Kalina

I was trying out a new song on my ukulele the other day.  Sometimes I find it easier to get a sense of how I’m sounding if I record myself playing and then listen back.  I can hear the areas that I need to work on and what needs tweaking, etc.  (Truth: I always sound bad when I listen back, which keeps me humble.  Also, I know I’m a HUGE dork for admitting the above.  I’m at peace with it.  Mostly.)

The kids came into the room as I was practicing and noticed what I was doing.  When they heard me on the playback, they exclaimed over and over how young I sounded.  Like I was 16.  Apparently I now sound like an 80-year-old chain smoker.  Why didn’t I catch that on my recordings?

What followed suit was the following recording, a conversation had between my two children and myself.  Since we made it, it has been played on repeat about 100 times, and it always ends the same way: the room explodes with the laughter of any children within earshot.

Granted, it’s about a minute too long in the beginning, so you’re going to have to put up with that.  The first kid voice you hear is AJ’s.  The person singing is Kalina.  She’s also the one who produces the grand finale.  So proud.  (It’s a little quiet the first few seconds because AJ insisted on whispering.)

Listen: Kalina, AJ and I — a conversation and a song

Also, please forgive me my cackling.  I know not what I do.

©2010 Jessalee La-La. All Rights Reserved.

Jason and I took a look around our house yesterday, noticing the two (or, okay, maybe three) piles of laundry needing to be folded, the floor that needed to be mopped and vacuumed, the other laundry that needed to be washed, the kids’ rooms, our room, the yard outside.  Yes, we needed to stay home today and be responsible and reasonable and get stuff done around here.  It would be a productive Saturday!

This is why, when Kalina burst through the door, beaming and squeaky, declaring today to be a perfect day for a picnic, Jason and I agreed today was the worst type of day to be responsible and reasonable, and quickly packed up the van to head north to the Rogue River.  Instead of adventure of the unknown, we chose comfortable and known by going straight to our favorite and usual picnic spot.  Diverting disaster for the win!

The day was perfect at about 90 degrees, and the 35-minute drive was easy as we pointed out hidden houses we’d glimpse on mountaintops amongst the trees, various areas we hadn’t noticed on the many drives along this route, or just the beauty of the river as it wound itself alongside the road next to us for much of the drive.

The river was riddled with rafters and picnickers, campers, hikers.  Everyone seemed to have been equally inspired to partake of the splendor that we are blessed with in our backyards.

For this picnic we decided to take Smoky, our 1-year-old golden retriever/border collie mix.  We hadn’t brought him before because he is, inexplicably, just about the only dog of his breeds in the known universe that is deathly afraid of water.  In fact, as we pulled into the park, the picnic table that we opted for, that also happened to be just feet from the water, had sprinklers running just a bit over.  Smoky took one look at those sprinklers, hung his head low and watched them closely until he had assured himself the water would not be reaching him or his tethered locale.

We unpacked the sandwich fixings, and I made sandwiches as Jason readied the poles.  We ate our sandwiches, surveying the area around us, laughing at the little Pomeranian that had it in his head that he had a thing or two to show Smoky.  And then just as they shoved the last remaining bits of sandwich into their mouths, still chewing, the kids began their pleadings to please, please, please let them dip their toes in the water.

We happened to be in a spot that was perfect for just this purpose, so they shimmied into their suits behind a towel and then skipped down to the little area that had six or seven feet of still-ish water, which contrasted sharply to the swirling, racing water just beyond that area, sheltered by logs and an outcropping of rocks.

Kalina took one step into the water and screamed, “It’s like ice water!”  Uh, yes, exactly, Kalina.

They sat their bums in the shallow water, screeching and jumping back up again in breathless shock.  Over and over, they went back for more, until little lips were blue, little fingers were pruny and little backsides dirtied from the rocky river bottom.

Jason declared it was fishing time, so AJ and Jason gathered up their fishing gear, me opting out of fishing to read a book — no contest there — and Kalina, even though she had her pole, opted to stay with me and color in her coloring book in the shade.

