ childhood experiences are by no means universal (okay, maybe farts are a common thread) yet there’s this underlying “guy code” in the book that makes every male a member of the club. Even those boys who weren’t classic guys’ guys knew what was expected of them, and while some didn’t speak the language, they all understood it.    

Would it be possible to have a gal edition of this book?  Do gals have a universal language?  Universal expectations? 

 While society does place all sorts of expectation on females, females have much more leeway than males in terms of sports (athletic girls are admired but it’s no big deal to be unathletic); the cars they drive (Hummers or VW Beetles are equally acceptable); the clothes and colors they wear (pants or dresses are fine, black, brown,  pink, purple – every color in the spectrum is okay); make-up (women are free to wear it or not but men are denied one of society’s greatest inventions – lipstick!).  In terms of careers, plenty of men are still intimidated by female doctors, scientists, and race car drivers, but there isn’t a majority unspoken opinion that a woman embarrasses herself by being, say, an astronaut.  However, there is a prevalent attitude that men shouldn’t be nurses or dancers.

I grew up with two brothers and two sisters.  I was a “tomboy” who threw a better spiral than most boys on the playground but also played with dolls.   I climbed trees and sledded, built forts, pushed my cat around in a baby buggy, played dress-up, had pinecone fights, sang into my hairbrush along with the radio, wore lip gloss, laughed at fart jokes, read books.

Maybe my childhood is a representative snapshot of what a GALS WRITE FOR GALS READ story would offer: girls exploring different interests and attitudes.        

And perhaps the GUYS WRITE participants would disagree with me, but as I read their stories I wished for a little more flexibility in their lives.  Opportunities for them to be true to the real guys inside, whether that meant jumping off barns, composing musicals, designing clothes, or Xeroxing their butts. 

Either way, I absolutely want that flexibility for my guys.