3 Sisters 7 Days

It has been a miserable week. For the past week our refrigerator has been freezing EVERYTHING! We have no vegetables or lettuce. My Greek yogurt froze and our Brita water filter is a big block of ice. We have thrown away just about everything because of frost bite, and have been eating out or cooking only if there will be no leftovers.  We haven’t been able to buy anything at the store that isn’t freezer friendly or shelf stable.

You could say I’ve had my fill of chips, margaritas and peanut butter.  It will be nice to have a salad again….

Finally, we had someone come out today to take a look and replace the temperature gauge.  Yup, that was it.  The bad news is that it broke, but the good news is that we have a really, really old refrigerator that will last another 10-15 years (according to the repair man).  I think our fridge is as old as our house, 1983, and from what I gather they don’t make appliances like they use to (I know I sound like I’m 70 years old!). I just laugh when I look in the door and see Montgomery Ward printed on the information sticker.

Now I am off to the store to reacquaint myself with the vegetable and milk groups.

Tim Tebow is big news again, after he tackled his mom on a much-anticipated “pro-life” Focus on the Family commercial during the 2010 Super Bowl. Team Tebow made news in 2004 as well when they moved to St. Johns County Florida so that Tim, who was home-schooled, could play football at Allen D. Nease High School. Their relocation was criticized because Tebow arguably took advantage of Florida state law that allows home-schooled children to play on public school athletic teams.

Yeah, I know, even jocks who aren’t home-schooled relocate so that they can play on top-ranked high school teams…which brings me to my point. I can’t help thinking that Tebow’s real advantage was that he could spend more time training because he wasn’t in class up to six hours a day. Like other school-age athletes, child actors, and children who move out of the country or to remote areas here in the United States, he probably spent less time at his desk – or the kitchen table – than his peers.

That’s certainly the case with my children, who usually finish their schoolwork by mid-day, leaving the afternoon and evening “free” for playing or training, as well as traditional after-school activities, including piano lessons, Scouts, etc. In the case of my eldest son, Quentin, who is a 14-year-old high school sophomore, homeschooling has allowed him to work out at the gym four days a week as well as spend a day outside climbing every week during the warmer months (and that’s most of them in California).

His hard work has paid off. Maybe too well, I’m beginning to think. In addition to earning a spot at the American Bouldering Series national championships in Arlington, VA this month, Quentin has managed to give a climbing “spin” to nearly every other aspect of his life. Most recently, it’s World History; the essay he submitted this week on “the impact of wartime technology” is about the creation of nylon ropes, lightweight carabiners, and all-weather clothing, which has been so important to – you guessed it – post World War II rock climbing!

I wonder if football didn’t likewise go to Tebow’s head – literally. Maybe his mom shook her head while reading treatises on football helmet technology and role of the Internet in the sport’s increasing popularity.

Juliann and I have been eyeing this gadget for about two years now. We have tested out all that goes along with Nike+ and have been semi-satisfied, but the Garmin Forerunner 305 seems to have it all, or at least all of what we need.

I can now have more accurate readings of my mileage, get a better idea of pace, know how many vertical feet I am actually running, and I am able to start running/training based on my heart rate.  I love the graphing capabilities of it; all I do is plug the watch into the computer and BAM all the information is now in an easy to read graph.  It is GREAT! I have used it once and love it already. I can’t wait to see what else this thing can do. I have the basics down but there is so much more to it.

Until yesterday, I could honestly say that I NEVER go anywhere without a book. Then Sunday, I flew a full four hours home from Nashville without cracking a book, though I couldn’t help myself from browsing the SkyMall catalogue tucked in seat pocket in front of me. Does that count?

I’d finished my last “real” book during the trip out on Thursday, and read a friend’s book, and my roommate’s magazines during my stay in Nashville. I just couldn’t bring myself to purchase an actual book for the ride home. You see, my loving spouse gave me a Kindle for Christmas, and I’d vowed not to purchase anything but ebooks for the foreseeable future. Between my sister’s library and my own, I wouldn’t have had a problem if sometime between Christmas and the start of this trip, I’d managed to choose a cover to protect my sacred Kindle. Ugh!