It was idyllic.  It really was.  The area of trees we sat amongst were gorgeous, inspiring me to try my hand at recreating the scene with my paintbrush and canvas sometime in the near future.

Smoky, meanwhile, chased leaves, barked at people who hiked by or loud rafters that came a little too close to shore for his comfort.

And when at long last Jason and AJ came back from their fishing, alas,  sans fish, we all went back down to the river’s edge to dip and dance with the icy water, letting it tickle our toes and tease our senses.

Smoky watched us at the river from a distance, and when he decided that all 75 pounds of him was brave enough to venture with us, he stood, sniffing, tasting leaves and pawing at the wet mounds of dirt and rocks.

And then when Jason ventured out to his calves and called to him, Smoky hesitated.  You could see him debating.  The kids were cheering him on, but we wanted to be sure he made the decision to go into the water himself, on his own.  And soon his loyalty made him brave, and he stepped out to Jason’s side, prancing gingerly through the water like a horse, dipping his tongue in to taste the cool water and getting used to the feel of it gently swirling around him.

And then, just as it was obvious just how completely terrified of water he was, it became even more obvious that he was thoroughly enamored with it.  His tail wagged and his tongue hung out of his mouth in a big dopey grin.  And soon he was chasing the little yellow leaves that had been falling from the trees nearby like little golden yellow summer snowflakes.  And when a fish jumped just beyond our little area, he barked and jumped around.

In and out of the water he jumped, splashing and playing, getting out to shake off the river water, only to head right back in when a water bug or a stick would catch his eye.

And when Jason cast his pole out into the water in this spot,  the bobber on his line became something of a game for Smoky, which put a stop to the fishing pretty quickly.

The warm day.  The rafters shouting their greetings as they paddled by.  The birds singing and calling to each other from the trees.  My three two-legged companions and the one four-legged companion.  It turned into something wonderful.

A short picnic turned into a five-hour event, and we soon were forced to, sadly, pack up our gear and head home.  And as we got back onto the highway taking us back down the mountain and into our valley home, the kids, sun-drunk and and sleepy, begged to come back again, maybe tomorrow.  And if not immediately then soon.  I agree!

©2010 Jessalee La-La. All Rights Reserved.

We went on a picnic this past weekend, and I’m not even going to pretty it up for you.  The picnic was a HUGE disaster.

There.  I said it.  Family togetherness FAIL.

So we’ve been picnicking a lot this summer, often near the river.  When Jason brought it up that it might be fun to head out, we decided to drive up to an area we had only been once and wanted to get to know better for camping and swimming potential.

We packed up the van, locked all the doors and windows in the house, gave our idiot neighbors a preemptive evil eye, daring them to try something while we were gone (they weren’t there, only it just feels good to do it), and we headed out into the sunshine.

We didn’t have a specific destination in mind, which is usually kind of fun.  We only knew we wanted to head up towards a lake we had been to once.  We knew there was a river up in the area as well, and we assumed (naively — okay, stupidly) that there would be picnic areas along the water.

We hit the river first.  Yes, picnic areas.  Suitable picnic areas where half the valley isn’t already there?  Not so much.

So we decide that we were going to head up to the lake.

And this is right about the time when both kids began to clutch their stomachs in agony, threatening to vomit all over the back of the van.  And moments later, AJ did just that, though he had the courtesy to throw up into a plastic bag from the grocery store.  Mmm.  Pre-chewed cinnamon raisin bagel, anyone?

So Jason pulls over and grabs AJ out of the van so he can finish out of the car.  Only now he’s just dry heaving into the grass.  But as he’s doing so, I looked up and saw a doe just a short distance away.  I breathlessly said, “Oh!  Look at that pretty doe!”  Only this is poor parenting on my part because AJ, dry heaving, looked up too.  One glance at AJ’s green face and the doe ran the heck out of the clearing without even a backward glance.  It’s okay little dear deer doe.  Vomit makes me want to vomit too.

