NorthSideFour Plus Russell

Three years is a long time to wait, even longer when you're ten years old and three years accounts for just under one third of your life. But wait three years they did, and their patience and diligence has paid off in one big furry reward named Russell.

This summer they worked in earnest, presenting their case early with a well written persuasive essay outlining the benefits of dog ownership, and making clear their plan to meet and exceed all expectations regarding care. They searched online for a suitable pet, initially setting their sights on a young beagle named Tiny Dancer who was available at a nearby shelter. Their informative paper written about Tiny Dancer included this line, "I'm sure we all agree that we will want to change Tiny Dancer's name immediately", but alas, Tiny Dancer was adopted quite quickly by a family perhaps better suited to Elton John admiration. The girls were disappointed but undeterred, the search continued.

It was Jack who needed convincing and yet it was Jack who found Russell, a five year old Beagle/Jack Russell mix who was surrendered to a nearby shelter when his family moved to Ireland. He was confused at the shelter and wanted little to do with us, by evening he was sound asleep in my lap. He slept until almost 10:00 the next day, earning a place, if not yet in Jack's heart, at least in his good graces. He is happiest with Mary and Kate, finally eating, and working hard on his chase the tennis ball skills. He is the perfect dog for us (although I am campaigning for a name change: Rousseau, Roosevelt, Franklin). Good work girls, patience and diligence do have rewards, you did a fine job, and so did your Dad.

Welcome home Russell.

Three years ago our beloved beagle Eleanor Roosevelt died, the girls and I have been campaigning for a dog ever since. 

Eleanor Roosevelt

People said "you can't have a beagle in the city, they're too loud, they bark too much", but I was not convinced. I combed the Internet when I should have been working, looking for beagle rescue sites near home, but to rescue a beagle you had to go to Michigan, or Wisconsin, there was nothing in the city.

My father had recently died, my husband had finally agreed to getting another dog, and I was convinced that a beagle was the perfect dog for us. On a Saturday morning in November we happened to drive by the city pound, nowhere near our apartment. Jack was certain we wouldn't find a beagle, I wanted to look, it wouldn't hurt to check.

In the second room, full of row after row of dogs in cages, we found her. She was literally bone thin, her big head and long nose exaggerated by the scraggly body. On her cage was a red tag, a warning, but there was no description, nothing to warn about it seemed. The pound worker let us take her outside where she immediately curled up in the grass. We had a ball to throw which she looked at, and then us, and laid back down. I sat down next to her, while Jack continued the effort to engage her in play, and she moved over and put her head in my lap. He knew then, this was going to be our dog. But what about the red tag? The pound people guessed it was there because she was timid; she was a return dog, someone took her and brought her back, so they thought that perhaps she was not good with children. We had no children but had been married just over one year and thought children were a possibility, if not soon, someday. I was convinced we had the time, that she would be fine. We took her home.

On the way home she vomited on my feet in the car.

We bought her a bed and a kennel and read about all the best ways to train a dog. Immediately I called her "Eleanor" to which Jack laughed, "she has no idea who you are talking to" but eventually she did, learning in no time that she was Eleanor Roosevelt,  a perfect name for a dog of such distinction.

She adjusted quickly to her new home, finding her big monogrammed bed suitable for her eighteen hour per day sleeping habit. And that bed, placed in a corner of the kitchen, proved to be the perfect spot for a quirky beagle who was content to lay for hours, waiting for one morsel to be dropped near her nose. That she was adopted into a largely vegetarian household was never discussed, although she did grow to appreciate tofu and garden burgers over time.

She ate chocolate cake, garbage, paper, laundry, dirt, poop, diapers, random animal bones on the sidewalk, and anything that smelled, although she did not like olives, dried pasta or bananas. She routinely ate things that upset her stomach, sending us too often to the emergency vet late at night, and once to the corner store for hydrogen peroxide (see chocolate cake). Together we walked the neighborhood, Eleanor out in front meeting neighbors and making friends. She slept in our bed, under the covers near our feet.

One year later I was pregnant. We read all we could about introducing the dog and the baby, concern over the undefined red tag still lingering. Jack dutifully took a baby blanket home from the hospital, to give to Eleanor a "heads up" as to what was coming. Three days later the actual babies arrived.

She was overjoyed to have us home, jumping and crying and celebrating. We put the babies on the ground, for her inspection. She sniffed each one extensively, looked at us, looked back at them, and found a nice spot to curl up, for a nap. Eight months later they were dropping, throwing and spilling food with wild abandon; Eleanor surely thought the heavens had opened, food was falling from the sky.

As soon as Mary was able to see the world around her, she saw Eleanor. She laid on her, pulled on her, sat on her and loved her. One year later her first word was something that sounded like Eleanor, more specifically, Elnor, which the beagle recognized immediately as her own.

