No It All

When my childhood friend, Nealy, got married, her older sister Erin gave the best speech– almost perfectly summarizing the experience of growing-up in the Santa Cruz mountains.  It talked about her parents raising tough mountain women that knew how to stack wood, dig ditches, and weather the inevitable disasters brought-on my Mother Nature.

A couple of years ago, I had to rush home at lunchtime to dig out our culvert in the rain.  There were people in my office who didn’t understand the word “culvert.”  They were like, “You what?  What’re you saying?”  Which was a true blind spot because I’ve basically known the word culvert since I learned to talk.  It was very early days that I needed to distinguish between our neighbors the Culvers, and my dad digging mud and leaves out of culverts.

Beyond culverts and disaster-preparedness, mountain kids are trained to wave at every person they drive past on the road.  Accurate identification of poison oak versus berries.  And how to handle that one day, inevitably, when your dogs will murder someone else’s chickens.  This is mountain living.

And that day came, for Piper and Lightning, back in March.  Like a good bird dog, Piper retrieved the dead chicken and brought it right to me.  And then they couldn’t stay home.  The blood lust was just too exciting.

And the tears of the Sweet Valley High twins next door were just too much.  Piper and Lightning had to go live at the club.  No.  The “Club” is not a new euphemism for the farm.  The Club is the hunting club at Hastings Island where dog-less hunters can rent a trained bird dog for the day.  And bird dogs can live their true authentic lives.  Reports via the Granddad Network are that Lightning’s loving it and Piper has rebounded from puppy parole and proven she can in fact perform when it comes to pheasants.  Probably.

To soothe the loss, James brought home three baby chicks the Thursday before Easter.  Because what we needed from our failure of pet ownership was more pets.  It turns out, we’re chicken people.  And they were adorable.  Like little bite-sized doggie doughnut holes.

We became the proud parents of Mohawk, Pipsqueak, and Quicksilver… or Silver for short.  My proposed Dixie Chick names never stood a chance.

As I’ve mentioned, Jacob is very interested in entrepreneurship and business and how you make money.  Lately he has a lot of questions about taxes and interest.  The former involving how he avoids them, and the latter involving how he can apply it to his little brother.

So today Jake decides he needs some cash and presents me with a blank piece of paper, a nub of a pencil, and a giant hard-cover Avatar book so I can create a list for him with “prices” that will incentivize him to do things like scrub buzzard droppings off the barn deck railings, sweep rat scat from patios, and vacuum under beds.  I like to list watering plants at $0 because they’ve never needed monetary compensation to squirt hoses at everything.  Meanwhile, I work on some surreptitious internet Santa research.

Afterwards we head downtown for McConnell’s and a pre-season browse at Tom’s Toys.  As we’re moseying down the sidewalk, I say to Jake, “I’ve noticed all your Iron Knee jeans have holes in the knees, huh?”

And he responds with a grin, “Oh the irony.”

And it’s so very clever, it takes me a beat till I get it.

Nate never does.

Last weekend we had our second annual Halloween party.  No joke, ever since his inaugural party, Jacob’s been planning the next one.  We’ve created a monster!  He tells me he loves planning parties.  He loves setting-up the upstairs as a Nerf gun zombie apocalypse course.  He loves filling the giant horse trough for apple bobbing.  He loves the idea of making little bowls with edible tombstones so you can decorate your own piece of cake.  And he loves that I’m making Texas Chainsaw Massacre Sheet Cake.  What ten-year-old wouldn’t love an excuse for a night of unlimited prizes, music, cotton candy, Nerf bullets, chips, cake, and helium balloons?

As we’re finishing up the preparations and ready to head back down to Damon Garcia for our second round of soccer, Nate finally appears from the downstairs bathroom in the barn.  His version of helping set-up is to sit on the floor and play with the bathroom scale for an hour.

“Mom, mom.  I’m 628 ibs!  628 ibs.”

On October 14th, the real license plates got put on my car.  It’s kind of sad really.  How quickly the paper plate era flies by.  Now in my recounting of that great date in July when I set forth on my first unassisted automobile acquisition expedition, I didn’t quite capture the full car shopping sitch and my Three.  Great.  Mistakes.

