wild*life

I forgot I have one more story up my perfectly appointed, pleated Parisian sleeve. Though I’m certainly not the lead author.

On one of our last days in Paris, the big kids went to a shopping experience at Samaritaine, and the dads, Eliza, and I walked to the Musée d’Orsay. This is, hands down, one of my most favorite museums ever. James and I went when we visited Emily in Paris, and I remember having an out of body experience when confronted with Monet’s haystacks in winter. Unfortunately, they’re no longer there, but the impressionist collection is still mesmerizing, even with the crowds. The whole museum is an old train station with a big beautiful clock overlooking the city.

Charles, Dave, Eliza and I depart from the hotel and begin walking down the Champs-Élysées. It’s cold, but the parks are dusted in snow and the sun is shining. Magically beautiful. It’s a thirty-four minute walk according to our handy dandy apps. Eliza is not consulted and therefore, for the record, did not pre-approve the plan.

We set out and all is well. There are a handful of pigeons to chase. And some surprise sidewalk skating puddles. But as we head further and further down an enormous promenade with no destination in sight, Eliza begins to have her doubts. At the crosswalk near the Grand Palais, she refuses to walk further. She stomps her little feet. She cries. She begs and threatens and almost sits down on the sidewalk except that it is wet and freezing and she can’t bring herself to do it.

Her father is a stoic force to be reckoned with. Her uncle a sympathetic observer. I’m confident I can’t piggyback her all the way, so I’m an uninteresting non-option. Charles coaxes her across the street and the opulence and grandeur of the Petit Palais distracts her momentarily. I’m not entirely sure how it begins, but it’s something along the lines of, “Eliza, what is it like to live in this beautiful palace?”

And Queen Eliza emerges. Stepping from her humble beginnings of powerless drudgery, into the life she is born to lead.

She knows exactly what it’s like to live in her palace. It’s full of big beautiful, warm beds and hot baths and the most delicious food you’ve ever seen.

Soon I am invited into her life. But I have to sleep outside in the freezing cold. And use an outhouse. And take cold baths. And eat birdseed. I’m required to work all day in the palace, serving Queen Eliza, but at night I’m relegated back to my outdoor campground.

Then Charles and David are indentured into a life of servitude. They take freezing cold showers and eat scraps and are required to sleep in my same filthy bed outside. Queen Eliza is imperious and ceremonially unforgiving. She mercilessly levies justice. She giveth and she taketh away.

I slowly feed the flame. A little twig here, a scrap of bark there. We walk down by the river and cross over a bridge. I begin to work my way into the Queen’s good graces. It starts with a warm bath, indoors. Then I get a real bed with pillows and a duvet. I no longer have to share with dirty boys. As I take glee in the plight of my servant compatriots, I rise more and more quickly up the ranks. The men who will not carry the Queen are subjected to endless suffering with their one blanket and cold showers in the palace fountain. Soon I have beautiful dresses and tantalizing delicacies and am living my best servant girl life. My very own Bridgerton Season 4.

Queen Eliza strides into line at the D’Orsay, required to wait again with the peasants. She breaks character and I learn she wants to be a YouTuber, a video game designer, and a hotelier. We’ve already got the premise for her first breakout hit.

Call me Sony… you’ll need me.

One of our greatest accomplishments in 2025 was Jacob getting his driver’s license. And believe me, it was a team effort. I was head coach. Nate certainly took home the trophy for best passenger. He can teach a master class in sitting quietly and never once backseat driving as he careens toward death. Who’s kid is this?

Jake and I doggedly put in the hours. Driving the loop from home to Laguna to SLO High every morning. And then reversing it every afternoon. It’s one of the hardest things we’ve ever done together. He’ll tell you about how I’d scootch up toward the center console and squint my eyes and exclaim, “Too close, too close!” as I feel my side of the car practically grazing parked cars and ditches and sidewalks. I’m not allowed to shift my weight or move my hands or press my feet to the floor. There’s the day we encounter all the city buses in our lane. The days of roundabout practice with Granddad. And weeks of easing on and off all the pedals. We work on intuitively feeling what other cars are doing and knowing when they’re going to come at you or do something dumb. And my evergreen advice, “Have you ever seen a dead quail? Ever? No you have not. Take your foot off the gas, but do not brake for quail.”

