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Sweet and Sour

Halloween with a severely food allergic child is a delicate proposition. You want your kid to enjoy the holiday and feel included, but at the same time you're always squinting at their loot, scouting for the Snickers and the Baby Ruths that, for your family, might as well be little hand grenades.

We trick-or-treated at four houses tonight. That was one up from last year, where we knew all three families well and had informed them that we'd be coming. Tonight's new house was a wild card. We know the couple who lives there but hadn't explained to them Fruit Bat's food issues.

We were greeted at the door with a huge bowl of peanut-laden candy bars. Fruit Bat and Kitty Cat each took one and I instituted a trade-in policy, where they got to hand over the explosives for Skittles or Starburst.

It worked well and Fruit Bat handled it beautifully. I'm so proud of my guy, with how aware he's becoming of his dietary limitations. At the same time, I wither a little each time he has to eat his own cupcake (granted, its the best damn cupcake in the place...I make sure of that) at a birthday party.

I really hope beyond hope that researchers are able to come up with a treatment someday, so Fruit Bat and other kids like him don't have the weight of anaphylaxsis on their skinny little shoulders.

My stupid, stinkin' novel in progress

So. Since February of 2000 (almost EIGHT years ago) I've been writing a novel-length manuscript (sounds so pretentious, I think, to say "novel" without qualifying it). For a while, I belonged to a critique group here in Seattle that met every other week in a coffee house. The critiques were good and helpful, but I had to slog through reams of other people's writing and offer my critiques too.

After giving birth to Fruit Bat, I quit the group.

I decided to pay money to have my early chapters professionally critiqued. Lots of good advice came my way and I implemented the suggestions I agreed with.

One agent from a very large, very prestigious NY agency pursued me after reading one of my short stories in Night Train. But, in the end, she rejected the manuscript in a most unsatisfying and perfunctory way.

I submitted, submitted, submitted, received requests for partials (two or three chapters) and fulls. More rejection, rejection, rejection. I was, eventually, lucky enough to be rejected by Mary Beth Chappell at Zachary Shuster Harmsworth. She offered me a gold nugget of a paragraph describing what she thought was the downfall of my novel, which was that the plot dragged. The characters were compelling, she said. The writing was good. But everything was good in slow-mo.

I reevaluated. I took several months to restructure the whole novel and cut 14,000 words. I began to submit again. Again, I had a few requests for partials, which I promptly sent out in crisp white envelopes. Then the rejections began to trickle in like brown sewage. These were quite detailed, with three agents stating that my novel's premise was interesting, the characters well-drawn, but still, too quiet.

Here I am now, at 7:30 a.m., the tufts and crags of the trees outside my window just becoming visible in the morning light, trying to decide what to do.

I'm no prima donna. I'll say that. I want to write something that sells. But I also want to stay true to my artistic vision. Ideally, I want to write a manuscript that is well-crafted and that people want to read.

Do I go on, spend more months or years restructuring yet again, refining, revising? Or do I file all 300 pages in the virtual cabinet of my laptop and focus only on short stories, an avenue that has proven, not lucrative, but artistically satisfying to me?

My patience...it is a thread

Turns out I do not have the fortitude for artsy/crafty projects with my four- and two-year-olds.

Yesterday they wanted to carve pumpkins. Okay! I thought. Pumpkin carving is festive! It'll be fun!

I exuberantly hacked holes in the tops of two pumpkins and expected much messy mirth to ensue.

There was no mirth. Fruit Bat grimaced and said, "It's just too slimey for me." Kitty Cat parroted him, because that's what she always does.

Hmm. Okay! I said. Why don't you have the job of plucking the pumpkin seeds from the guts and we'll salt them and bake them?!

Again, Fruit Bat grimaced. "It's just too gooey for me." Kitty Cat agreed.

So I, alone, did the scooping. Until we were into our second hour and the children, they were getting restless. I was sticky and muttering that next year we were painting pumpkins, not cutting them up. Who invented this stupid, labor intensive tradition anyway? Certainly not someone with squeamish littles underfoot.

I got a third of the way through "Kitty Cat's" jack-o-lantern, which, sadly, had really become mine. Fruit Bat was grumbling. Kitty Cat was whining. So I set it aside.