In her 8 years with two little girls, she has worn flower leis, doll sweaters, tutus, diapers, t-shirts and socks. She has suffered the indignity of bows tied on her tail and Santa hats on her head. She has attended tea parties, dance parties and magic shows. She has been a bench, a foot stool and a pillow. More than once she has looked at me with a "really? why me?" expression, only to return to having her ears brushed and costume fitted.

Eleanor has been a terrible house guest, pooping immediately in almost every home she's visited. While bunking with friends recently, she opened their kitchen cabinet and helped herself to all the garbage she could find, leaving a trail of discarded yogurt containers and chicken bones throughout their apartment. The neighbors upstairs often leave their back door open and Eleanor has seen that as an open invitation to come inside. Once they found her in their bed, napping.

The girls have, in the past year, started walking her. Her slowed gait, not quite as eager to chase anything that moved, combined with their growing independence made this a perfect pairing. They tottle down the street, the three of them,  as I walk behind, poop bags in hand (because they are just not ready for that chore). Often the leisurely stroll gives way to hysterical laughter as Eleanor wanders on the other side of the tree, and as the girls scream "bread and butter!" she tangles herself in her leash, all three lost as to how to remedy the situation. They talk to the neighbors, Kate stopping to explain her dog's now full coat of gray hair while Mary continues on, her "Eleanor", now fully pronounced and so full of giggles it is as uniquely her own as "Elnor" was seven years ago.

Yesterday, for the first time in eight years, I threw the crusts from Mary's sandwich in the garbage.There is no beagle underfoot waiting for a crumb to drop, no big huge eyes watching for the extra piece of cheese to land on the floor. Eleanor died on Sunday, in her sleep, in her favorite place to be, at home in the girls' room.

With the perspective of four days, I can say that I am happy she was able to die on her own, when she was ready, and I'm thankful that we didn't have to make the decision for her. She was tired, and had, in the last few days, lost some of her ravenous appetite, for both food and squirrel chasing. But we thought we were entering the old lady years, in no way were any of us prepared to say good-bye.

It's too quiet here. I miss the click click of her nails on the floor and the jingle of her collar. I miss having someone follow me from room to room, miss seeing her buried under her blanket, on her bed in the corner.

Mostly, I miss Eleanor, we all do. 

Because Mary and Kate Get It

Two nights ago, on our evening walk, Eleanor Roosevelt and I spotted the first fireflies of the summer. Eleanor barely noticed. She continued on with her incessant sniffing of the sidewalk while I followed the path of the flying bug, hoping to see another shot of light before we made it home. The first firefly is an announcement of the arrival of summer, and that it happened in the last week of school made it even more remarkable. Eleanor was not at all excited and treated the whole monumental occasion as very everyday, as if she happens upon the first fireflies of the season nightly. I could not wait to get home and tell the girls.


When Jack and I got married, children were an understanding but not a great plan. They arrived at about the time we would have liked, as part of the natural progression of marriage. That I can recall, no one has ever said to me, without sarcasm, "why did you have children?", or if they did, I didn't have a good answer. It wasn't part of a grand scheme to leave a bit of us on the planet; we had no need to produce an heir, we have no land that needs farming nor business that needs a plan of succession. We had children because we wanted to, without one truly tangible reason, and very little planning.

Children are a great deal of work. They require me to be on my best behavior as often as I possibly can. They expect more from me than anyone ever has, and make me want to be the person that can live up to those expectations. They need me to cook their food and tell them when to go to bed, to laugh at their jokes and make sure their feet are clean. It's a commitment, one that means I skip my favorite art fair, on a beautiful sunny Chicago day, to stay home and rub the back of a feverish and crying child.

But Mary and Kate appreciate fireflies, and that's reason enough for me.

How Far For Pho?

It's an ongoing battle. My want of life in a charming small town versus my husband's insistence that there is no such place. My visions involve summer dirty children, running wildly in great expanses of grassy fields, riding bikes on sidewalks to the main street ice cream store (Eleanor Roosevelt panting in chase behind them), long lazy days on blankets eating sandwiches and analyzing clouds, and Independence Day parades full of local high school marching bands, Miss Blue Hydrangea 2012, and dogs in Uncle Sam hats.

Jack's vision involves Wal-Mart.

"Would you give up Vietnamese food for life in a small town? Because there are no Vietnamese restaurants in small towns", he says with the authority of one who has visited every small town in each state I find acceptable to call home.

"I would not. I love pho. Maybe I could learn to cook it myself".

This portion of the conversation is now over, Jack is laughing too hard to return fire.

The girls and I return home from picking up the dry cleaning and a stop at the tea cafe nearby. I'm aglow, basking in the kindness of those who always remember my children, and almost always have a small something for them to stuff into their pockets. This week it is a hair bow, from the dry cleaner, a trinket her daughter picked up in Korea. "Imagine the familiarity in a small town Jack, imagine how friendly it would be and the sense of community...", my voice trailing off, wandering miles from our apartment.

"There are no dry cleaners in small towns. There are no people with daughters who randomly stop by Korea to pick up some hair bows", he counters.