As someone who spends practically every otherwise free moment with my “nose in a book,” I was at a loss for how to occupy myself for the full duration of a four-hour flight home. A prolonged internal discussion of my options resulted in my decision to sleep. I indulged in an over-size beer at Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge before boarding the plane, and settled in between two tall, quiet-looking men seated near an exit to ensure ample leg room. Thankfully, I was “out” not too long after take-off. If I hadn’t woken up with an insurmountable need to pee when we hit turbulence, I may  have slept until we reached Ontario.

Once we were again free to “move about the cabin,” I headed for the bathroom. Back in my seat, I couldn’t get back to sleep. I looked at the aforementioned SkyMall, and shifted so violently in my seat that I’m surprised that neither of my companions stirred from their naps.

I’ve never used my iPod on a plane – I’m always reading, remember? (And I don’t require music in the background to do so.) That changed on Sunday. I listened to the final two chapters of Barbara Kinslover’s Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, which was almost unbearable – not because of Barbara, but because I was so uncomfortable just listening to a book read aloud. I’m used to driving or running or…something…while I’m listening. Likewise with my music playlist.

I finally gave up. I turned my iPod off, pulled my earbuds out, and returned the tiny device to a pocket in my purse.

Thank Buddha, one of neighbors was alert by then. We exchanged itineraries, and talked about the snow-covered mountains  below. Our plane was continuing on from Ontario to Sacramento, which was the starting point for his trek into the Northern California wilderness in search of somewhere he could “live off the land” fairly easily. He told me that he could see himself sitting on his porch at the end of a long day hunting and foraging, reading while his dinner cooked on the stove inside, or over an open fire.

It’s January for chrissakes! You’re not supposed to be enjoying warm weather fruits and veggies at this time of year! [No one] ...not even the dumbest, corn-fed, ill-fed, in-bred, franchise-lovin’, fanny-packin’ prole actually enjoys eating mealy, bleached, juicless and tasteless out-of-season fruit.

John Curtis

Las Vegas food critic John Curtis may bemoan eating tomatoes in January because they’re ugly and taste terrible, but that’s not my problem. In fact, I have a fabulous looking Roma tomato sitting in my refrigerator that I just know will taste terrific on my salad…when I finally make it. No, thanks to Michael Pollan and Barbara Kingsolver, not to mention Bill McKibben, I just feel guilty.

Fruits and vegetables available out of season are either grown in another country, or produced in a greenhouse or under other artificial conditions. Both practices require a lot more energy – read petroleum, electricity, etc. – than home-grown or locally produced fare. McKibben explains that out-of-season tomatoes, in particular, require vastly more energy to reach you than you could ever get out of eating the tomato. What a waste!

Hence my savoring that tomato…

I’ve read Pollan and taught McKibben, but it took Kingsolver to, finally, bring the issue “home.” It could be the new organic farmer’s market held CONVENIENTLY just off campus one Saturday a month, or my latest “ecology of food” module for the kids. But I think it has more to do with my recent experiment – listening to books, rather than music, while I run. During college, I’d pace while memorizing Russian words and phrases or reviewing my notes. Maybe the repetitive movement is helping Kingsolver’s long-winded tale of leaving Tuscon to live only on home-grown or locally-available food “stick” this time.

So, what is in season now? Here in Southern California, according to the National Resources Defense Council's “Eat Local” page, the list includes:

• Artichokes
• Asparagus
• Avocado
• Beets
• Blood Orange
• Broccoli
• Cabbage
• Carambola
• Cauliflower
• Celery
• Chard
• Cherimoyas
• Dates (Medjool)
• Grapefruit
• Green Onion
• Green Peas
• Kale
• Kohlrabi
• Kumquats
• Lemons
• Mushroom
• Mustard
• Navel Orange
• Passion Fruit
• Strawberries
• Tangelos
• Tangerines

That explains the “kumquat war” my children initiated on campus (a land grant university with a citrus history, UC Riverside features fruit-bearing trees on campus), as well as the gorgeous kale and broccoli at the farmer’s market and all of the relatively inexpensive avocados in local supermarket’s “organic” produce sections. I suppose it won’t be that difficult living without tomatoes for a while…once that last Roma finally tops my salad.