Today we went to paint pottery at a lovely little spot in Queen Anne called Color Me Mine. I explained to the kids that they would have to follow some specific instructions, that we were making ornaments and bowls that would LAST FOREVER, so this wouldn't be the watercolor free-for-all they were used to.

They chose colors, they dabbed paint onto hardened clay, they lost interest, they got hot because there was an oven in back the size of ten beer kegs put together. They painted a little more.

I instructed them, patiently at first, to coat both sides of the ornaments, to not dip their brushes in water, but to instead switch brushes, to not smear their names that I'd carefully written along the edges of the freshly painted pottery, TO HOLD THEIR PROJECTS CAREFULLY SO THEY DON'T DROP AND SHATTER.

All my bitching aside, I'm glad we went. It was a new experience and we spent the time with people we really like. I just don't have it in me to relax during such endeavors. Perhaps I'm a control freak. Perhaps it's because they're too young. I don't know.

But I do know that I have cookies to make for Fruit Bat's preschool Halloween Party next week and I'll be baking, by myself, late into the night.

Halloween 1979

Me. Age 10. Before princess costumes got all Disney.

Before most parents were willing to (or could) plunk down $35 for the froth.

San Diego Burning

My hair still smells like smoke. We had to evacuate San Diego yesterday, or, more specifically, Rancho Bernardo which is inland and is where J.'s mom lives in a large retirement community that we'll call Casa.

On Sunday afternoon the sky to our west started to fill with smoke.

We took Fruit Bat and Kitty Cat down to the pool for a quick swim, but with Fruit Bat's newly diagnosed asthma, we weren't too keen on staying out for long. So, we were mostly cooped up in a one-bedroom apartment, trying to entertain with coloring books and dress up.

By Sunday evening we thought the Santa Anas had lessened and the air had cleared somewhat and were planning a beach outing for the next day. I slept so well that night. Neither child woke up and it was a glorious nine straight hours of slumber.

Then at six a.m., J. whispered that the power was out, the hallways much smokier than the day before, the sky much grayer. I dressed and hurriedly packed up by glow of my book light. Casa was hot, a film of ash scuttling around the balcony, eighty-year olds gossiping outside our door.

By eight o'clock, J.'s mom and I were arguing about leaving for safer ground. She thought we were safest staying put, but my flight instinct was so strong my limbs were twitching with the need to jump in the car and go. The major highway into downtown San Diego was closed. Or so we had heard. We consulted maps and listened to a staticky transistor while J. did his best to entertain Fruit Bat and Kitty Cat.

Finally the reverse 911 call came and told us to evacuate. The Casa staff still hadn't advised anyone to evacuate, so J.'s mom resisted. Luckily, J. agreed with me, so we pulled all our gear (which was substantial, as I'm sure you know if you've traveled with children) into the hallway. Just then a woman emerged from her apartment wearing a housecoat and asking if the elevators were working. Um, no, the power's out. The WORLD IS ON FIRE. No elevators.

"Well, we are in a bind, aren't we?" She said.

None of the other residents I met up with seemed to feel the slightest urgency to leave. Of course, they are more used to living in wildfire country than I. But still.

So, we managed to stay mostly calm and to not slap the fat little cheeks of our children as they argued about what they would and wouldn't carry as we RAN FOR OUR LIVES. I'm being overly dramatic. But that was how it felt to me.

The roads were deserted. Police officers wearing dust masks over their mouths and noses directed us onto Highway 15 (it wasn't closed after all) and we drove. Small piles of debris along the road's shoulder burned and the sky above us was thick with smoke. The orange ball of the sun just managed to shine through in some spots. And it was all surreal and nothing I hope to repeat.

We ended up at J.'s cousin's house in downtown San Diego where Fruit Bat and Kitty Cat were able to play and nap until we arranged an earlier flight home.

I've never been so happy to see our lush green Pacific Northwest. To think, that just three days ago I was kvetching about all this rain.

Chicka Boom Boom (or How I met a Coffee Pimp)

There's a new drive-thru coffee place that recently opened in North Seattle. (If you've ever been to Seattle, you're familiar with drive-thru coffee: little huts usually housing two women steaming milk, brewing drip and taking your money with their black-tipped fingernails.)

