Dinosaur Blues

…Guess I took a bit of an impromptu hiatus there.

I’ve got a bad case of the blahs and the blechs and the blues, and have just NOT been feeling great for the last week or so.  At least it’s finally starting to resemble fall here in Phoenix (87?!), so maybe that will help.

Strangely, all my discontent seems to be channeled into hating one thing:  DINOSAURS.

I haaaaaaaaaaaaaate dinosaurs.  HATE!  HATE!  HATE!  I want to kill all the dinosaurs (actually, thanks for that, nature), and smash all the dinosaur toys, and mostly, punch my fist through the TV every morning when Moo begs to watch the newish PBS show, “Dinosaur Train.”  Oh sure, the dinosaurs are all cute and friendly and they ride a train around the Cretaceous time period and learn about dinosaur species but I want to RIP OFF THEIR HEADS and SMASH THEM INTO A BLOODY, LIZARDY PULP.  And for God’s sake, STOP TALKING ABOUT CARRION! 

I miss Caillou.

Hmm, yes.  So what else is going on?  Hey, you know what might save me from the dinosaurs?  A new obsession for Moo.  And you know what might be the perfect thing to usher in a new obsession?  A trip to Disneyland!  I think we’re going – we’ve scored some free tickets (yessss) that have to be used by the end of December.  Herbie and I plopped Moo on our laps last night and showed her pictures of Disneyland on the computer, and she ate it all up while Herbie and I wondered why Disneyland seemed smaller than we remembered.   And why were all the people in the video Asian?  Were there really that many Asian people in California?  Then we realized we’d happened upon the Hong Kong Disneyland site.  Well, same idea.  Moo is very excited to do a dance for Donald Duck and ride the train (wait till she sees Dumbo!), and we’ve already been assigned roles – I’m Mickey, Herbie’s Goofy (of course), and she’s Daisy – so hopefully Disney will wipe those pesky dinosaurs off the map for good.

In other news, Moo got her H1N1 vaccine on Saturday, so I hope we will avoid the pandemic that seems to be sweeping at least Facebook, if not the whole country.  It was a bit scary giving her a new vaccine, but I did my research and it hasn’t seemed to affect her at all, except for her insistence that we Do. Not. Touch. The Bandaid.  We took a different approach this time, telling her on the way (thank God it was a Saturday and Herbie could come) that we were going to stop at the doctor’s office and get a vaccine so she’d stay healthy.  She nodded wisely and kept her composure until the nurse led us into the room of doom, where she started screaming like a frightened monkey.  She couldn’t get a grip, so Herbie had to hold her while I stretched out her little leg and watched as the needle poked through her pale skin.

Luckily, a cherry lollipop will always solve just about all that ails you.

Maybe I should try one myself.

New Knitted Ion?

Herbie has had two birthday parties so far (one with friends Friday night, one with family on Saturday), and still has one more to go when his parents get back from out of town. 

He seems to be enjoying all the celebrations (I mean, who wouldn’t, if you get to play Barnyard Bingo?):

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Also, I don’t know if I mentioned it, but I MADE A PIE.  And it was… awesome.  Truly.  I may have even gotten a little obnoxious about it, because I could not eat two bites in a row without declaring my pie “crazy delicious.”  But only because it WAS.

Then Herbie opened his presents, and was very befuddled  to find alphabet letters (from our fridge set and Moo’s puzzle) in boxes from me, my sister, and my mom and dad. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Birthday Challenge!  Put the letters in the correct order to reveal your present!  Herbie struggled a little with this:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

His first guess:  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I don’t know which is worse, that he thought we were giving him a charged particle wearing a cozy sweater, or that he thought we didn’t know how to spell “knitted.”

But then!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Success!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

…And he hasn’t been to work since.

Heeere’s Myyy Cherry Pie

I have MADE PIE!

For my MAN!  With a rolling pin and everything!  (I even wore an apron with my name on it.)

I feel so wifey!

 

 

 

*Extra holes provided by Moo.

**We’ll see in a few hours if it actually tastes good.

HB, Hubby

Herbie is 36 today!   Let us all shout Huzzah! and give him a hearty clap on the back!

My Top 10 14 Favorite Things About Herbie (as of today, list may vary week to week):

1.  Shoulders, arms, ass, legs.

2.  Those EYES.

3.  When he giggles like a girl.

4.  When he is totally CONFOUNDED by something (usually a commercial).

5.  When he stays up past midnight building Lego dinosaurs for Moo.

6.  He’s so huggy.

7.  No matter the hour, he will always kill a bug.

8.  That he really, seriously wants to help me worry less, even though it is a lost cause.

9.  King of Massages.

10.  Even though it scares me sometimes, that he is a Biker.  He’s so cool.

11.  He doesn’t like football.

12.  He graciously passed on those eyes and those dimples to Moo.

13.  Always digging deeper, searching for more connection, more meaning, more meat out of life.

14.  That said, always ready to toss it all out the window and goof off all night.

 

I love, love, love you, my herby Herbie.  Happy Birthday!