But there are cafes, and women working there who smile often and pinch cheeks and ask if I'd like my English muffin toasted or on the griddle. There are farm fresh eggs and local honey, hotcakes and corn cakes and pure maple syrup. There's a guy named Sam who sits outside the cafe in the morning, reading his paper and waiting for Wilma, his wife of 58 years, to finish having her hair done next door at the Curl N' Cut beauty shop.

Jack's small town breakfast is a ham, egg and cheese biscuit from the Burger King drive-through, tossed to him by a pimple faced teenager, working on Saturday morning to pay off the final installment on his girlfriend Jessie's tattoo. Just a few more Whoppers to go before her backside reads, in full, Jessie n' Josh 4Ever, with entwined hearts and roses. The biscuit smells of cigarette smoke; Josh has been sneaking a few in the break room, the stress of tattoos and parenthood at 17 are really getting to him.

Jack grew up in a small town, I did not. He is deeply familiar with crossing highways on foot to get to the school, Dominoes pizza as the sole option (in both delivery and ethnicity) and the eternal ache of wanting to find something bigger. I am familiar with strip malls, dual turn lanes, subdivisions and the easily replicated vibe of modern suburbia. My ache was in wanting to walk to town to visit my dad at work, waving to Floyd and Goober as I ambled along the dusty roads. Impossible, my dad worked in an office building in the middle of a huge parking lot, surrounded by overpasses and faux woodsy bike paths. Not once did I walk to his office, or anywhere; there is no walking to actually get anywhere in the suburbs, all walking is reserved for laps in enormous indoor malls and designated walking trails (frequented by the suburban villain, the flasher).

The battle continues. I search the internet for Vietnamese pho recipes and online sites that deliver nuac mam, sawgrass and sriracha sauce. Jack savors the shrill of sirens on our street at four in the morning. The girls wear hair bows from Korea, Sam and Wilma celebrate another anniversary and Josh and Jessie make wedding plans.

We will never move.

Bakers Two, Part Deux

It's been a very long week, which is not the way I wanted to kick off the holiday season. It happens, but I've lost any inclination to write, or cook, or change my socks. I'm re-posting, from my limited selection of holiday related essays. It might happen again; I'm too busy enjoying the falala and the hohoho to take off my dancing shoes and flex my fingers.

Bakers Two, originally posted in January of 2010.

He was certain, or close to certain, that there were two girls. As I had spent the better part of the previous five months faking excitement while staring at the foggy screen, I had no real means to challenge his opinion, and Jack was passed out on the floor, the words "two girls" having sent him directly under the table, head first. "Really, two girls, really? You are quite sure?", and he was, what he saw, and what I did not, was two girls. And to think, I had been busing around all this time assuming two boys were causing me all this discomfort. I threw water on my husband, dressed and hurled myself towards the door.

Fueled by my relationship with my father, I had assumed, for the years I spent not pregnant and without children, that if in fact I was ever fool enough to throw myself into this madness, I would come out on the other side the mother of boys. To be fair, those spanky little navy blazers at Brooks Brothers figured into my future vision, perhaps my son would be born in that. He was not, in fact he came out naked, two times and in drag.

At some point I realized, once I took control of my pink phobic mind, that really, some of my very best childhood memories were directly related to my being a girl. Days spent at the ballpark with my dad included, as were the hours I amassed sitting at the counter in Mimi's kitchen. Every September we baked apple pies, for Valentine's Day a heart shaped cake and at Christmas, peppermint cookies, sugar cookies and whiskey balls. Of course I could have been a boy, and there were days that my father might have thought that perhaps I was, but there was something to my girl days in the kitchen, and in a quick moment I realized that I could relive those wonderful memories with my girls. And this realization made the tiny blue blazers a thing of the past, red aprons were in my future, I was certain.

The first Christmas rolled around; at three months they were very little help, which I found truly frustrating. Mary slept through most of the Bing Crosby serenaded day while Kate fussed and insisted on sitting in the kitchen.When I then spilled a good amount of powdered sugar directly onto her small head, an indoor winter wonderland covering her small and once happy infant body, she voiced her displeasure accordingly.

Four years later she is content to bathe in powdered sugar, or chocolate, or both. There are few pleasures greater than spilling an entire cup of flour on her sister, who then returns the favor, but with melted butter. Cocoa works especially well for airborne mess, and cookie decorating sugars are best used to enhance the somewhat dull brown and black hair that covers Eleanor Roosevelt. And when we have at last exhausted all our baking efforts, the girls revel in licking all things containing raw eggs which, as we know, was not a problem at all when I was a child. Before raw eggs were exposed as the horrifically dangerous orbs that we now know them to be, I, like many, was encouraged to lick away all remaining raw eggs from toxic plastic bowls. Not so in 2009, uncooked eggs pose every possible danger to children and I scream in horror when their batter covered fingers touch their faces. Once recovered, we all walk down the street to eat raw tuna on rice for dinner.

