I was having a lovely dream this morning involving Brad Pitt playing an Olympic diver. I was and "extra" on set and got to stand by him while he was wearing a tiny nothing of a bathing suit....sigh....then Lucas woke up. 6am never seemed so lame. Saying good-bye to Brad, I hauled out of bed to get the babble monster next door.
Oh, these boys, full of hugs in the mornings and by the evening taunting each other to no end. Lately, I feel like I should have a few tape recorders around so I can just hit "play" as I get tired of repeating the same refrain every evening:
"Stop kicking your brother...Lucas, no hit...David, go high if you don't want him to bother you...okay, you are being too loud....AB-SOOO-LUTE-LY NOT, that is unacceptable behavior....."
The absence of Kiel during the day has had the boys and I re-inventing the wheel a bit this week, and I think, is part of the ramped up behavior. I know we'll work it out. It may take another week or two, but we'll get our act together again. We always do.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Not a motorcycle mama-yet.
So I drove into Eagle River Valley this morning with the kids in tow, headed toward the Nature Center for pre-school adventure time. The sun peeked through the heavy drifting clouds and I thought about how many times I'd been down that beautiful road, and how one of my first trips was on a Harley.
Yeah. A Harley. I've been on a motorcycle exactly four times. My first time was on my uncle Shawn's powder blue hog...for a picture only. (Local law had said he couldn't ride it until he put a muffler on-hence the photo op.) I was maybe 15 at the time, it was hot, I was in these remarkably silly black and white plaid shorts, but sitting on that bike was cool, and my tan legs looked great. I decided then that someday I'd ride one. No other motorcycle would do. It had to be a Harley.
Cut to Seward, Alaska, Fourth of July, 1990-my first trip sans parents. Seward is the place to be on the Fourth if you are in Alaska, and back then, all the camping was still in town, so there was party everywhere. It was a hot, sunny day and my friends and I were wandering through the market area. We bashfully went into a stall that had all of this tawdry underwear hanging from the ceiling. Much to my girlfriend's mortification and laughter, I slipped a pair off of the clothesline and laid down a tenner. I said, "I'm gonna wear these the first time I ride a Harley." They were black string bikini's: Harley Honey and a rose graced the rear. I didn't know when, or with who, but I knew they would sit in my drawer until an urban knight showed up to carry me away.
Cut to summer 1991. I come home after work and my dad has a grin on his face. One of his friends just got a new bike and both of them were sitting in our driveway. I made up some excuse to go inside, slip those panties on, and run back out, ready to saddle up. John took me up Eagle River Road. It was awesome, and weird. I mean, a 40 something guy on a touring bike wasn't my initial thought when I purchased those cheap bikini beauties, but, beggars can't be choosers. After that, the panties were free game. They tended to creep, so mostly, they served to remind me of that first ride.
My next ride was on a BMW, which was as smooth, and cool, as the guy who rode it. The fourth and last time I got on a bike was in Cleveland. A smaller bike, and a big man; neither of them took me far.
There is a mystique that accompanies a motorcycle that I still want to be a part of. There is a coolness, a certain confidence that a bike brings...cowboys come to mind, just a different kind of horse is all. My husband talks of his riding days-of the freedom, the open road, the great, and the stupid things he did. He was a single man then. He says he's learned a few things. He talks of when he can get another one, when we can ride together. I've officially said yes, and still, the kids have to be grown. Retirement-it seems, is a long way off. I'd like to sit behind him, my arms wrapped around his waist, and head to the mountains, just to feel the sun, the wind, and the rumble of the wheels underneath the seat. To be in that moment, open, vulnerable, sexy, with the one you love, would be perfect. So, if you come across any panties...let me know, and someday, we'll see you on the road.
Yeah. A Harley. I've been on a motorcycle exactly four times. My first time was on my uncle Shawn's powder blue hog...for a picture only. (Local law had said he couldn't ride it until he put a muffler on-hence the photo op.) I was maybe 15 at the time, it was hot, I was in these remarkably silly black and white plaid shorts, but sitting on that bike was cool, and my tan legs looked great. I decided then that someday I'd ride one. No other motorcycle would do. It had to be a Harley.
Cut to Seward, Alaska, Fourth of July, 1990-my first trip sans parents. Seward is the place to be on the Fourth if you are in Alaska, and back then, all the camping was still in town, so there was party everywhere. It was a hot, sunny day and my friends and I were wandering through the market area. We bashfully went into a stall that had all of this tawdry underwear hanging from the ceiling. Much to my girlfriend's mortification and laughter, I slipped a pair off of the clothesline and laid down a tenner. I said, "I'm gonna wear these the first time I ride a Harley." They were black string bikini's: Harley Honey and a rose graced the rear. I didn't know when, or with who, but I knew they would sit in my drawer until an urban knight showed up to carry me away.
Cut to summer 1991. I come home after work and my dad has a grin on his face. One of his friends just got a new bike and both of them were sitting in our driveway. I made up some excuse to go inside, slip those panties on, and run back out, ready to saddle up. John took me up Eagle River Road. It was awesome, and weird. I mean, a 40 something guy on a touring bike wasn't my initial thought when I purchased those cheap bikini beauties, but, beggars can't be choosers. After that, the panties were free game. They tended to creep, so mostly, they served to remind me of that first ride.
My next ride was on a BMW, which was as smooth, and cool, as the guy who rode it. The fourth and last time I got on a bike was in Cleveland. A smaller bike, and a big man; neither of them took me far.