GPS Navigation System Installed in my Honda Pilot

Despite the GPS navigation system that came installed on my new (to me, anyway) car, I still can’t get where I’m going, but at least I know where I am.

Saturday morning, for instance, I just wanted to find the Borders or Barnes & Noble bookstore closest to where my son, Quentin, was climbing in San Diego so that I could work until he was ready for lunch. It took me an hour to get to that Barnes & Noble, located just 4.7 miles from the rock climbing gym.

It was just after 11 AM when I dropped Quentin off and pulled into a parking space to program the system. (I still rely on my personal assistant, in reference to whichever one of my children calls shotgun for a given outing, to navigate en route). I opted to search by category (shopping: music and books), and “sort” by distance from current location. The result? A Barnes & Noble in Iowa?!

So I reconsidered … maybe I should just work at the Starbucks across the parking lot?

Always the optimist, I picked up my computer bag, got out of the car, and walked over to the Starbucks. Unfortunately, that Starbucks does not provide wireless Internet. Unwilling to waste the trip into the store, I ordered a coffee and asked the barista if there was a Barnes & Noble, Borders, any bookstore with wireless Internet nearby. She said there was.

“Great!” I thought.

“Just go right out of the parking lot and drive about 2 miles. It’s in the shopping center. You’ll see it,” she said.

I did as instructed and managed to find a Bookstar bookstore in a upscale strip mall near UCSD.

“Okay,” I thought to myself, “Let’s try this thing again.” I pulled over, “hit” menu on the navigation system, and – again – selected “shopping: music and books” and sorted by distance from my current location. Bingo! There was a Barnes & Noble 6.8 miles away in Del Mar. I followed the directions on the screen carefully and arrived at my “target” destination in record time. Unfortunately, that Barnes & Noble is “too small” to provide more than a couple of chairs for customers. No cafe. No tables.

Yeah, I was pretty frustrated by this point. I took a deep, cleansing breath and asked one of the associates if there was another Barnes & Nobel nearby where I could sit down and work for a little while.

“Yes,” she said. “There’s a big store in Mira Mesa.”

“Mira Mesa!!!” I thought. That’s where the rock climbing gym is.

“Thank you,” I said. “Do you happen to have the address?”

Back in my car, I programed the system to calculate the most direct route to the Barnes & Noble in Mira Mesa. It was almost a quarter after 12 when I entered the store and headed for the cafe. Although I did find a table in a quiet spot to work, there was no electrical outlet.

I worked until my battery was shot, and was already packing up when Quentin called at 2 PM to tell me he was starving. It took me less than 10 minutes to get back to the gym.

Our productive conversation yesterday morning, when I needed Maz’s assistance in the kitchen while making breakfast:

Me “Can you make some more coffee?”

10 minutes later

Maz: “What was I getting ready to do? Oh yeah, coffee.”

Maz: “Should I fill the water up to max?”

Me: “No, it will overflow if you do that; just fill right under max.”

Maz: “Are you sure because it says we can go to max.”

Me: “Trust me.”

Maz: “How many scoops of coffee?”

Me: “Six.”

Maz: “But we are making like 9 cups of coffee.”

Me:  “I know, but the grounds will spill over and end up in the pot of coffee if we do more than 6.5 scoops…I know what I’m saying.”

Seven Minutes later.

Maz: “Oh, we have a little spill”

Not a little spill, there is water all over the sink from filling the water up too high and the coffee grounds are all over the place and in the freshly brewed coffee.

Me: “How many scoops did you put in?”

Maz: “I did around six, but  I may have lost count and did a little more.”

Lucky for me he can fix a car – maybe we should stick with that .

Side note: You may think we have a really cheap coffee maker, but it’s actually a nice KitchenAid in red that matches the rest of my KitchenAid appliances…Most of the time its the operator that needs a little adjusting not the machine.

In the wake of our weekend road trip just over the border into Arizona – remember, it’s not the distance that matters here, but rather the HOT, wide open desert – I’ve been doing a bit of research on “road trips with children.” I’d like to say this little project was in the interest of ensuring that we steer clear of emotional meltdowns during our next trip, but it was all about commiseration. In that respect, my research flopped.