Valentine's Day is just over a month away. Optimistically I will have the heart shaped cake pan greased and ready, the very same one I used so long ago in that red kitchen with the old gal who had endless patience for what must have been a challenging bake off. My memories, thankfully, do not recount her putting her head on the counter and begging for sanity while loudly pleading for an armed fairy cleaning woman at her beck and call; perhaps my girls can block that out as well.

Eleanor and Lucy

The girls and I met a beagle named Lucy at the coffee shop last week. Eleanor Roosevelt the beagle offered Lucy the obligatory sniff and then sat back, quite uninterested. Lucy, a few years Eleanor's junior, tried again to engage the old gal again but with no luck.

To the kind woman walking Lucy, a few years my senior, I said "well it's really no surprise, given their history. I don't suppose we should expect them to be friends!" and laughed out loud at my own hilarity. The kind woman looked at me as if I were crazy and hastily made her exit.

Jack explained, "of course she didn't understand that. Had I not married you I would not get that joke at all. In fact I think the only other person we know who might find that funny is Jay". Recently we discovered that Jay, like me, has a favorite patriot. That alone convinced Jack that he can now outsource my need to blather on about presidential history. I've yet to run this witticism by Jay. Beagles, presidents, and romance, that is clearly can't miss humour.

I stand with you Eleanor; it certainly wasn't easy to just sit there while Lucy flaunted her younger more girlish self, her energy almost overpowering the patio, blatantly throwing her youth in your now graying long nose. That said, she seemed nice and really, not at all the kind to have a sordid affair. You just never know about people, or dogs, or just how big a geek I can be.

Lucy Mercer Rutherford

Eleanor Roosevelt

Let's Go New York!

New York is on the brink of legalizing marriage between two men, or two women. Why must this be news? Why must we all care so much? Recently Illinois said that if you really wanted, and if it really mattered, you could come to our state and get committed, but not really married, not now, maybe someday. Good for Illinois, just a little bit good, but come on New York, show us up, show us how to really do this right. I'm committed to many things: safe schools, a diverse community, healthy food, happy children, but I'm only married to one, thing. Let's go New York!

I'm posting, again, something I wrote in November of 2008, when California decided to change their ways and un-marry all those same sex wild things who had foolishly jumped in to this marriage madness. My belief remains the same, why do we care?

One Step Back, posted originally on November 14, 2008

There are days, oh the days, when the husband drives me crazy, simply bonkers. He does not wash dishes, he'll load the dishwasher but he will not hand wash one thing. He leaves the television on when he leaves the room, and he does not love, he barely tolerates, Eleanor Roosevelt. But I know he's here to stay, we're married, like it or not and thankfully we do love each other. And we're a family, the four of us (plus Eleanor) and I am quite certain that tomorrow we will be a family and the next day and the next.

Oh to be a gay man or woman in California, to not have to live with this burden, this sense of security, this insane knowledge that my marriage is legal, condoned and accepted. What it would be like to know that tomorrow I may wake up to find that I'm no longer married, that this commitment I made is simply no longer valid? That this person living in my house with me is no longer my spouse but now my roommate? I've had several roommates in my lifetime, loved them all, but did not want to marry one of them.

And here we are, celebrating an election that puts us all one step ahead while voters in California (and three other states) said no, maybe not all of us, let's leave these people one step back. And why? Why is this important to so many people? It's important to me, it makes a difference in the lives of people I love, it affects how my children will see the world, but why does it matter to you?

This morning I overheard Mary and Kate playing, they were exchanging rings and announcing "now we are married". Moving past the sister issue, I love knowing that my children think it's just fine for a woman to marry a woman or a man to marry a man. I want to be able to introduce them to my friend Peter and his husband Brian, not his friend Brian. I'd like everyone to have this opportunity, to be attached to this other person on days when you think it's the greatest thing going and on days when you want to hang the other off the back porch. Why should this emotional tether be only the sport of heterosexual couples?

Years ago I was a guest at a commitment ceremony, two men, in Kansas City. Telling my dad, my Texas Aggie Republican Dad, about my day I got "why should I care if they get married?". Really Dad? I expected so much more. And that's it, why should it matter? If someone else wants their shot at happiness, why not?

Criit'r Gitt'r Jack

I never knew Pre Internet Jack. In our life together he has always had ready access to information, in fact much of our odd courtship was spent, office to office via speakerphone, his manic surfing from place to place while I struggled to understand why Mr. Kurtz's sweep account was not funding correctly. Interesting way to get to know someone, privy to their after hours Internet search, or at least what was shared from our respective desks.

My husband will drive the same car for 20 years. He uses the bank supplied, and not at all current, Blackberry, does not own an iPod and has just recently, because of space issues, bought a flat screen television. His need for immediate gratification manifests itself in frustration at not being able to see the exact menu of the restaurant suggested by his mother for an anniversary celebration, next year, in a small town near the small town where she lives. This sort of incompetence, on the part of the small restaurant, drives him crazy.

Thankfully there are roughly the same number websites devoted to bed bug removal as there are bed bugs in the world, but not in our apartment.