There is a mystique that accompanies a motorcycle that I still want to be a part of. There is a coolness, a certain confidence that a bike brings...cowboys come to mind, just a different kind of horse is all. My husband talks of his riding days-of the freedom, the open road, the great, and the stupid things he did. He was a single man then. He says he's learned a few things. He talks of when he can get another one, when we can ride together. I've officially said yes, and still, the kids have to be grown. Retirement-it seems, is a long way off. I'd like to sit behind him, my arms wrapped around his waist, and head to the mountains, just to feel the sun, the wind, and the rumble of the wheels underneath the seat. To be in that moment, open, vulnerable, sexy, with the one you love, would be perfect. So, if you come across any panties...let me know, and someday, we'll see you on the road.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Monday, August 11, 2008
Whoa Nellie!
Summer finally arrived in Anchorage this last week. We've waited, not so patiently, for those few brilliant rays to warm our blood before it thickened again for winter. This week's sun has been a welcome treat, a friend come home from a long absence, not forgotten, but fonder for the time apart. It was 68 degrees today, under partly cloudy skies, and it was wonderful.
Personally, the lack of sunshine or blue, blue sky was not what I missed the most. More than anything, I missed the sight of the Chugach Mountains, our local peaks. For most of June and July they have been shrouded in low ceiling clouds...clouds slung out over foothills, grey and monotonous, with no life of their own to delight you. Clouds that refused to rise. Clouds that put their full weight on this city and would not move for days on end. Misery for this girl.
Every morning I'd rise and go to my front window to see my mountains, these simple, unadorned mountains that have always brought me life and happiness. Weeks would go by without seeing their peaks, their undulating valleys, their quite grace. When God decided to air out the grey blanket he'd cloaked us with, I'd feel relieved, sated, better. It was always too short. Even now, in this week of mostly sun, I look at them constantly. Are they still there? Are they the same ones that I fell in love with as a young girl? Yes, and yes, and a sigh of quiet relief slips from my lungs.
What I've learned this summer is that I could never live in Seattle, or the Oregon Coast. I don't know how to fight that greyscale, how to rouse my heart when the sky comes down and doesn't leave you room to breath. I coped by drinking more and more coffee as the dreary summer progressed. Home brew in the morning, then out for Americano's in the afternoon. It's the first time coffee has really been a drug for me-I needed that kick to keep me going. Unfortunately, as much as I love coffee, after a certain point, it stops being my friend and turns me into something resembling Kathleen Turner in the movie Serial Mom...mostly normal, but psychotic if manners, or courtesy are breached. (Yeah, I'll admit my crazy side exists.) I figured this out about a week ago and laid off the afternoon foray, as much as it hurt.
What's that saying though, "The teacher arrives when the student is ready." And so the sun, and thunder and lightening came to my rescue. This last week has seen summer thunderstorms (rare for this town), big, heady, meaningful clouds, flash rains and the clearest skies afterwards. It's been amazing. Really amazing. And to top it off, my friend Lisa (living in Illinois) sent me fresh homegrown sweet corn today-something that brings back memories of summer in Nebraska, and my childhood every time. Thanks babe-your thoughtfullness iced this week's cake, making it even more delicious and lovely than it's been. I owe you big time.
Personally, the lack of sunshine or blue, blue sky was not what I missed the most. More than anything, I missed the sight of the Chugach Mountains, our local peaks. For most of June and July they have been shrouded in low ceiling clouds...clouds slung out over foothills, grey and monotonous, with no life of their own to delight you. Clouds that refused to rise. Clouds that put their full weight on this city and would not move for days on end. Misery for this girl.
Every morning I'd rise and go to my front window to see my mountains, these simple, unadorned mountains that have always brought me life and happiness. Weeks would go by without seeing their peaks, their undulating valleys, their quite grace. When God decided to air out the grey blanket he'd cloaked us with, I'd feel relieved, sated, better. It was always too short. Even now, in this week of mostly sun, I look at them constantly. Are they still there? Are they the same ones that I fell in love with as a young girl? Yes, and yes, and a sigh of quiet relief slips from my lungs.
What I've learned this summer is that I could never live in Seattle, or the Oregon Coast. I don't know how to fight that greyscale, how to rouse my heart when the sky comes down and doesn't leave you room to breath. I coped by drinking more and more coffee as the dreary summer progressed. Home brew in the morning, then out for Americano's in the afternoon. It's the first time coffee has really been a drug for me-I needed that kick to keep me going. Unfortunately, as much as I love coffee, after a certain point, it stops being my friend and turns me into something resembling Kathleen Turner in the movie Serial Mom...mostly normal, but psychotic if manners, or courtesy are breached. (Yeah, I'll admit my crazy side exists.) I figured this out about a week ago and laid off the afternoon foray, as much as it hurt.
What's that saying though, "The teacher arrives when the student is ready." And so the sun, and thunder and lightening came to my rescue. This last week has seen summer thunderstorms (rare for this town), big, heady, meaningful clouds, flash rains and the clearest skies afterwards. It's been amazing. Really amazing. And to top it off, my friend Lisa (living in Illinois) sent me fresh homegrown sweet corn today-something that brings back memories of summer in Nebraska, and my childhood every time. Thanks babe-your thoughtfullness iced this week's cake, making it even more delicious and lovely than it's been. I owe you big time.
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