Musing it up, cracking self up

It is a spectacularly beautiful day today, so gorgeous that I didn't even mind the forty years it took to walk Percy to our neighborhood CVS and back because he is, as a kennel once told us, "extremely interested in exploring scent."

That is a dog-lover's way of spinning "your dog doesn't want to exercise but rather stick his nose onto the remnants of other animals' (or his own if we pass the same spot twice; smart dog) pee for as long as you'll allow."

A most-appealing tinge of fall is in the air; that slightly crisp chill that causes you to put on a long-sleeve t-shirt before heading out to get the paper and bring the kids to school. It'll dissipate by noon but it's not a mirage. It's the sort of weather that makes everyone love fall and want to bake apple pies and feel nostalgic for who knows what. And it's the sort of weather that never lasts quite long enough.

I'm having the same reaction that I do when spring lets you know it's coming: as if I am a biannual cleaning tornado, I am roaring through my home today. Watch out tchotchkes! Watch out "special papers"! Watch out pretty much everything! 

Also, I have to stay home today to wait for a signature-required package that I did, let me tell you, stay home all day yesterday waiting for but which, natch, came just after I left to get the boys. 

I will prevail today, FedEx. I will get that package. Which is not even for me. #husbandlovestoshop

Bygones. A butterfly just flitted past my window, Percy is snoring contentedly, Nutmeg is MIA (surely trolling the 'hood for who knows what) and I am literally laughing my ass off at a wildly intelligent, priceless exchange going on in a friend's Facebook feed about this video. 

Also I'm laughing because my new tennis racquet arrived and just look at the label!! #freetime #crackingownshitup

Wilson loves Em and Rogie

I'm also laughing because "It's Decorative Gourd Season, Motherfuckers" is again making the rounds. It's spit-out-your-drink funny. On par with the annual haters guide to the Williams-Sonoma catalog. Seriously, go improve your day and read it.

My cold is mostly gone, although were I not in such a good mood I think I'd admit that it's not as improved as I wish it were, the Pope is in town, and in addition to the tureens of soup I've recently cooked, I've also made some delicious other stuff, not least the elephantine kale salad I just made for lunch. 

Seriously, it looks as if I have (or will have) a problem.

My Cameron's smoker box was just waiting to be rediscovered, and I happened upon it just after buying some King salmon the other day. Fortuitous. I spooned some hickory shavings inside and then smoked the fish until it was taut and mahogany-colored but still perfectly moist and tender. Sublime.

Peach and tomato season is rapidly coming to a close, so we had a last round of my favorite salad creation of the summer: Tomato, Peach, Chèvre and Herbs with Apple Vinaigrette. Also sublime. 

Last night was taco night, I'm finishing up yet another plum tart (duh) ,and who knows what this evening will bring, not least because I have literally spent three hours on Facebook today. It's possible we'll have cereal. Actually, that's impossible. But maybe waffles and fried eggs.

OK, I have to go so I can fully commit myself to this giant salad, but I want to leave you with yet another hilarious tidbit. This message, courtesy of my darling Oliver, was written last night in response to an "attack" by Jack who is a really terrific big brother 96% of the time but wasin an epically irritating mood yesterday.

What is POSD and why are the fighters smiling?

Likely you need some translation. 

School is
closed
because
Jack hit
my ear. And he pushed
me down.

Clearly Oliver is a beginner in the spelling department -I mean, in what world are SGOL and POSD school and pushed?- but I love A) that he closed the school he created in and runs out of his room and which no one has yet attended as punishment and B) his accompanying picture with clear action lines provides helpful context. 

I'm still cracking up. Jack was in hysterics too.

In sickness, in health, in school

I'm fully prostrate on the couch in my serene front room. "Because it's your one nice room," the kids always answer when I ask why in here I don't want them acting as if they're on a playground. They're correct, relatively speaking. It is my nicest room, the cleanest and most adult beyond the kitchen.

Real art hangs on its walls. Books with grown-up fonts marking their spines remind me of all I've read and loved and been changed by over the years. Nicely framed photographs, a library case that we use for wedding china and stemware, and even an antique demilune table that I spent years searching for give this room a mature, somewhat elegant feel that's largely missing in the rest of our home.

Our other rooms are more practical and comfortable for a family with young sons, and, by and large, I love the commingling of New York Times sections with swim noodle light sabers, a glass vase of flowers sitting next to plastic Melissa & Doug placemats, a cat tower weighted down by cartons of Zoobs and MagnaTiles. It's a mess but a loving, lived-in one.

I can see all that from where I now lie, in a filtered-sun spot next to a snoring pug. I like the proximate remove; even though our house isn't large and the floorpan is contiguous (which means the boys can literally run circles around the house), I don't spend much time in here. My parents had a room like this, in the house in which I grew up. It had a formal couch, a piano and pale carpet. We never went in but I always loved it. It felt clean and quiet and just slightly distant.

I likely wouldn't be here right now if I weren't tuckered out by a great but wildly busy week and the cold I caught from Tom during it. I feel like such tired crap. Being sick is not a strength of mine, but I'm trying to go with it today because I do need some rest.