This new one is called "Chicka Latte" and the tagline is "Beautiful Coffee".

Upon first glance at their sign, I thought it featured mudflap girl. Kitty Cat and I took a closer look this morning, though, and found this:

Garumph. I'm prudish, I guess.

I think part of the problem is that I am familiar with the man who opened this place. I don't know him, really, or know his name, but he was getting his hair cut once when I took Fruit Bat in for a trim. He talked on his cell phone while the poor stylist tried to snip at the fringe wreathing his skull. He explained that he was starting a business, and loosely what it was, but didn't shorten (or, dog forbid, FOREGO) his call to accomodate the stylist or those of us in line behind him.

He came across as an arrogant fool, and I don't suffer those well.

When I first saw the Chicka Latte sign, I thought, Of course. Of course.

Next I wondered if the business name and sign were merely meant to catch the eyes of, well, anyone careening past, or if it was some gimmick, like Hooters, where the baristas would be dressed in shredded t-shirts and daisy dukes (not that I know what Hooters' waitresses wear, I'm only surmising).

Yes, indeedy, Chicka Latte is Seattle drive-thru coffee's answer to the Hooters of the world. Though they've twisted the premise a bit. The first woman I saw wore a tall, pink victorian wig, with Raggedy-Ann like spots of crimson on her cheeks, heavy eye makeup and (surprise!) a low-cut barmaid-ish dress. Her cohort was ragged out in something similar, only she sported pigtails and freckles.

I asked if the costumes were for Halloween or everyday. They said they wore them everyday. They said it was lots of fun. They were extremely friendly and helpful and even gave Kitty Cat a giant lollipop. I gave them a 50% tip.

It may be fun. It may be campy and even a little cool, but at the same time, I keep picturing that doofus baldy getting his hair cut and talking on his cell phone, continually referring to his girls, and I can't help think of a wannabe Hugh Hefner.

I can't help shaking my head a little and wanting to shield Kitty Cat's eyes everytime we drive that way to Target.

Anger Management technique #1: Making a fool of myself

J. is still out of town. It's been a long three days.

Yesterday I threw pickles (from Fruit Bat's plate) across the kitchen. And kicked the laundry basket hard. I'm really so DONE with my four-year-old's recent aggression toward Kitty Cat. Though I know it's just beginning. And that depresses me.

To cheer myself up I hired a babysitter last night and went out to dinner alone. I ate sushi with a fork, drank a beer and felt a bit better.

Then I came home and tried on the babysitter's sunglasses. That filled me with glee. Really.

Happy Meal toys make me grouchy

But Fruit Bat and Kitty Cat love them. Or love the novelty of them.

To celebrate Fruit Bat's newly diagnosed asthma having done a great job during his appointment with the allergist yesterday, we stopped at McDonald's for lunch. We broke my rule of going only twice a month (we went just last week!! Eeek!) but J. is out of town, so what the heck.

I ordered the Happy Meals and mentioned to the cashier that my son doesn't like scary toys, like the skull thingy they tried to give us last time we were there.

She said, "Oh, these are just Hotwheels."

"Okay!" I chirped. "He likes Hotwheels."

She then proceeded thrust at us a most sinister and ugly vehicle:

Kitty Cat (who is TWO), got this meek little mouse:

Both of these toys will mysteriously vanish sometime in the next few days...

Introducing...

We have a new member of the family:

We just got him today. Isn't he cute? With the shiniest coat and most helpful demeanor.

We weren't totally surprised we had to adopt one. This little guy needs the company:

We've had him for four years and he goes everywhere with us. He even has his own travel carrier that never leaves our sides.

And we can't forget him in the car because you know what a detriment high temperatures are for these munchkins. So he is either tucked under my arm or nestled into my tote for every grocery store run and playdate.

Don't get me wrong. I'm beyond grateful to have him. Did you know this breed is actually trained to save Fruit Bat's life?

Sadly, we had to get rid of:

and

They were not good with Fruit Bat. In fact, they were downright vicious.

The new addition seems quite friendly though. I think it'll work out. He's sleeping peacefully at my feet as I write this!

Because every blog needs a bad haiku

Slippers. Comfy. Warm.
Threadbare. I love you most on
frosty winter nights