AJ insisted he was okay and got back in the van after grabbing some fresh air, so we were off again.  The kids kept asking how soon we’d get there, and Jason would assure them, “It’s just up the road!”  And since Jason had been on motorcycle rides up in this area before, I believed him, nodding my head in reassurance to the kids,  “We’re almost there, guys!”

Dude.  It was not just up the road.  Not unless up the road means an hour away.  Because, for reals, our little picnic jaunt where we would only be gone for a couple of hours took THREE HOURS.  And we didn’t even get to picnic!

We finally got to “up the road” and found a spot that would be good for picnicking.  Close to the water.  Very little hiking so I wouldn’t have to deal with Le Ankle of Death.  Nice area to rest our road-weary bones and maybe dip our toes in the lake.

Only just before we pulled into the parking lot, the van gives a little ding-ding, and honestly, the low-fuel light blinks on.  Somehow, between the vomiting and the championship sniping Jason and I were doing back and forth to each other under our breath, we had both failed to notice the gas creeping down, down, down.  We were approximately 10,000 miles from town, had a van full of vomit, picnic edibles, hungry, sickly kids and ZERO phone service.  Nice picnic spot or not, we knew we had to wend our way back down the mountainous roads and out back into civilization where they have things like gasoline, ice water and a cell tower.

AJ declared he wasn’t hungry as Kalina reached into the back to snack on some crackers and cheese.  Strangely, I had no appetite either, despite being formerly ravenously hungry.  I’m guessing it was the heat, the dust from the road, and also, most likely, the scent of warm vomit wafting from the back of the van, (ooh, you’re welcome for that olfactory gem!), which, by the way, said vomit was only getting warmer because we live just around the corner from the fiery pits of the underworld, and it was approximately 2,000 degrees outside.  And there’s really not much we can do because if we have any intentions of ever making it back to somewhere not in the middle of nowhere, we had to preserve gas, which would mean no AC.

As we drove back down through the hills, I had little visions of the van running out of gas, and we unwittingly plant ourselves into the middle of some awful horror flick where the final scene fades out on our empty van with that blasted blinking red low-fuel light to serve as a final warning to the audience.

In my head I’m thinking WAHHHH!  I don’t want to die!  But my mouth says out loud, “How are you two doing back there?  Feeling a little better?”

[Spoiler alert: obviously we lived.  And if we didn't, well then, the WiFi connection is AWESOME here!]

Shortly after we began the trip home, both kids fell asleep, their little faces slumped and sweaty in the back.  And both of them were suspiciously NOT car sick anymore.

Anyway, drive, drive, drive.  Gas, gas, gas.  Home, home, home.  That’s basically how the rest of the story went.  Except we did stop and get the kids an ice cream cone at McDonald’s because we had to make up for the inexplicable three-hour car ride to them.

As we walked into the house, AJ mused — ever my little optimist — the trip was actually a success, with the exception of the vomiting, the non-picnicking and the low fuel.  Kalina agreed wholeheartedly.

And then we all collapsed in a heap together to eat our picnic food as God intended: in our air conditioned dining room.

©2010 Jessalee La-La. All Rights Reserved.

This week was very crazy with a lot of work, more than I’ve taken in a long time because working this much usually is just way too hard for me to do.  It served as a quality reminder that I have to keep the work down to a dull roar to save my sanity and health.  To make it even more complicated, Jason went out of town yesterday, and it was just me and the kiddos.

To be perfectly honest though, the kids and I were looking forward to the time.  The kids had plans to sleep in bed with me, claiming it was so I wouldn’t be lonely, but I was wise to them.  We were making homemade pizza for dinner.  We were going to snuggle in bed and watch a movie.  It was going to be fun!

After dinner, I decided I needed a little bit of sunshine and water in my life, so we headed over to my mom’s house to swim.  The kids were restless, and my legs had that dull ache you get from sitting on your big arse too long working 15-hour days.  None of us needed much convincing to jump in.