A most wonderful friend stayed with us Monday-Wednesday and she and I ignored reasonable bedtimes to take advantage of the fleeting time together. Then the book events on Wednesday, a play date yesterday and then, last night, Back to School Night for Jack, my fourth grader.

It's almost worth being under the weather today to get to bask in quiet gratitude about the school J and O attend. I could not feel luckier, and I mean that. 

Jack's teachers are, again, remarkable, representing Quaker- and best, most current educational- values at their very best: "Whether it's math, baseball or something within themselves, we want the kids to know that all of us are always working on something." 

To make the myriad challenges of growth normative is such an incredible gift for a child. Wouldn't it have been amazing to hear, for all us who never did or did too late, "everyone is always working on something" before we started intensely comparing ourselves to others? Before any deleterious senses of self -I'm not as smart, not as athletic, not as capable- became too entrenched? 

The teachers also said what a gift it was to teach at a Quaker school because when an educational institution's goal is to value the unique inner light in each child, it allows them to meet the children where they are as individuals, honor what about each makes him/her special, and assess growth based solely on that child's starting point. 

Math is taught not only via paper-based algorithm work but also through literature and manipulatives. Reading is honed by all reading the same books and discussing them in groups and through drawing and journaling but also by allowing each child to choose the works that immediately excite them as well as requiring kids to read a book of their choice in several different genres.

There is art and science and laughter and play. There is regular P.E. and recess and both Spanish and Mandarin and both chorus and music. There are planners and lessons on time management and community involvement and service work. There is time for creativity and dreaming. There is a profound respect for childhood that pervades the campus and the curriculum, and I am inordinately grateful. 

Rogie (Federer), Nanny, and memories

Who watched that incredible, for-the-ages, heartbreaking U.S. Open men's tennis final last night? I am still making tears and associated sad faces. Roger Federer, my Rogie, is one of the greatest players of all time and also one of the classiest. I mean, did you hear his speech just prior to being given that lame-arse, second-place plate? 

People, the plates have got to be retired. No one spends six hours a day for 18 years sweating and becoming super-human to win a plate. Even if it's sterling silver and engraved. 

Back to Rogie. The wavy hair atop his head never succumbs to scalp sweat. He is always gracious and lovely. He and his wife have TWO sets of twins. The colored side vents in his tennis shirts always line up with the same-color stripes running up the sides of his shorts. That alone is worth something more than a plate.

I honestly think that nothing more needs to be said in support of Roger. Except that if ever you've wondered why I love Benedict, it's rather the same: both RF and BC are expert at their  skill, both are classy beyond compare, AND both can wear a suit like nobody's business. Who could want more? Or, what more could one want?

Last night's game was an epic one: two real champions duking it out with various crests and falls of greatness. When T and I had been dating for about two months, I got tickets to the U.S. Open final between Sampras and Agassi. Another historic showdown, not least because Petey retired shortly after. I wonder if Rogie will do the same soon.

I grew up watching and loving tennis. I was a terrible tennis player, but my parents, sister and I used to set up a large "nest" on our family room floor -blankets, pillows, etc- and watch as much of Wimbledon and the U.S. Open as possible. My Nanny loved the sport too, and until she was no longer able, she often joined our family view sessions. 

Once I moved away and when she was too old to travel, I'd call her at the start of a match; she and I always loved the same players. Stefan (now, fabulously, Roger's coach), Pete, Roger. 

"Nan, do you have the game on? Are you watching?"

"Oh yes, do you? Isn't X handsome?"

"He sure is, Nan. I love you. I'll call you after the game, OK?"

I really wanted to call Nanny last night, both before and after the game. It's in these little moments that I miss her so deeply.

Last week, somewhere, I saw a darling elderly woman wearing those elastic-waist, faux-denim pants that Nanny always wore. Where does one get those? Will I find out after I'm 70? I saw that woman and I gasped. I wanted to see if she, like Nanny, had on a camisole, under her button-up shirt. Did she use Aqua Net hairspray? Did she wear Sas shoes? I wanted to hug her, and maybe take her hand, to see if it was soft and cool and smooth like Nanny's, like I can't imagine mine ever being. 

I couldn't do any of those things, but last night, as I saw Jack get really excited about the thrilling match we were watching; as I saw something spark in him the way it must have once sparked in me; as T, who has the crappiest cold, gave in and wandered off to bed,

I thought, "My Nan is gone, but my Jack is here. And if I let him stay up late with me tonight, watching heroic sportsmanship and athletic ability play out in front of us, maybe he'll come to love this sport as I do. Maybe we'll watch Wimbledon and the U.S. Open together each year and perhaps, if we're lucky sometime, we'll go to either tourney in person, together, and see something that we'll never forget." 

Maybe one day, he'll call me or his child will call me, and say, 'Nan, do you have the game on?' And I'll have found those elasticized pants and the perfect recliner, and I'll be so happy my grandchild is calling, and I'll say, "Oh yes, do you? He is so handsome!"

Though I'm still heartbroken for Roger, I don't regret our late night one bit.