Never has he ever told me he wished Dad was here for something over me. But we one hundred percent agree that James is way better at this than me. I’d been counting on it.

On Friday, July 25th, 2025, we drive down to the DMV for the driving test. Our fate is in the hands of a lady wearing a pink monster truck shirt, jeans, and sandals that keep slipping off. I find a bench outside and the dad in front of us joins me. His daughter also goes to our school and is the next driver up in front of Jacob. We watch as they exit the lot– first parking lot stop sign doesn’t appear to go well. Twenty minutes later, she pulls back across the finish line and parks in the spots. Her dad watches in trepidation. They sit in the car for an eternity. Our hearts sink. He knows she wasn’t ready. I’m watching the worst case scenario unfold before my eyes. Pink Monster Truck finally exits the car and makes a quick escape. I wish him luck and somehow the minivan sits for a second eternity, before driving off.

Jacob’s up next. He leaves with Pink Monster Truck. I watch as the brake lights of the Volvo exit the lot. I call Arlene to help the time pass. Sitting here is too nerve-wracking. Especially after the scene I’ve just watched.

At some point the Volvo comes around the corner and pulls into the spots where the minivan was. They sit in the car for a few minutes. But this time when Pink Monster Truck gets out, she’s smiling, addresses me as Mom and gives me a thumbs-up. Hallelujah praise Jesus.

The good thing is that I know deep down, even if Jake doesn’t pass this test the first time, he won’t take it that hard. He definitely won’t take it personally.

I eagerly ask him for the play-by-play and all I get is, “Of course I passed, Mom. I’m Him.”
“Oh really…”
“Yeah, I’m built different.”
I’m fairly certain I’ve uncovered the origin of all male confidence.

This past Tuesday I text Jacob a picture of his throws shoes, in the bottom locker in his room. They’re for shotput and discus. Since we moved out of the barn, he’s been lamenting they’re lost forever.

Me: “Found ’em!!!”
Jacob: “Thanks”
Me: “I’m Her“
Jacob: “No”
Cuz it makes no sense to put them there
And then you forgot”
Me: “I’m built different”

It’s good for the boys to spend time with their adopted cousins. The feminine energy is palpable. And yes, the boys are a curiosity unto themselves. But overall a compatible pack.

I particularly enjoyed watching Jacob spend quality time with Eliza. Jake’s sixteen and Eliza’s six. Watching the original boss baby navigate a six-year-old is pure karmic comedy.

After his first night at the kids table, Jacob asks to be “upgraded,” but he continues to drift back. At one meal, I hear him say, “Eliza, you have to eat some of that chicken if you want dessert.”

”Jacob!” I interject, “You can’t just parent other people’s kids.”

Her mother laughs and rolls her eyes and says something along the lines of, “It takes a village.” Next thing I know, Jacob’s reaching across the table and cutting-up Eliza’s chicken for her. She eats it without any additional drama and they both enjoy their desserts.

A few days later, we’re on our tour of the Louvre. Jacob’s in the other group with Eliza. I tell Jennifer Anne that we know Eliza will be the weakest link in terms of how long they can walk on this tour. “But seriously, Jacob will be right behind her.” Later that afternoon, Alesia shows us the cutest, funniest picture of the two of them perched together on a lone gallery chair.

On our final early morning trip to the airport, it’s 6:15am and Jacob finds himself sitting across from Eliza in the van.

”Eliza, stop kicking me.”

”I’m not kicking you.”

”Yes, you are.”

”I can’t help it. My feet havetah dance.”

“No they don’t.”

“Yeah, they do.”

On our last day in Paris, we enjoy a lovely Italian lunch in Saint-Germain at Gioia. I was so excited to order the grilled vegetable salad and to finish the meal with a cup of Illy. Italians know coffee. After lunch, Nate and I go looking for a boulangerie while Jacob and the girls eat crepes on the sidewalk. We return as a motorcycle gang rolls-up. For us.

Picture seven French guys on retro motorcycles, complete with sidecars. It’s a bit of a scene. Thirteen of us. Seven of them. The roar of the engines. That moment of unease as everyone pairs off and you find yourself searching the crowd for a partner. One of the guides calls to me and offers me a helmet. I feel special when Eve volunteers to be my sidecar.