Another Wednesday Evening

Herbie and Moo in the bathtub.  Playing, singing, and splashing now, soon the fight over washing her hair will begin – thank you, Herbie, for almost always doing the bath.

Kitchen clean, except for friendly piles of recipe books and a pot soaking by the sink - thanks, tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, for being so easy to clean up.

Messy playroom – I could clean up the dinosaurs eating leaves off the Lego tree, and the penguins playing in Penguinland, and the crowd of animals riding the Dinosaur Train (a.k.a. the couch)…but they all look so content doing just what they’re doing.  Thanks, Moo, for making such happy messes.

Couch cleared of toys, magazines and Cheerio crumbs – waiting for Herbie and I to pounce on it as soon as Moo is tucked in bed.  Thanks, couch, for being so squishy.  Red light on Tivo holding steady, meaning I’ll soon have So You Think You Can Dance and Glee waiting for me – thanks, Tivo, for being so damn awesome, and thanks, talented dancers and Jane Lynch, for being so entertaining.

Soon I’ll hear some quacking, and a naked girl in a duck towel will come running in to find me, and I will give her a hug and she’ll fling off her towel and run back to her room, where Herbie and I will loll around and giggle at her while she busies herself with VERY IMPORTANT 2-year-old projects, and eventually we’ll wrangle her into her motorcycle pajamas, and talk her into brushing her teeth (“Minty!” she’ll declare), and find her sucky and Hop, and read the new books from the library, and sing to her while one of us carries her down the hall to her cozy bed.

Wednesdays are pretty nice.

Mystery Road Trip

Still no clue where we’re going:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On the I-17, which runs north-south through the state, we’d already passed the obvious choices…maybe the little-known wonderland of Badger Springs?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But then we turned off onto a dirt road:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And I spied some incredible views of red rocks:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And Herbie finally divulged that we were descending into Sedona (WOOO!) on the very roller-coastery Schnebly Hill Road, a 100-year-old  wagon trail.  I love roller coasters.

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And after woo-hoo-ing our way down the mountain (symbolizing, perhaps, the rocky yet always exciting adventure that is marriage?), we ended up at our hotel in uptown Sedona, with a incredible view of the mountains and the bustling town.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Happy anniversary, Mama and Herbie!”  “Awww, thanks, Creepy Animatronic Cowboy Sheriff!”

And How Shall We Celebrate Our 5-Year Anniversary?

I have no idea!

Herbie is up to something.  It started over a month ago when I suggested we go see “Curtains” at Phoenix Theatre for our anniversary, and he said, “Yess, maybe we could do that, also…”  And then refused to elaborate.

Then he informed me that I need not plan anything for our anniversary.

And that I should probably keep the whole weekend open.

And that it would be “more active than cozy.”

And that there may be a hot tub nearby.

And that I shouldn’t get TOO excited.

And that we are not participating in a shuffleboard, ping-pong, or air hockey tournament.

And that we would not be renewing our vows while skydiving.  (Whew!)

And that it could get screwed up if Moo gets sick (because Moo, of course, is getting sick).

Meanwhile, I’ve gotten him the gift equivalent of new pants.  Yipes.

So I have no idea what we’re doing this weekend.  Got any guesses?

Mama and Herbie: Origin Story

In October 2002, I was eagerly anticipating my 10-year high school reunion.  I’d been dreading it for years, during my depressed waitress stage, but I had turned things around, was finally finishing up my bachelor’s degree, had an internship at Arizona  Highways, and had even published an article.

I’d also found the perfect clingy-but-not-slutty dress and a pair of super-pointy heels to match.  I couldn’t wait to see old friends, and also (MOM SKIP THIS PART), I was really horny.  (MOM SKIP THIS SENTENCE, TOO.)  And everyone knows reunions are notorious for hook-ups, right?

So Rosalind and I arrived together at a fancy-ish Mexican restaurant I can’t remember the name of, and we immediately found our old group of friends and dove into the margaritas.  I felt really nervous as I greeted people I hadn’t seen in years, especially the boys.  Everyone was very flirty, and kind of drunk, and I thought what the hell and edited my biography from “intern” at Arizona Highways to “contributor” at Arizona Highways. 

