Watson I am not

One of my days off eclipses the school week, and I get to play kid chauffeur while my mother roars to work on her motorcycle. This is something she needs to do once a week, like a church service. "It's spiritual," she says. "In the mornings, you can smell the rice and bacon." This is the kind of spiritualism you can't argue with.

So in the afternoon, I drove up the coast to the little school to pick up the boys. As I passed the sewage plant, there was a man sprawled flat on his face by the side of the road, as if he had been dropped from the sky. I looked in the rear view mirror as I passed, and saw his leg lift briefly. Not dead, then. Homeless? Hit by a car? Drunk? There hadn't been any blood that I could see. I was far enough away by then that I would have had to leave the baby in the car and jog back to check on him if I pulled over, so I decided it wasn't worth getting stabbed by someone pretending to be asleep and being late to pick up the kids. A few minutes later, a cop car and an ambulance blared by. If they weren't sent specifically for the not-quite-dead man, they would probably spot him on their way by. My duty was done.

The next morning, our local officer stopped by on his patrol to chat with my co-workers. I overheard, "... fell out of a truck. Had to go to the hospital." I skidded into the room. "Where? Where?" They shrugged. "Someplace on this side." Shit. It could have been the man I saw splatted on the side of the road. Am a terrible, terrible person, and a worse detective. I specifically asked the cosmos to deliver mystery and adventure, then drove right by the body it threw at me. There have probably been feet sticking out from under bushes all over the place that I haven't even noticed, and this was an act of exasperation. Try leaving the body by the road where she can't miss it. WHERE IS SHE GOING? If one of the yard men keels over right on our door step, I accept cosmic responsibility for this.

St. Patrick's Day

In my life, I have had four really memorable meals. Nothing seasons food like hunger and exhaustion.

1990: instant rice and powdered chicken gravy. I was 10 years old, in camp at Alford Lake, and had hiked for 12 hours over Baldpate mountain in upstate Maine

I looked at a picture of Baldpate just now, and it's tiny. I remember it being a lot bigger. I had an enormous backpack, trembly child's legs, a hyperactive imagination, and no dignity or stamina. Most of the hike was on my hands and knees - miserable, complaining, and certain the birds were leading us to our deaths. By the time we reached the campsite, our limbs were ready to snap off, and that rice with gravy was the most delicious thing ever to reach my mouth. We would have eaten it raw, if the counselor hadn't had a spatula to slap our hands away from the little aluminum pot boiling over the camp fire.

2002: Thai eggplant and chicken green curry. Eaten on the living room floor, sitting on a towel, when I went into labor with Gavin.

2008: Scrambled eggs, rice, and bacon. Wolfed down between contractions in the hospital waiting room with my gown flapping open, before the nurses could find me and take it away.

2013: Jello and beef broth. Consumed while hanging over a birthing bar at a much better hospital that allowed laboring women to eat.

I should probably take up marathon running, just for the food appreciation.


So now St. Patrick's Day is beef-and-jello day. I bought two corned beef briskets and put a grasshopper pie on to set, then chased the family into the car and drove to Waikiki for the parade. Which it turned out we were actually walking in, behind a banner for the Royal Scottish Country Dance Society and in front of a man dressed like Saint Patrick. One of our members made the bold decision to come mostly naked and barefoot, wrapped around the waist with just a long piece of tartan. I plowed ahead with the stroller, trying not to imagine all the Instagram feeds I would be appearing in, right between St. Patrick and the Impractically Naked Man. The kids were given flyers for the Highland Games to pass out along the route. Twelve-year-old girls waved at Gavin. He waved back, a little uncertainly.

We met the cousins at the end of the parade, while my mother caught a ride back to fetch the car. A minute later she texted, "You have the car keys." Damn. We walked in a group back through Waikiki, Leif asking about every sprawling homeless person we stepped around. "Are they dead?" "I don't know, and I'm not going to check. Isn't that terrible? I feel bad. Move faster." We stopped at a crosswalk by the busiest stretch of road, with vans and buses whizzing by. My aunt stood at the edge of the sidewalk and asked her 6 year-old to press the crossing signal. Instead of walking behind her to press it, my cousin jumped out into the road to run around her. I screamed. Her hand shot out and yanked him back by the shoulder. A speeding bus missed him by inches.

NOBODY IS ALLOWED TO BE VIOLENTLY CREAMED IN FRONT OF ME OR MY CHILDREN ON A BIRTHDAY OR HOLIDAY OR ANY OTHER DAY.

ALL CAPS.

That child owes me a year on my life.

We headed home, ate corned beef, opened baby presents, threw the birthday girl into bed with only a bit of cake in her hair, and didn't realize until morning that we had forgotten the jello. I guess that will be the tradition.

And nobody took pictures, because I was helping with the cake. A lesson never learned.

One

New is not yet normal

It says something about my athleticism that after one day of standing and handling books, I feel as if I've been beaten all over with a bag of oranges. Gravity, my natural enemy.

The first day went very well. Keys! Circulation! New co-workers! Donut holes! I accidentally broke the donut box and had to scramble and juggle to save them all before everyone came back in the room. Some ended up in my face. I think I won.

Then I was given a cupboard. 

This is who I replaced. FFS.

I replaced the sign with one that says, "Holly's cupboard. Something is in it." Which is a bit long for a sign, but still pretty clear. It isn't like a stop sign, which needs to be very short, and not say something like, "STOPPING IS REQUIRED UNDER PENALTY OF TICKETING AND POSSIBLY EVEN DEATH".

Feeling good about the job. And myself, as a professional and good citizen. And the strengthening of my pudding muscles into springy librarian jerky. Feeling less good about the backed-up milk supply I am smuggling around in my shirt, and about my baby learning to fend off slobbery daycare babies, but we are both adjusting pretty well.

Next: fun with 6-week payroll lag.

Replaced

My mother called me as I drove home from signing employment papers. "Stop at your aunt's, she has a robot for me." What?

I came home with a used roomba. "It needs parts replaced," said my aunt. "It makes grinding, screeching noises," she did not say. "It sucks up and then spits out dirt, bird seeds, and cat-shredded cardboard all over the floor in a perfectly uniform layer," she did not say, because she does not have cats or birds.

We watched the robot bump around the room and cheered for it when it escaped from beneath the high chair and dragged socks out from under the recliner. The cats stood their ground while the robot banged into their legs and then politely backed away, spewing rubbish. By the time it docked itself, we were too entertained to care that it had trashed the house. I named it 1812 and offered to glue antennas on it, after the robot in Farscape.

1812 has been taken to the school library, where it will receive a replacement trash container and spend its life sucking up crumbs and kid droppings. 

"But you'll be moving out now that you've got a job," said my mother, "I need to replace you." 

So she drove to Costco and bought a new roomba.

WHAT. I am better than a roomba.

The cats have been spreading out all over the rug, as if I don't vacuum every day anyway. 

The kids ran around after the robot, picking up toys in its path in a way I've never been able to get them to do. FINE. 

I guess I need one. And a house to put it in.