Mistake #1: I took the boys down to the SLO Volvo dealership first.  And of course we test-drove a brand-new version of the plug-in SUV I’d had my eye on.  And it was fully loaded.  Scott took us on a test drive and demo’d all the bells and whistles.  It had a sound system that allows you to choose from famous music halls to a personal acoustical concert in your living room.  The front console is essentially an iPad on steroids.  Talk to the Volvo Siri and she’ll read your text messages to you.  The back seats have these two little buttons where child booster seats magically raise and lower, perfectly camouflaging back into the upholstery for the convenience of your work colleagues.  Having recently experienced the triple humiliation of working myself into a sweaty mess removing booster seats, hastily brushing away the disgustingness that lurks under and behind all seats recently occupied by little boy bum-bums, and then also having to jump-start my car in the parking lot at work, while the CEO and founder of a partner drives by and waves, I don’t know how I can live without this feature.  And the pièce de résistance?  Scott tops it off by showing the boys they can wave their foot under the rear bumper and the rear door will open and close, hands-free.  They dub it “The Slick One” and no other car can compare.

Mistake #2: For good measure, we drive a used hybrid BMW SUV with a teenager named Jake, and next door, a new hybrid Mercedes with Fil.  The Beamer smells like cigarette smoke.  Can’t tell if it’s the car, or slightly bigger Jake.  He’s been off the cigs for a week.  Needless to say, we never should have driven these lesser cars after The Slick One.  As all good realtors know, most people don’t believe the first house they see could possibly be “the one.”  They just started their search.  They’ve hardly played the field.  How could the first one out the gate be the best?  Forgetting to plan the strategic order of test drives… rookie mistake.

Mistake #3: The little people think they’re key decision makers.  Tens of thousands of dollars more for the foot thing?  Totally worth it, Mom.  We neeeeed it.

I bring the Bat Mobile home and the boys are underwhelmed.  Yeah, yeah… it has the rear camera.  And the heads-up display.  The rear of the car raises and lowers with the touch of a button?  Big whoop.  No booster seats?  Pashaw.  What about the foot thing?  You didn’t GET THE FOOT THING?  Hmmmmm.  You should’ve got the Slick One.  And they abandon me in the driveway.

This weekend we’re in the SESLOC parking lot after Nate’s team’s narrow win against Finn’s Pink Panthers.  Nate scored two.  James and the boys are stuffing the soccer stuff into the back of my car when, for the second time in two weekends, there’s a warning beep and the dang hatch starts to come down on his head before I save his life.  Ungratefully, James glares and grumbles at me like I’m purposefully attempting to concuss him and it dawns on me…

Step away.  Run your foot under the rear bumper.  The door beeps and begins to raise.

Take that Chumps– it is The Slick One.

Two weekends ago we had back-to-back soccer games at Damon Garcia.  On these days I position myself in between both fields and kind of ping-pong pivot back and forth.  I generally find myself in “enemy territory” for the Bullsharks, which is Nate’s team.  It’s apparently gauche to be cheering for your team while surrounded by the parents of the team your third-grader just scored his third goal on.  Touché.

Meanwhile, the Tsunamis were having a rough go against Nate’s teammate Connoly’s brother. The brotherly loyalties are complex out on the Saturday pitch.  Fortunately, Jake had a shutout during his fourth quarter as goalie.  Following the games, I talked the boys into lunch at SLO Brew The Rock.  It was hot and hoppin’.  By this point Jacob has already spiraled from his post-game mini-Gatorade.  “I’m NOT hungry Mom.  I don’t want anything.  Don’t get me anything.  I’m not eating.”

This is where you always agree.  Always.  Nod in agreement and answer noncommittally when he asks you if you’re ordering him something, despite his clear orders.  Then get him a cold, bubbly drink.

So the boys and I are sitting outside, surrounded by games and umbrellas and people drinking beer.  Five sips into his frosty ginger beer and the frosty Jake begins to thaw… “So what’d you get me?”

“Chicken strips and fries.  And you’re going to need to eat some of my salad.”

He chuckles and smiles a wry, knowing smile, shaking his head, “Classic Mom.  Classic Mom.”

Right back atcha, Classic Jacob.  He ate it all, and then some.

This email from our Team Mom made me snort out loud yesterday:

I am so bad at this!  I need to remind you sooner!  Tomorrow’s game is at 3:45 so please arrive by 3:15 for warmup. Jacob is on healthy snack duty. Go team!

Sent from my iPhone

I sure wonder what “Jacob” is going to bring for his teammates…

Back in mid-July, we came home from Flatrock and NYC and The Rat Mobile rallied.  On July 19th, I made a split decision and decided to high-tail it to Santa Cruz, buy myself a car over the hill, and get back home the next day.  Plus it was Grandma’s birthday, so if I didn’t find myself stuck on the side of the freeway somewhere in the desert surrounding King City, I could also celebrate with the fam.