Into my second drink, our old group of male friends filed in the door.  Joel, Ronny, Colin…and Herbie.  Herbie was a lot skinnier than he was in high school.  Herbie naturally has shoulders wider than Niagara Falls, but he was in a phase where he was biking to and from work in Seattle every day, so he was extremely thin.  “Too skinny!” I always say now when he laments losing that shape.  “Nooooo way,” he insists.  But I shall now direct him to the comment an unnamed and very drunk friend made upon seeing him:  “Whoa, he’s so thin!  Do you think he’s a heroin addict?”

Apparently, I find suspected heroin addicts extremely sexy.  (Disclosure: I find current Herbie with his Niagara shoulders even sexier.)  We greeted and hugged and caught up.  Mama:  School, Highways, lie lie lie.  Herbie:  Seattle, new job, truth truth truth.

Then we drifted apart and I talked to more people.  I had a mental list of hook-up possibilities, and Herbie was on it, but it felt so bizarre – hook up with Herbie?  Kiss him?  That was impossible – Herbie was my friend Alex’s boyfriend, had been all through high school.  Of course that was 10 years ago, but when I looked at him I saw a big “ALEX’S” sign over his head.  Sure, Alex was married with kids now, but still – weird. 

And yet, those other names on my mental hook-up list got a little fuzzy, and I soon found myself looking up at Herbie once again.  We started talking about Phoenix, which Herbie dared to call, “a cultural black hole.”  Working at Arizona Highways, I had recently grown to see the charms of my city, so I vehemently defended Phoenix, and we got into a debate.  And as we discussed the theatre scene and downtown development, I thought, “Wow.  I really love talking to this guy.”  (I found out later he was thinking the same thing.)  Our brains – matched.  Our humor, too.  And then I realized I’d stopped talking and was just smiling at him stupidly.

He didn’t seem to mind.

Then suddenly people started leaving.  No!  I was NOT ready to say goodbye to Herbie yet.  Yes, there was another event the next night, but I needed to…look at him some more.  Watch his lips move, and see his eyes look at me…in that way.  Luckily, Herbie wasn’t ready for the night to end either, and suggested our whole group come back to his parents’ house (where he was staying while in town) for a nightcap.  So we all caravaned back, and as friends settled in his parents’ family room, I panicked – please GOD no one sit next to me!  I lucked out again, and Herbie reappeared with wine and settled next to me on the couch.  My right leg, mere inches from his left, was on FIRE.  And since he was next to me, I couldn’t just make casual eye contact with him, I had to time my glances unobtrusively.  Although every time I did look over, he had a sly smile that said he knew exactly what I was up to.  (This is the man, after all, that TRICKED me into being the first one to say “I love you.”)

The nightcap was over far too quickly, and soon we were all walking out the door.  I wanted to be the last one out, but I got caught in the flow of friends and couldn’t make it happen.  I knew I should just play it cool, wave casually and say, “See ya tomorrow!” as I strutted back to the car.  But I didn’t give a shit anymore about being cool, or a casual hook-up, or anything but turning around and having one more moment with Herbie.  So I turned around, and we locked eyes, and he didn’t smile slyly, but somehow silently said to me, “Yes.  Yes, yes, yes.”

And I, completely lost in his hypnotic brown eyes, had only one thought: “I WANT THIS MAN.”

I got him.

Happy 5-year anniversary, my love.  Whaddaya say we give it five more years and see how it goes?

(More happened the next night, including the most romantic five minutes of my life, when we talked by the tennis courts and he told me I had a pixie nose, but I’ll save that story for another anniversary.)

Ballet and Baseball

We started out Saturday at SAS, a shop of wonderment that has remained unchanged since I was a little girl.  I used to tag along with my mom and immerse myself in bin upon bin of buttons, doo-dads, and hodge-podge. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My mom and I took Moo to look for Halloween costume supplies (she’s going to be the White Rabbit from “Alice in Wonderland,” but… a ballerina version), and Moo found it very easy to entertain herself while my mom and I discussed tutu options:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

That’s a sandcastle, as if you couldn’t tell.

Then that night we squeezed into the Civic with my parents and went to Steele Indian School Park for Ballet Arizona’s free “Ballet Under the Stars” event.  Gosh I love free things.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Having a little refreshment before the show starts…

The performance was wonderful, although I was pretty distacted by the bunny dancing on my head, Moo trying out her own moves, and the 30-or-so little girls dancing in front of the stage.  “It’s a ballet mosh pit!”  cried Herbie.  They were so adorable even the ballerinas couldn’t help grinning at them mid-twirl.

I couldn’t take pictures of the performance, because I might have blinded a ballerina and caused her to fall and break her ankle and ruin her career and maybe she’d sue me, but here’s a picture of the bows:

Moo much preferred the first half of the performance, when they wore bright red tutus and flowers in their hair.  Those plain black-and-white outfits were cool and modern, but a young ballet fan needs her sparkle n’ spangle, mm-kay?