Grégoire straps Eve in with her blanket and optional goggles. He tells me I can hold onto the handle or to him, whichever I prefer. And we roll out of there in a rumble of engines, whoops and hollers.

It is exhilirating. It is freezing. Grégoire throttles it as we head down an underpass and I hold onto him for dear life. As we zip around Parisian traffic, passing on the right, and winding in and out of lanes, he tells Eve and me all about the things we pass. We see Jane Birkin’s house. And the beautiful, bougie Place Vendôme. He regales us with history and dates and all kinds of sites and scenery. Eve and I learn all kinds of things about our guide. He’s twenty-four. His mom owns a clothing store. His dad does cybersecurity for the stock exchange. His sister is a waitress. He’s doing this motorcycle gig as he’s prepping to take the French bar exam. He tells me he’s learned all his English through this job, which seems hard to believe, but he’s a smart guy. His job is to make sure we’ve got the entire group, taking side streets and circling back to follow the pack up the hill.

I ask him how many times he’s crashed. Perfect record– except for the time a taxi took off the sidecar’s fender while he was parked at a red light.

We stop for a huge group picture in front of the Moulin Rouge. We scale the streets of Montmarte, tourists and locals waving and snapping pics, arriving at the Sacre Coeur at sunset. Then we descend by the light of a full moon.

It was absolutely my most favorite thing we did, probably because Eve and I got the best guide. Jacob and Nate rode together. I’m told when they passed the last remaining vineyard in Paris, which Grégoire described in great detail…

Their guy pointed to his left and said, “Wine.”

After our picturesque adventures in Colmar, we boarded the train back to Paris where we spent five unbelievable days. We barely escaped with our lives trying to visit the Jellycat Patisserie. We scaled the Eiffel tower at night. We watched New Year’s Eve fireworks from the Champs d’Elysee. We took a fun and educational walking tour with Pierre. We visited the Louvre with a guide who was a Spurs fan– we let it slide. We saw a show at the Moulin Rouge where Auntie Alesia gave Jacob his first small glass of champagne. And more nudity than they’d bargained for. The look on the boys’ faces was absolutely priceless. The football fans toured the PSG stadium. The kids went shopping in a fancy Parisian department store. We bought chocolates. We bought Eliza’s weight in butter. We ate big lunches and big dinners and tried all the things.

One evening we arrived at Chez Georges on Boulevard Pereire for dinner. Our waiter spoke fluent French but was a confident, elderly British gentleman. We proceed around the table, he gets to Nate, and Nate orders the Calf’s Head.

The waiter presumptuously declares, “No. You won’t eat it.”
“Nate, is that what you want to order?”
“Yes, I’ll eat it.”
The waiter continues to tell my son what he can and can’t have.
“Why?” I ask, “Is it disgusting?”
“Madam, it wouldn’t be on the menu if it wasn’t delicious.”
“Nate, you order what you want. You get to decide.”

Nate orders the calf’s head. Because he’s Nate. He’ll try any food. Brains, tongue, beef cheek? Test him, Mr. Belvedere.

Jacob orders the duck. The rest of the kids order the usual. Everyone’s looking forward to what’s coming next.

Our dishes come and Nate’s is not what I expect. Maybe it’s the beef tongue? Mr. Belvedere is too busy to check on us so I can’t ask him. Jacob has a hefty Staub pot placed in front of him. Everyone digs in.

When everyone’s plates are empty, Mr. Belvedere stops by. I flag him down. “I don’t understand– the calf’s head wasn’t what I was expecting.”

The man goes over to Jacob’s pot and pushes the fork around. There’s nothing left. We all gasp at this surprising turn of events. Mr. Belvedere provides some excuse, blaming Jacob, for why they served the calf’s head to the wrong kid. Nate feels ripped-off. But nothing an entire plate of profiteroles drowned in liquid chocolate can’t soothe.

No one believed Nate would order the calf’s head. They were even more surprised when Jacob ate the entire thing, no questions asked.

Raise adventurous eaters. Check.