We swam for an hour and a half or so until the sun began slipping behind the mountains, casting shadows along the pool and the deck and making our goosebumps have goosebumps.  My mom fed the kids dessert, and then we floated out into the cool night, driving down the road with the windows down, the cool breeze in our faces, marveling at the difference between the 9:30 p.m. night air and the wall of heat we first walked out into when we left the house.

I pulled into our driveway, and the kids disembarked from what had been deemed a rocket ship zooming through the atmosphere.  We walked through our detached carport and started heading towards the back door of our house, which is the way we generally enter our home.

As the kids chattered, I heard the sound of a chain clinking.  The sound was coming from the back of the house, which I thought was unusual because our large yard is fenced, and most of our neighbors, except for the crappy four-plex next door, are a good distance away, so we don’t usually hear those sounds.

I turned on my wimpy iPhone flashlight and scanned the backyard, while at the same time hollering at the kids to wait for me, giving them the excuse that I was unsure walking through the gravel on The Ankle.  The backyard floodlight wasn’t on, so I figured there was no one there, but I approached the area cautiously.  And then the floodlight was on, and the backyard was awash with light.  Seeing that we were alone, I dug out my keys and unlocked the door.

I asked AJ to let out the dogs, while I went through the house closing blinds and turning on lights.  That being done, I went to grab pajamas for the kids, only to be interrupted by a knock at the door.  It was late at night for visitors, so I had no idea who it could possibly be.  My first thought was one of the dogs got out unbeknownst to AJ, and a neighbor was reporting it.

Looking through the glass in the door, I noted that it was our neighbor from across the street, which was unusual.  Our neighbors generally stick to themselves, though we have had several conversations with this particular one.  He acts essentially neighborhood watch program.  He always knows what’s going on.

I pulled open the door, and there he stood blinking against the harsh front porch light.  His two teenage daughters flanked his sides.

“Hey!  What’s going on, Mike?”

“Yeah, uh, I noticed you just got home and was wondering if you had given anyone permission to hit up your driveway load things up into their van.”

At first what he was saying didn’t register with me, so I answered automatically and honestly.

“No, not at all.  Why?”

And then it sunk in.

“Did someone do that?”

The look on his face was grim, sorry to deliver the news.

His daughter had gone into the bathroom of their home, and when she looked out the window had noticed a brown van parked in our driveway.  This is unusual only in that our van is newer and green.  And then she saw the red-haired kid that lives next door in the crappy four-plexes.  He was on his bicycle, watching down both sides of the street, foot on the ready to make an escape.

In her words, “I knew that kid was trouble.”  So she went and told her dad what was going on.  Unfortunately, by the time Mike made it outside to investigate, the van was pulling away.  He did see the kids, but they were too far away for him to do anything about it.

Instead, he and his daughters called the police to report what was going on.  An officer showed up almost immediately, and they told the officer the story.  Then the officer left, and ten minutes later is when I pulled up.

When Mike finished, I told the kids to stay inside as I grabbed my shoes and headed out there.  Unfortunately, I had no clue what was missing because we’re right in the middle of making over the shop that is attached to the carport.  The shop is going to be Jason’s office and work shop in the hopes that his business will continue to pick up.  In the meantime though, we have loads of boxes that were cast away into the depths of the room when we moved in, and I haven’t had the chance to go through them all.  In order to get the process started, Jason had begun emptying out the shop and going through boxes so as to expedite the process, which had been delayed thanks to my nonstop work schedule.

I honestly had no idea what they had taken.  The layout of the area was completely foreign to me because I had not been out there at all to see what sort of progress Jason had made.  And when the kids and I left for the pool, the van had been parked behind the house, so even then we hadn’t had to walk through the area.  It was only when we got home that I had any idea of what was there, and by then the damage was done.

Immediately, neighbor Mike got back on his cell phone to the police to let them know I was home and that they needed to come back out here because, indeed, those idiots were not supposed to be doing what they did.  And then we waited.