Critt'r Gitt'r Jack turned to his weapon of choice and set about arming himself with information. My two days of extermination were deemed insufficient.The children were moved again, the beds disassembled, the Senator and the President removed to a safe location. I called Orkin.

It's a truly laborious and horrible process. Every single piece of clothing must be removed, bagged and sealed, and then laundered. Mattresses are dragged outside, examined and then coated with toxic fluids meant to kill anything living within. The infested room is cleaned, sprayed, boiled, and inspected. We found nothing, not one trace of bed bug. We moved to our room, clothing bagged, mattresses removed, room scrubbed, not one bug found, or one bug case, or one bug remains.

By day three Jack, now a regular in bed bug chat rooms around the Internet, was exhausted and mentally bug worn; he turned to the experts to explain our bug confusion. Late at night he logged on; true bug hunters are nocturnal, like their prey. Keep your bleary eyes open they urged, you'll find them, they're hiding. We found nothing.

Some suggested we hire a bed bug sniffing dog. While not a professionally trained bugger, but yet, a beagle with a keen sniffer, we turned to Eleanor Roosevelt. Not interested, and tired of being displaced, she opted for a nap.

Project Bug Removal is complete; the beds reassembled, the clothes returned to their clean drawers. Jack, now a para-exterminator, feels we were misdiagnosed. To think I spent years thinking bedbugs were just part of that charming childhood bedtime rhyme, "don't let the bedbugs bite", never to be uttered in our home again.

The Eagle and the Beagle

I am the eagle, I live in high country

In rocky cathedrals that reach to the sky

John Denver

I am the beagle, I live in the country

In chasing the seagulls that race to the sky

Mary

Golf Lessons

"Bedbugs?".

"Everyone in the neighborhood has them, we can't keep this stuff on the shelf, you're lucky to get a bottle".

Lucky? Not exactly the word I would chose. Mary woke up with red nibbles all over one side of her face, and here we were, receiving a diagnosis from our friendly ACE hardware man. I stocked up on all varieties of horrid looking things to squirt around my children's currently pesticide free, but apparently bug welcoming, bedroom.

The day before, two days after returning from a wonderful 10 day beach vacation, Jack was gone again, back to Michigan for his annual golf trip. They go every year, 8 of them, for four days of non stop golf with little time for frivolous late night activities, I am assured. We didn't do so well on the timing, there were still piles of sand in the kitchen. A large bag of beach toys remained in the back of the car, freshly laundered clothes were piled high on the dining room table, heaps of dirty clothes scattered on the laundry room floor, canvas bags of every size and color stood from one end of the hallway to the other and two thoroughly exhausted children, ones who have never returned well rested and fresh, were left to appear every morning intent on destroying any patience I had left to share. And now, bedbugs.

Beds were stripped, linens washed, scary killer bug stuff squirted in every corner of the room. While away, my daughter's charming bedroom was magically transformed into a creepy fleabag motel, I was determined to get it back. Mary and Kate slept for two nights in sleeping bags, a camping getaway when you are five, not an escape from the $20 per hour motel room of my mind.

The night before he left one, of two, bathrooms decided to take a holiday as well. Not a terrible problem, until the remaining bath, feeling the pressure, called it quits the next day.

Eleanor Roosevelt, sensing my growing frustration with the situation, and missing Jack terribly, decided to relieve her sense of abandonment by relieving herself on the runner in the living room. One of the children, clearly not wanting to leave Eleanor alone in this embarrassing situation, decided to go with the flow and, for the first time ever, announce "Mom! I went in my pants".

The lights in the exterior hallway went out, leaving us in complete darkness at night, and me terrified to take the dog out. The lock on the front door broke. The children, trying to help, sprinkled pet cleaning powder on every exposed surface, effectively removing any odor left behind by Eleanor, and allowing me to imagine, for three days, what it would be like to live in the laundry supply aisle at Target.

Our Internet connection flickered on and off the entire weekend, because, when left alone for four days with two young children, it's best to have intermittent communication options available. I found the window to email Jack, "bedbugs".

Golf lessons are on my to do list for 2011.

Independence Day

Beyond fireworks, which I love, and corn on the cob, my children are learning that Independence Day is celebrated, not just because it is a wonderful mid summer holiday that keeps Dad at home and brings the Uncles to Chicago, but as the day that the Second Continental Congress approved the Declaration of Independence.

But then originally those wild souls thought that future picnics, fireworks and parades would all take place on July 2nd, the day that they voted to approve a resolution of independence. My personal favorite patriot, John Adams, wrote to his wife Abigail,

The second day of July, 1776, will be the most memorable epoch in the history of America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival. It ought to be commemorated as the day of deliverance, by solemn acts of devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires, and illuminations, from one end of this continent to the other, from this time forward forever more.
Incredibly bright, well read, and rude to the French, he was off a few days; the games and guns and bonfires now happen on the fourth of July, although we all know that it is a holiday weekend and the fun lasts more than one day. In recent years it seems that any acknowledgement of the holiday beyond Roman Candles has been a reenactment of Memorial Day. Barack Obama, in a holiday email, reminds us to "honor the men and women in our armed forces whose immeasurable bravery and sacrifice have made our country what it is today".