Now buying a car was going to be a first for me.  When James was gone, I had to learn how to use the grill and to work our television and three remote controls, but buying cars, a life skill I’d successfully avoided.  Mostly because you so much as sneeze the words “new car” and my dad and brother are out on Stevens Creek before you can reach for the Kleenex.  Seriously, I mentioned the car I’d seen on the internet and Uncle Geoff was test-driving it that same night.  He literally described the upscale gas pedal to me.  I’m infinitely blessed and grateful to have a brother who likes doing all the necessary car research I haven’t the faintest interest in googling, who can then coach me on all the things I’d never know I should know and can commit to memory for 48-hours, before promptly erasing from long-term memory.

So on Saturday afternoon I drive the hill to the dealership to meet Fadi (pronounced Faddy, like Daddy, but not Fatty, like well, Fatty).  We’re wearing the same color shirts… millennial pink.  Now over the years, I’ve picked up some secrets to car shopping from Granddad.  First is to park your car away from the lot.  It’s important to just apparate, Harry Potter-style, onto the car lot so that first, they can’t judge you based on The Rat Mobile you drive and second, you can dramatically walk to your car as the sales rep in the cheap suit chases after you.  Third, if you can, pay cash.

So I apparate onto the lot.  Fadi brings around the perfect, barely-used, climate-conscious, plug-in hybrid 2018 Volvo SUV in a pearly white.  29,000 miles.  We drive it.  This is it.  It doesn’t have the built-in booster seats that are the only upgrade I want, but whatevs.  The Rat Mobile is not coming home.  Fadi doesn’t know that.

They want to examine my trade-in.  I literally hope no rodent corpses rain down on the inspecting mechanic.  How embarrassing would that be…  “The check engine light is on– we can only give you $1,000.”  Really, they only mentioned the check engine light?  Hot dog, this is my lucky day.

Fadi says this SUV is already on sale.  He can’t do anything on the price.  I’m a Soccer Mom alone at a customer-free dealership buying a car for the first time, wearing a pink shirt.  I’m not buying this car without getting something.  I want money off.  I want a longer warranty.  Whaddaya have to work with, Fadi?  I use the old “call my husband” gig.  He goes into the back to talk to his tough-as-nails sales manager.  It doesn’t matter to him that I’m considering paying cash.  He says it’s an R-Design.  I gather this makes it fancier.  Really fancy apparently.

I get up and head out.  We don’t have a deal.  I’m headed down to the Volvo dealership– for a little more I could get a brand new one.  “Oh don’t be like that.  Sit down Jaimie, sit down.  Don’t you trust me?”

“I just met you.”

We finally work our way to a deal.  I write out the check.  He’s relieved and happy to make the sale.  Now that it’s over, he wants to debrief the negotiation.  “Were you serious when you said you didn’t care about the R-Design?  Seriously?  How could you not care about that?”

“Yep.  I could give a flip.  What I really wanted were the booster seats.”

“Man I tell ya… you should be in sales.”

I am in sales, Sir.  Goodbye Rat Mobile.

Hello Bat Mobile.

It’s that time of year here on the Central Coast.  The days are crystal clear and a little too hot, but with the bite of fall in the air.  Every evening as we’ve returned home after school and work, a mama dear and her baby are lounging in the shade of the oak trees in the lower meadow.  The baby is exceptionally prettier than the other babies.  Her name is Clarice.  They’re mostly ambivalent to the monkeys that get out of the quiet new white machine, slamming their doors.  Except when those monkeys chase them, hooping and hollering through the trees in their Crocs.

This is also the time of year when backseat car drives mostly center around what to be for Halloween and fantasies of Mama projects to make last year’s party into an annual tradition.  Zombies, or rather Zombie killing is still the theme of choice.  Jacob plans to be a zombie hunter again… he just needs ANOTHER $100 Nerf gun to make his costume complete.  The fifteen Nerf weapons he already has just don’t have that zombie slaying je ne sais quoi.

Meanwhile, Nate is racked with indecision.  Making personal decisions, without brotherly advice, continues to be an ongoing area of focus for his individual development plan.  They’re in the backseat and Jake suggests, “Why don’t you be a Zombie Assassin?”

“Uh, what would I wear?  Like sweatpants and a jacket?”

“Yeah, and you could wear the mouth bra.”

“What’s a mouth bra?”

“You know, the mouth bra.  It’s black.  From our ninja costumes.”

I’m dying in the front seat.  There is zero self-consciousness or embarrassment taking place in this convo.

“Oh yeah… Mom, do we still have the mouth bras?”

It’s supportive and stylish for those active zombie-chasing nights.  And for the record, I used to call it a face bra.