Mike and his daughters again told the story of what transpired.  And being that he is more aware of what’s going on in the neighborhood, noted that the activity from the apartment where the idiot red-haired kid lives, has started escalating.  He said that it has become high traffic, and the kid has caused problems with his son before.  In a neighborhood filled with working families that generally stick to themselves, this four-plex is housing some sort of low-level drug situation.

I started feeling sick to my stomach and tried to call Jason, who was in an area with little to no bars (thanks for nothing, AT&T).  His service was sketchy at best.

We watched then as a police car drove slowly by.  We expected this to be the officer that would come and take my statement.  Mike was relieved because he was on his way to work.  But the officer never came, instead just driving on.

I glanced at the clock and noticed the hour, excused myself and went to the front door of the house where I could hear the kids playing inside.  In doing so, I noticed that the lights were all on in the idiot red-haired kid’s apartment and that the blinds were up, which was highly unusual because they are NEVER up and open.

I called inside my house to the kids, urging them to go lay in my bed and get some rest, assuring them that everything was fine, but that it was now 10:15, and they needed to get some sleep.  And then I walked back to Mike and his daughters.

His 18-year-old daughter, a pixie of a girl, nodded toward the four-plex.  “They just turned out all their lights, and you can see them looking out the window now.”  I shook my head in disgust, realizing they had heard me call to my kids, also realizing that they knew that I knew it was them.

I didn’t feel so safe in the house anymore.

But I was angry.  I love my home!  It’s old and comfortable and quaint.  The neighborhood is good!  People watch out for you here (I’ll tell the story sometime of when Jason had locked himself out and climbed in through one of the kid’s open windows, only to have the cops called on him by a female passerby on a bicycle — well, I guess I just told it, didn’t I!).  We’re close to the school.  We have a nice big yard.

I love my home, and these selfish jackasses didn’t belong here.

The police were taking their time to show up, presumably attending to other more serious matters that go down on a Friday night.  So I did what any other person thinks about doing in times of crisis: I called my mom.

By the time my mom got there, it was already 11:15 p.m.  There had still been no sign of the police despite two follow-up calls.  I told Mike to go home to his family, and if the police showed up I’d call him (I had taken his number down earlier — I wasn’t taking any chances).

As my mom walked up our walkway, Mike stepped back across the street to make sure everything was all right.  As we were talking, 911 dispatch called to say they would just be having an officer call me but not sending one out.  Would I prefer to talk to an officer ON THE PHONE tonight or tomorrow?

And you know what?  It was late.  My kids were still awake and scared.  My mom had a class to attend all day the next day.  I had no idea what was taken.  Mike was waiting to go to work.  By now a police car would get a lot of notice because of the late hour.  So I opted for the tomorrow option, feeling sour that me being robbed did not warrant an officer’s presence.

With that all decided, we made the decision to stay the night in the house rather than go back to my mom’s.  We didn’t want to leave our house wide open for something worse to happen, plus I didn’t want to give the idiot red-haired kid and his useless band of goons the feeling that he won any piece of me or had chased us off.   So my mom left to go gather her night things, and Mike stayed talking with me at the gate of our front yard, assuring me that he’d keep an eye on the house tonight while also pointing out that Smoky, our big dog, was thoroughly intimidating and should keep any ne’er-do-wells at bay for the night if he was roaming free.

As he spoke, he glanced up to the second window of the four-plex to find that we were being watched and listened to.  He nodded in that direction, and I followed his gaze, noting the figure in the open window.  I said loudly then, with a wink, that Smoky was pretty aggressive, which is why we kept him chained up in the yard when he was outside.

Of course, the truth is Smoky would aggressively run towards you, tackle you down, and then, aggressively, beg for you to pet him and scratch his belly.  Of course, one never knows what he might do if he could sense someone was there to do harm.  Maybe he would be aggressive.  He’s a big dog, after all.