Then on Sunday, we took Moo to her very first baseball game.  I used to be such a devoted fan of the Diamondbacks, but first, all my favorites jumped ship, and then they moved all the games onto a cable channel we don’t get, so I’m now very uninformed.  But to me, baseball games always equal good times (beer! hot dogs! and also animated racing hot dogs on the big screen!), and it was the last home game of the season, so there was lots of good cheer in the stadium.

We watched the game for a while, then explored the stadium when Moo got antsy, returning to our seats just in time for some really exciting plays.  She loved all the clapping and excitement…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Then she got a little tired…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But roused in time to sit on the big baseball outside the stadium:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After her nap at home, she wanted to play “baseball game,” which involved teaching Doc how to play baseball:  “First you take your baseball bat and you wooooo! and then you run on the silky string and then crawwwwwl to the end.”

Sure!  Then what, Moo?

“And then the hot dogs RACE, and- Mommy, we sit right here in our seats, and the hot dogs RACE and Doc can be one of the hot dogs, and then we take off our hats and sing those songs and we all clap and then…”

“Yessss?”

“AND THEN THERE’S A DANCING WAFFLE!”

Delightful!  “And who should be the dancing waffle, Moo?”

“…DADDY!”

Yesssss.

Sir Poopsalot

Well I’ve just confessed to being a bird person, and I’ve recently read two separate blog posts about beloved pets, and that got me thinking about dear ol’ Doc and how I don’t write about him nearly enough.

Have I even mentioned I have a 26-year-old cockatiel?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yes, that is very old for a cockatiel.  He’s like a grumpy old uncle who never settled down, so you let him live with you, and he can’t control his poop and sometimes bites.

But in a wonderful way.

Doc became mine way back in 5th grade, when a visit to my dentist revealed that one of the cockatiels in their aviary (ALL dentists should have aviaries!) had babies.  We bought one for $15, named him Doc after his birthplace, and brought him home.  26 years later, he still lives in the same cage because he refused to set foot in any of the new ones I bought for him, he’s flown on airplanes, lived in four cities, and witnessed many boys come and go before finally approving of Herbie.  The first time they met, Doc drew blood – he knew Herbie was a threat to our bachelor/bachelorette lifestyle.  But Herbie quickly won him over, while also teaching him how to eat out of a bowl at the table (before it was just crumbs everywhere) and even whistle (not my forte).

Doc’s a funny bird.  These days, his favorite thing to do is…something…in an empty Diet Coke box on top of the fridge.  He used to mate with my bedroom lamp back in his friskier days, but I don’t think that’s what he’s doing in the Diet Coke box.  He’s bitten it practically to shreds, and he just enjoys sitting in there with his tail sticking out, listening to us chatter while we cook and play.  He’s finally gotten to the point where he accepts Moo’s existence.  Sometimes he will even wander over to where she’s playing or eating Cheerios, and sometimes, Moo will deign to share one with him.  He usually always eats with us, cracking up Moo when he poops off the side of the table or trips over a stack of mail.  He’s also pretty good at demonstrating good eating habits – nibbling on my broccoli has occasionally convinced Moo to try some, too.

But Doc’s a bit slower these days.  He has cataracts, lopsided wings, prefers waddling around the house over flying, and looks a little tired around the eyes.  But it’s still one of my favorite things in the world, and maybe the only thing that make me feel truly relaxed and peaceful, when Doc and I sit on the couch together.  He insistently pokes his beak right under my nose, saying, “Now you will rub my neck!”  And so I run my finger back and forth across his head, and eventually he settles down on my knee or Herbie’s shoulder, and I sit and watch him preen his feathers, the smooth, rhythmic slide of his beak back and forth across each and every feather.

I know he’s very, very old, but I can’t help hoping that he’s some sort of magic immortal bird.  After all, he once survived three days in a desert wash near my parents’ home after he escaped.  For three days my little cockatiel avoided cats, coyotes and snakes – hell, maybe he even had a torrid love affair with a wild lovebird.  Then on the fourth day, a mailwoman was walking down the sidewalk and there was a little cockatiel waddling up to her.  Being a bird person herself, she picked him up, took him home, and saw our ad in the paper.

I like to think of that little escapade as Doc’s midlife crisis.  He saw what else was out there, and decided he liked our home the best.  I like him in my home, too.  That’s why every time we go away, I lean down and whisper to him, “Don’t worry, Doc, we’ll be back.  I need you. Please don’t leave me.”

He seems to have taken those words to heart.