We spent several days exploring Colmar and driving out to Kayserburg. We flew down the Tricky Track. We ate street food. David kept ordering mustard and getting giant flatbreads covered in Munster cheese. Unfortunately, we declared the Tarte d’ Alsace better from Trader Joe’s. Fortunately, the hotel buffet was beautiful. The boys filled a minimum of three plates at breakfast every morning. They slathered things with various butters from the butter station. Eliza ate kiwis like egg cups and told me to call her Lil’ Kiwi. And she downed crepe after crepe covered in lemon juice with mashed sugar cubes.

Our first night in Colmar, we walked to dinner at Ville de Paris. We’re seated upstairs in a quaint room perfect for our sizeable party of thirteen. The grown-ups order starters and drinks. We get to Alesia, and she begins odering for some of the littles at the far end of the table. Chicken nuggets and pomme frites. You want four chicken nuggets. You want two pomme frites. No. Three chicken nuggets with pomme frites. One chicken nugget with spaetzle. So you want two chicken nuggets. One pomme frites. One spaetzle.

The waiter’s frustration is rising. We’re all talking. Trying to help. His little calculator order taking machine is trembling. He tells us to read the menu and he’ll come back. We all re-read the menu and it doesn’t make sense. How are pomme frites le plat principal? Aren’t we trying to choose a main dish and a side?

Our server comes back and he has erased everything. He’s punishing us. Oh he did put in our alcohol requests but everything else, c’est fini. We all reorder our entrees and plats again, fully anticipating a side of spit.

Our food finally arrives and we eat what we’re given. Mine was delicious, but I broke the rules and ordered two entrées. Charles is sitting across from me and he’s ordered what he’s calling Chowkraut. It’s a plate of sauerkraut and sausages. The waiter places the dish on the table, and points it right at us. My unnamed companion points out the questionably placed potatoes. I can’t help it. We dissolve into a fit of giggles.

Honestly, it was so indecent I can’t even post the picture on this family-friendlyish blog. Oh, geez… does Esteban work nights?

After the best fully prostrate red eye experience we’ve ever had, we arrive in Paris, pile into some vans, and then pile onto a train. When the rental car pickup doesn’t go as planned, we pile onto another train from Strasbourg to the idyllic little town of Colmar. It’s darling. Decorated to the nines for Christmas.

The next morning, the boys and Amy and I set out to explore. We visit markets, Amy and I drink multiple gluhweins (white and red), and we pop into various shops.

We find a specialty store of spices and teas and Amy buys a present for some friends at home. As she’s making her purchase, the surly shopkeeper turns sweet, bopping the forehead logo on her pink beanie. Turns out they’re both wearing the same beanie brand.

After five or six Christmas markets, we mosey our way back toward the hotel. But first we’re beckoned into a cheese shop. Huge wheels of cheese are displayed just out of reach. The young kid entices us with free samples and engaging Frenglish. We all try the truffle cheese. It’s sheep’s milk so oui, of course we must try all the truffle cheese. The boys agree, the cow’s milk is so much better. We also try nettle cheese and at this point, we’re having so much fun that another man associated with this shop joins in.

Somehow this cheese tasting conversation takes on an… innuendo. As perhaps only the French have mastered. The language barrier is real. It morphs into Spanish. The new guy, Esteban, is built like a a cheese wheel. Barrel-chested if we’re being generous. He’s a man who enjoys his job, suggestively flirting with me while enveloped in a voluptuous vape cloud. I’d forgotten how good I am at flirting with French strangers in Spanish.

They wrap-up and vacuum seal our $50 worth of truffle cheese. Esteban wants to know my name. He definitely bites his bottom lip.

My name?
Zhah-may.
Do you know what that means in French? A flirtatious squint.
Neh-ver.

And we sweep out of the shop with our cheese. Always leave them wanting more.

In 2018, Nate was six-seven. Some of my readers will appreciate what I did there. Others, it’s too late for you.

During the NBA finals, he’s acutely aware of Kevin Durant. But he’s calling him Kevinder Ant. And so begins our obsession with Kevinders. Later that year we watch All or Nothing: Manchester City. A couple of brilliant weighted passes and I fall hopelessly in love with a new Kevinder. Kevinder Bruyne.

So now we pretty much call all the Kevins, Kevinder. And speaking of Kevinders… the boys chose Home Alone for a pre-Christmas movie night. Plus all the Prep & Landings of course. Then the day after Christmas, we threw two duffels in the Audi and set out on a highly anticipated trip to Paris, just like the McCallisters.