Yes, but let us not forget the traitors who risked certain death at the hands of King George to establish the country that we live in today. In this time of flag waving American bravado, when an entire political movement honors in name a rebellion aimed at protesting taxation without representation, and yet two thirds of Americans cannot name one Supreme Court justice, it is important to remember the vital role that history plays in our understanding of the American political system, the players and the principals on which it it based.

The dog is named Eleanor Roosevelt, noted, but read John, Paul, George and Ben
to your children. History can be fun, especially when written by Lane Smith in an engaging and silly way. And remember, it was not the British that were coming, it was the Redcoats, so said Paul Revere.

How much do you know about the American Revolution? Find out here.


And why is John Adams my favorite patriot? He had an amazing wife, whose opinion he valued, and he defended the British soldiers following the Boston Massacre. John Adams knew that everyone deserved a fair trial, following a personal code of conduct before the Sixth Amendment made it law. John Adams would not have parked his horse in a handicap spot, I am certain.

Spring, But At What Price?

It's baseball season, or at least it's the beginning of the countdown. Pitchers and catchers report today, which means that there is spring in our foreseeable future. The crews are working like mad at Wrigley, sprucing up, adding bathrooms and making everything perfectly presentable for opening day. And on Friday you can join the masses and buy individual game tickets, spring really is just around the corner.

Naturally you will need to take Friday off because if you stand any chance of actually getting a ticket, you must be willing to sit in a virtual waiting room for hours and suffer the rejection of being kicked out, for no apparent reason, repeatedly. Alternatively you can huddle with a gaggle of other fools in the horrific cold, wearing your wristband with the magic number, offering you the opportunity to stand outside for hours, shuffle inside when they call your number, and then back out in an orderly fashion to the ticket windows where you will be allowed to buy a limited number of what remains available. Even with a good number, this process takes three to four hours, and I've done it several times.

Of course to avoid all this mess, not to mention cold and suffering, you have until tomorrow at noon to log in and buy all the tickets you'd like, from the warm comfort of your home or office, first choice with good seats available, if you are willing to spend 20% more than the listed ticket price. For those of us lucky to have a MasterCard, and fool enough to use it, the Cubs will graciously offer a 5% discount off the 20% premium you are already paying for insanely high priced baseball tickets.

It didn't use to be this way. In fact not so long ago I would wander past the ticket window on my morning dog walk to see what was available, a sunny day the perfect excuse to play hooky from a job I truly hated. Rather than spend the day in my windowless office closet interviewing men who had suffered at the hand of a reckless plastic surgeon, a game day ticket allowed me an afternoon of baseball with 30,000 fleeing others, tickets being fairly easy to come by, and at a price a struggling student with a terrible job could afford, occasionally.

If Eleanor Roosevelt and I were to walk by now we'd find a sign that says Game Day Tickets Unavailable. A perfect day would send me under the tracks, by the pizza place, to the guys with stacks and stacks of tickets, all mine for the right price. It's a warm day in late May and the Dodgers are in town. An upper deck infield seat, purchased Friday online would cost $46. My guess is that the under the track guys were probably willing to splurge on the amazing deal offered by the Cubs, Monday's upgrade adding 20% to the cost. Then there is the 12% entertainment tax, add to that the premium they will charge me for their services and my day at the ballpark just went to around $70, for one ticket.

This slap leaves a red mark which stings, and it's not supposed to be this way, not when I have loved you, and been so loyal, for so long.

Bakers Two

He was certain, or close to certain, that there were two girls. As I had spent the better part of the previous five months faking excitement while staring at the foggy screen, I had no real means to challenge his opinion, and Jack was passed out on the floor, the words "two girls" having sent him directly under the table, head first. "Really, two girls, really? You are quite sure?", and he was, what he saw, and what I did not, was two girls. And to think, I had been busing around all this time assuming two boys were causing me all this discomfort. I threw water on my husband, dressed and hurled myself towards the door.

Fueled by my relationship with my father, I had assumed, for the years I spent not pregnant and without children, that if in fact I was ever fool enough to throw myself into this madness, I would come out on the other side the mother of boys. To be fair, those spanky little navy blazers at Brooks Brothers figured into my future vision, perhaps my son would be born in that. He was not, in fact he came out naked, two times and in drag.

At some point I realized, once I took control of my pink phobic mind, that really, some of my very best childhood memories were directly related to my being a girl. Days spent at the ballpark with my dad included, as were the hours I amassed sitting at the counter in Mimi's kitchen. Every September we baked apple pies, for Valentine's Day a heart shaped cake and at Christmas, peppermint cookies, sugar cookies and whiskey balls. Of course I could have been a boy, and there were days that my father might have thought that perhaps I was, but there was something to my girl days in the kitchen, and in a quick moment I realized that I could relive those wonderful memories with my girls. And this realization made the tiny blue blazers a thing of the past, red aprons were in my future, I was certain.