To kill time, Mike began telling me stories of run-ins he’s had in the past with punks, most of the situations occurring in California.  The stories were, honestly, completely wild, but looking at this scruffy-faced guy with the longish hair and his gun holstered at his side (oh, yeah, we’re in total country here where everyone but us, apparently, owns a gun), I began to realize that he was basically a reformed punk and was someone good to have on my side.  Also, I never wanted to be on his bad side.  Ever.

The time ticked on, and now it was 11:30.  The stress of the evening, coupled with the complete lack of sleep the past week, began to take its toll.  My stomach began to twist and turn, and I was feeling closer and closer to throwing up.

Every so often it would peak, and I’d quietly gag, attempting to cover it up as a cough, until finally I realized I was going to be in big trouble if I didn’t get in the house.

I began my goodbyes and promised to call if there was any trouble.

And then the cold sweat began.

And I laughed at his joke.

And then I began feeling dizzy.

And he assured me again that he was just across the street if I need him.

And I thanked him as I soon recognized what it was that I was feeling, realizing that if I didn’t sit down immediately, I was going to literally be passed out on the lawn.  I have passed out cold twice in my life, and come close to passing out two other times.  It is the oddest, grossest feeling, and I didn’t want to scare the kids or become “that” woman who gets a case of the vapors in stressful situations.

So I hurried into the house and sat down quickly.  The kids crowded me with a million questions, but all I could manage to blurt out was “bowl, now, please” to Kalina, and “fan, on, quick” to AJ.  I knew I had to (a) throw up and (b) cool down and relax if I was going to not be splayed out on the floor. ( I also knew that if I leaned over the toilet to vomit, I’d immediately pass out — voice of experience here!)  So I threw up, cooled off and managed a wan smile for the concerned kids, who were now expressing their fear of the situation.

And then we hugged.  We had a prayer.  My mom returned at this time.  And then I kissed two smiling, relieved kids, and tucked them into bed.

The kids settled, I sat there taking stock of the situation while my mom did what moms do, and started tidying up my kid-destroyed house.

Finally, around 1:30, I managed to crawl into bed, feeling fragile and exhausted.  Smoky roamed the house, coming back after his patrols to nuzzle my hand and then settle on the floor next to the bed.

And at 6:00 this morning, when I woke up, in the light of the day, I felt better.  I now just want to go kick some sense into the idiots that did this.  But I’m grateful they didn’t breach the security of our home.  I’m grateful it wasn’t any worse than this because I’m aware things can be worse than some drug-addled morons stealing stuff out of a garage.   I’m grateful that I have neighbors that look out for us.  I’m grateful I have a mom that comes over at 11:00 at night because her 33-year-old daughter is a little freaked out.

Mostly, as of this moment, I’m going to be grateful for Jason to get home this afternoon so I can crawl into bed for a big fat nap.

©2010 Jessalee La-La. All Rights Reserved.

Kalina and I were sitting side by side this evening having just finished reading one of the 479 books she had checked out from the library.  As I contemplated standing back up to return to my desk and attempt to put a dent in the mountains of work that awaited me, I suddenly heard a high-pitched whine, much like the sound our dog makes when she just absolutely, positively, no questions, has got to go relieve herself now or she’ll explode.

I looked to my feet and was thoroughly surprised when I wasn’t met with Pixie’s soulful, penetrating gaze pleading with me to take her out.

I looked to the left.  I looked to the right.  No Pixie.

Perplexed, I asked Jason, “Did you just hear that?”

But before he could reply, Kalina was seized with the giggles, managing to loudly proclaim, “That was my toot!”

I can’t even properly describe the sound.  It was honestly just like the sound of a dog, that little half-whine, half-cry they give when they’re maybe begging for food or wanting to get your attention.  What I do know is that from that point forward, for the rest of the evening, I’d randomly stop what I was doing and mimic the sound it made, which would make Kalina double over in laughter wherever she was in the house, laughing so hard she was begging me to stop as she held her sides in delighted agony.

Ahh, bodily functions.  Who says fart jokes are just for boys?

randomly

©2010 Jessalee La-La. All Rights Reserved.