We get to the SLO airport and it’s smooth sailing. No one in line. Breeze through security except for Jacob’s wisdom tooth mouthwash. Which I sincerely appreciate given the grief they gave me for my carry-on candles at Thanksgiving. We clear the bomb residue test and take a leisurely stroll to the gates.

It’s time to board and there’s no plane. It’s time to take-off and there’s no plane. The app changes and it says the flight is now five hours to SFO. Maybe the plane’s taking 101. It gets weird. No one is confident the plane will arrive, or leave, or when. Jairo helps me request my luggage. I make him look me dead in the eye. He swears he’ll get it to the front if we exit back through security. He knows I know his name.

We have exactly three hours to get to SFO. I speed walk my way back to the car and pull it up as the boys reclaim our luggage. I floor it.

We have a plan to park in short term parking and so does the rest of the world. We drive up and up, floor after floor, with everyone. We have twenty minutes to get our luggage checked. On the way back down, I pull over in the garage on a random floor and toss the boys out with their passports. Get the bags checked and get to the gate. I wave them in the general direction of the international terminal and drive back into the fray. The parking garage dumps me into a new parking garage and a guy tells me it will be $4 to escape. Thankfully the attendant has the good sense to give me a pass and I find myself under the maze of SFO. Two lots and counting.

Google sends me to the east bay. I’m kidding. Ish. I see a long term parking sign and a bunch of porta potties and I pull in. I’m dying. My phone is ringing. I can’t talk. I’m under duress. On my way back to the car, a man stops me and tells me I’m in an Uber/Lyft lot and I’ll be towed. Lot three.

I head back out and follow the next sign to long-term parking. The lady tells me it’s full. She hands me a map. Lot four.

I flip a bitch and go back down the road, veering to the left toward a big Lot D sign. Lot five. All the shuttles advertise ‘Employees Only.’ I start questioning if I have my passport. A lady jumps off the shuttle and asks if I’m coming. I guess I am.

We make a big loop back from the East Bay. The boys text me they’re at the gate with everyone. I’m infinitely proud that at sixteen and fourteen, they’ve navigated this life pop quiz with ease. Meanwhile I’m living my own personal version of Home Alone, running through the airport to catch a flight to Paris.

The guy at security tells me I’m special. Yeah, five parking lots later, that’s been established. I fly through security and pull up to the gate as they’re boarding. We’re all here.

Finally, I sink into my window seat, quietly traumatized and hopped-up on garage fumes.

I have a weird feeling I can’t shake.
Did I forget something?
The garage door?
I don’t have a garage.
That’s not it.

And I bolt upright and yell, “Kevinder!”

I didn’t… but I should have.

I’m sitting in a Hampton Inn lobby.  In a little town in Pennsylvania, the morning of my Aunt Rozanne’s celebration of life.  It’s brought back all the memories.  Especially the Thanksgivings at Aunt Rox and Uncle Tom’s.

None of us are sure how many times we came for Thanksgiving over the years.  It feels like it was an annual tradition.  Or maybe it was only two or three times during those most formative years.  The photographic record is spotty.  But it left a lasting impression.  It still never really feels like Thanksgiving if we aren’t at their house.  Feeding our puzzle addiction and going to Penn State football games and visiting the Monroeville mall movies.

We’d pull up to their yellow brick house, a lifesize cardboard JoPa greeting us in the window.  Back before the king fell.  A pack of little dogs greets us.  Yipping and barking and attacking us with love.  And we’re enveloped in a frenzy of animals and cousins and all of the foods special to my family.

My mom is the youngest of three sisters.  When I was little I’d sit at the kitchen counter on the weekends, swinging my legs as I perched on a stool.  Drinking in the half of the conversation I could hear as she caught-up with her older sisters.  Her eldest sister, Sara, looked like my mom and their mom and was clearly the first born.  As a fellow big sister, she’s easy for me to understand.  Aunt Rozanne, or Aunt Rox as we called her, was the middle sister.  She laughs and swears, maybe even more than my mom, which is saying something.  She has these beautiful pink cheeks and her eyes sparkle.  I love listening to her accent.  She’s the only one that looks like my grandfather, Pop, which I always found so intriguing. My mom is the youngest.  Relishing this role as only Aunt Suzy can.