The first Christmas rolled around, at three months they were very little help, which I found truly frustrating. Mary slept through most of the Bing Crosby serenaded day while Kate fussed and insisted on sitting in the kitchen. When I then spilled a good amount of powdered sugar directly onto her small head, an indoor winter wonderland covering her small and once happy infant body, she voiced her displeasure accordingly.

Four years later she is content to bathe in powdered sugar, or chocolate, or both. There are few pleasures greater than spilling an entire cup of flour on her sister, who then returns the favor, but with melted butter. Cocoa works especially well for airborne mess, and cookie decorating sugars are best used to enhance the somewhat dull brown and black hair that covers Eleanor Roosevelt. And when we have at last exhausted all our baking efforts, the girls revel in licking all things containing raw eggs which, as we know, was not a problem at all when I was a child. Before raw eggs were exposed as the horrifically dangerous orbs that we now know them to be, I, like many, was encouraged to lick away all remaining raw eggs from toxic plastic bowls. Not so in 2009, uncooked eggs pose every possible danger to children and I scream in horror when their batter covered fingers touch their faces. Once recovered, we all walk down the street to eat raw tuna on rice for dinner.

Valentine's Day is just over a month away. Optimistically I will have the heart shaped cake pan greased and ready, the very same one I used so long ago in that red kitchen with the old gal who had endless patience for what must have been a challenging bake off. My memories, thankfully, do not recount her putting her head on the counter and begging for sanity while loudly pleading for an armed fairy cleaning woman at her beck and call; perhaps my girls can block that out as well.

Lost Without Her Love

To understand his side of the story, you must understand that he, in no way, benefits at all from her existence. Of course it's really a chicken and egg story, perhaps if he shared some kindness the love might flow back and the benefits would be easier to recognize. As is, they march around each other, one yelling, the other gassing, coexisting in a small space of unpleasantness.

He comes to this naturally; as I understand it dogs were more of a commodity than family member when he was a child. Trouble remembering to feed the dog? Get rid of it! Dog chewed on your shoe? Get rid of it! Whereas in my family the dog was a cherished third child, always along on family vacations, draped casually on every piece of furniture we owned, forbidden from not one room, Truffles was in every sense one of us, and losing her was horrible.

But then, Eleanor has done everything possible to arm Jack with dislike. Years ago, when she had only been with us for three months, she ate an entire cake, his birthday cake. We came home from a celebratory evening out to find that she had escaped from the safety of her room, climbed onto the dining room table, removed the glass cake dome (which lay shattered on the floor) and helped herself to every bit of a very rich chocolate cake, not one scrap remained. Two calls to the emergency vet sent Jack to the corner store in search of hydrogen peroxide (on a very cold and snowy January night). The remainder of his birthday was spent inducing vomiting in a very displeased beagle. His displeasure need not be mentioned.

It used to be that she slept at the foot of our bed, occasionally even snuggling deep under the covers. Until we woke in the middle of the night to the most horrible of sounds, a violently ill beagle at our feet, covering the antique embroidered French sheet that I had just bought in London with things we cannot ever speak of again. At about five months pregnant, still reeling daily from the smell of coffee, I was absolutely no help in cleaning the mess, and the mess was voluminous.

Beagles smell everything, they eat everything they smell, and they then vomit about half of what they eat. And so it was this morning when we awoke, yet again, to that sound, and I spent my 6 a.m. hour cleaning the remains of who knows what was digested yesterday.

Jack counts the days until we lose Eleanor, although he has lived through the demise of one dog with me, I can't imagine that he is truly looking forward to suffering through that madness again. And while she is certainly getting older, Mrs. Roosevelt now in her U.N. years with Franklin long gone, she is not going anywhere, not for now. However I am fairly certain if the old gal gets her paws on another chocolate cake she and I may have some house hunting to do.

What's In A Name?

Last week, on soccer day, we were flying a kite on the beach across our small pond, so today we had make up soccer day, new coaches, new team mates.

New Coach: Do you go by Kate or Katie?

Kate: Well my name is really Katherine, since you asked. But I am usually called Kate, unless I am in trouble and then Mom calls me Katherine. And if it's really big trouble, then Katherine Dineen, but that is usually Dad. I have an aunt who is a Katherine but we call her Katie, well Aunt Katie really, and my other aunt was Katherine and they called her Teetee, but she died before I was born. Our dog is named Eleanor but her real name is Eleanor Roosevelt. We call her Rosie, or Mrs. Roosevelt, or sometimes Eleanor. My sister's name is Mary, just Mary, she doesn't have a nickname, it's always just Mary.

New Coach: So Kate?

Kate: That will be fine.