While I don’t think Aunt Rox likes to cook, she likes to eat.  And when we’d visit she’d make all our most favorite foods.  Mouthwarmers and Texas Sheet Cake and big piles of stuffing.  My mom used to talk about how she’d eat milk toast growing up.  I’m still not sure I even know what that is, but I know Aunt Rozanne loves it.  She’d bring big pans of lasagna to the cabin.  And let us eat any treat we wanted.  She taught me to make peanut butter toast and tea.  And while I never slathered butter on my toast prior to the peanut butter, like Uncle Tom, it’s still my most favorite, go-to comfort food.  Soothing to the soul.  The only appliance I took to college was a toaster for this very reason.

Aunt Rox has two daughters and so she always knows what girls like.  In sixth grade she mailed me my first electric razor so I could shave my legs.  My aunts would buy me make-up and things teenage girls like.  One time we went to New York City and all the sisters went clothes shopping and took my cousin and me to the theatre.  But Aunt Rox is also practical.  Sending me a tool box with all the supplies when I left for college.

On those Thanksgiving trips, she introduced us to the mischievous mirth of pranks.  She loved to give us fake dog poop and dog vomit and teach us exactly how to place it to get the best reaction.  She taught us the trick of putting Saran Wrap under a toilet seat and the glee of a whoopie cushion.  Once she bought us a book called Walter the Farting Dog.  It came with an accompanying Walter stuffed animal, true to his name.  She liked it even more than my little brother and me.

We all know how much Aunt Rozanne loves animals.  She taught me how to befriend Buddy the parrot.  Singing and dancing and making a real raucous.  We fed her pig, Bonkers, grapes.  We looked everywhere for her beautiful cats that would hide around the house.  One time she took us to the mall to play with the puppies.  Back when you could do such things.  There was a cocker spaniel that bit my long hair and I fell in love.  She loves animals even more than my dad.  When I was in second grade we had twenty one animals.   Multiple times we took Aunt Rox to the Santa Cruz flea market and came home with a parrot.  Maxi for sure.  And an umbrella cockatoo named Roxy in her honor.  I always thought maybe my dad should have married my Aunt Rozanne over this shared love of animals.  But the universe knew better than to create that kind of Tiger King match.

Aunt Rozanne had the best love life.  Her stories were mysterious and memorable and the kind you hope to have after a life well lived.  And even just this week we found some pictures that left us wanting more.

We spent many family trips together.  Visiting the parrots in Sanibel and shelling on the beach.  We paddled canoes and looked for horseshoe crabs.  When I was older, we mixed girlie drinks and drank them on the lanai.  And at the cabin in Flatrock, she gave baby Jacob his first cabin bath in the turkey roaster.  She lounged on the porch and asked about our fishing excursions and brought masks for the outhouse we call Sutton Memorial.

Speaking of the Sutz, she was a loyal reader of my blog.  This one.  The one I started sixteen years ago.  I like to think she genuinely enjoyed it, once telling me it would make a great book to read on the pot.  Isn’t that exactly something Aunt Rox would say?

I love you Aunt Rox.  I am so thankful for you and your place in my life.  We lost my husband James almost three years ago, but it still feels like yesterday. I know Uncle James welcomed you with open arms and a big Texas Sheet Cake, made a couple days before so it would be at its best– cake in one arm, and a puppy in the other.  Happy Thanksgiving Aunt Rox.  It was the most special day with your big, beautiful family. I know you’ll take good care of James. Good thing he likes to cook and you both enjoy great food. He’s even trained on how to make mac and cheese the best way, served with ketchup of course.

As I say every night when we blow out the candle, and tuck in for the night– We love you and we miss you forever.

This morning Jacob says to me, “Oh Mom, I saw the big buck today.”

“Which one? The big daddy?”

And he’s like, “Yeah, I think we should name him.”

“Ooh, good idea. What’re you thinking?”

“I was thinking something like Hundo.”

“Huh. Wait, what?”

“You know, because he’s a buck. But like one of the biggest bucks is a hundo.”

“Oh, good one. I like it.”

Then there’s a pause as we pass in the pantry and I say, “I was thinking more like Karl.”

We thought we were so funny.