Lake Effect

In the queue, a post I started last week about the lake effect and it's wonderful ability to keep cool those who live close to the water, while those in the western suburbs suffer from summer's deep heat. The next day it was over 90 degrees in the city and it seemed silly to write about our lovely natural air conditioning when every effort was being made to keep the children from overheating. There was no consoling Eleanor Roosevelt who collapsed on the front porch in a sad heap of beagle swelter.

This morning I considered turning on the heat. The high today, possibly 60, the coolest July 1st in 79 years. The girls set out in shorts and sweaters, complaining immediately about being cold. Of course those living inland may not even hit 60, hovering in the high 50s. That's the thing about the lake effect, cooler in the summer, warmer in the winter.

A Tale of Two Old Ladies

"Try these".
"I'm fine, really".
"Try them".
"No, I'm well, alright, oh, oh dear".

Look, there it was, miso sea bass, spicy yellow tail, curried tofu, I could see it all. Jack shook his head, I succumbed to the pressure, I could see the menu. But not if you held it over my left shoulder, a dull ache on that side prevented me from turning my head, rotating my entire body, like Joan Cusak at the water fountain, was the only way I could see the room behind me. The full body twist combined with the reading glasses, my only saving grace being a pimple I felt growing on my chin; sans that I was at least my own age, if not older.

When we got home my sister reported that Eleanor Roosevelt was unable to jump up on the sofa. The next day she winced when touched. Five buildings away she had to stop and take a break, sprawling out on the sidewalk, our walk blissfully cut short as I could only hold the leash in my right hand finding it far too painful to keep hold of the slowly lumbering first lady with my left. She flatly refused to climb the steps to our apartment and so, with great care so as to not hurt her or throw my back out completely, I carried the 40 pound beagle up the stairs. We were both exhausted. She cried when the children came near, I thought she had somehow gone blind over night, being easily startled and scared. Waving my hands wildly in front of her face, I pictured her in reading glasses, red to match her collar. I wondered if seeing eye dog courtesies would be extended if neither of us could see.

Without a car, or any feeling on my left side, I scooted the two children into a taxi, hoisted the injured Mrs. Roosevelt, still unable to move, into my lap and hurried off to the vet the first thing this morning. She is not old and dying, she can actually see, she simply sprained her back. One half an anti inflammatory a day, administered tonight via goat cheese after rejecting peanut butter and pasta, and she will be fine in a few short days.

My course of treatment should be only so tasty.

Mother's Day Take Three

Last night I spent a few hours writing, trying so hard to put together what I needed, or wanted to say about Mother's Day. The truth is it's impossible to encapsulate all that this day means to me, I end up writing in circles, when what I really need to say is that I love waking up each day to these two faces bouncing at the side of my bed. And I'm thankful for today, as I remain in my bed with my laptop, the NY Times, and Eleanor Roosevelt, while a pot of tea is steeping and some sort of breakfast is being created down the hall.

Bless all those who have mothered me over the years, I'm grateful to each and every one.

Chit Chat

A conversation had by Mary and Kate today:

"Our dog is named Eleanor Roosevelt, she's a beagle, and she tinkles on our floor. All over the floor, Mom says she's getting old, like an old lady, and so she has accidents, and she poops sometimes, ooh, ick (hysterical laughter). And our dad just yells at her, all the time, Eleanor Roosevelt, stop pooping, but she's old so maybe she doesn't know but he just keeps on yelling and yelling but mostly he likes to sleep, sleep sleep sleep, all the time. Just like Eleanor, Dad and Eleanor like to sleep, all the time, they nap, but we don't like to, but we do sometimes, like today, we are going to nap today because our uncles were here this weekend, we ate ice cream and stayed up late, oh and a cupcake, we had a cupcake too. But not Eleanor, she has to spit up if she eats cupcakes, once she ate a cupcake, no a cake, and she spit up everywhere, it was icky, but we weren't born yet, we were still in mom's belly, and...".

The very young, very single guy cashier at Whole Foods was tolerant, not terribly amused, and probably not too interested in a beagle or a cupcake.

The Wild Rovers

There is something absolutely right about having dinner with two four year old girls on St. Patrick's Day, it is in so many ways just like eating with two wild rovers, two green beer drinking celebrants who have been imbibing for hours. They interrupt you, each other, the waiter, themselves. They shout out oddly inappropriate comments with no regard to place or time, Kate: "Woops! I tooted! Did you hear that?". From time to time they fall off their chairs, at least once per child per meal. Generally someone spills something, hopefully water, occasionally milk, once, my beer. They serenade the dining room, this being St. Patrick's Day we were treated to Whiskey in the Jar and the Wild Rover, loudly, the same verse repeated over and over and over again, all at the same decibel. They chatter incessantly, telling the very busy waiter all about their never ending love for good fish and chips, their grandmother's recent death and Eleanor Roosevelt's current bout with digestional issues, and the mess that ensued. They slur, they giggle, they need to use the restroom at least twice per meal, they are drunk four year olds, giddy and silly, celebrating this holiday just as they should, with wild abandon and a good sense of fun. Maybe next year we should make the milk green.