With the exception of Jo Brielyn, who admits outright that the onset of parenting quells the joy and sense of adventure associated with spur-of-the-moment road trips, everyone else out there in cyberspace seems to be unreservedly committed to keeping their underage traveling companions entertained. Terrific goal, to be sure. But the parental effort required to prepare snacks, procure gadgets, identify way points, play countless mind-numbing car games, and provide adequate distractions is an awfully high price to pay for a little quiet time.

Let’s consider just the top five suggestions for a ” successful road trip with kids”:

1) Snacks. While I’m all over grabbing a box of granola bars, some fruit roll-ups,” and filling the kids’ water bottles, expert advice includes making sandwiches, filling individual-sized cups with carrot and apple slices, and sandwich bags with chips or M&Ms. And yep, all those perishables are to be stowed in an ice chest, just like the one my children spilled, soaking the carpet so that the car smelled like mildewing towels.

2) DVDs and iPods. While Matt Franck is looking for ways to unplug his children, most parents consider DVD players, MP3 players, and hand held games to be de rigueur when traveling with children. Nearly guiltless tips for encouraging children to tune out include stocking up on DVDs – relying on the local library when possible, to reduce costs – and loading their iPods with classic children’s literature. I’m with Franck, though, monotonous countryside, collective boredom, and arguing over who gets to choose among a limited selection of static-y radio stations when no one can bear to hear this or that CD again is part of the road trip experience.

3) Frequent and engaging stops. There is nothing like the feeling of lucking into a single stop with a clean bathroom, cheap gas, and food that hits the spot; I get chills just thinking about it. But locate these places ahead of time? And incorporate them into our route? I mean, how can you fully appreciate experiencing a perfect rest-stop if all of your stops are clean, fun, and engaging, not to mention perfect for a picnic and a quick ball game or foot race? If you’re a “planner,” go for it. Parenting hasn’t transformed me, though; if I can reserve our room for the night more than an hour or two in advance, I’m doing really well.

4) Car games. On the one hand, I’m all for “I Spy,” variations on the “License Plate Game,” travel math and geography, and “Slug Bug.” On the other, why up the ante? Popular contemporary versions of such games are incentivised. For example, give children state quarters for each license plate they identify…but wait…there’s more. If you don’t have the right state quarter, give the child a nickel taped to an index card with the state name on it to redeem later. What a great way for children to earn souvenir money en route!

5) Distractions. This category includes food, gadgets, stops, and games, but with greater parental engagement. That and money. My favorite is buying new books and toys just for the trip, so that they’ll have something new and exciting to focus on just when their attention and your patience are both wearing thin. Am I the only one who fails to regard whining and crying as worthy of reward?

I’m a little punchy now, I admit, but doesn’t seem as if there’s a lot of work involved in keeping the kids (happy and) quiet in the car? Why not let ‘em rip and crank the radio up even higher? Or, if you’re the passenger, pop your iPod earbuds in, slip your sunglasses down, recline, put your feet up on the dash, and relax…

I seriously wonder how we managed without cell phones. If my own history didn’t so clearly pre-date the cell phone, I wouldn’t believe it myself. I’m beginning to believe that, yes, one day cell phone implants will be routine.

I had almost finished my run – 10 miles at the beach, roughly 45 miles from my home each way – when my ever-so-punctual spouse text (he has lunch at 2 PM; it was 2:10 PM), “Where R U?”

“Almost finished. I can c Jack n Box” (at Warner and Pacific Coast Highway).

“Ok.”

I ran back to the car, parked across the street from Jack in the Box, just in time to get my daughter, Reiley’s text: “where r u?”

I called her back. “Just got in the car; I’m on my way.”

Reiley had joined me for what I’d hoped would be, at least, a ten-mile run. After two life guard towers, I left her to jog-walk her way to the pier, nearly five miles away, at her own pace. I was immediately racked with guilt. Every imaginable horror story involving a young girl at a sparsely populated beach flooded my mind. I called Reiley, who was fine – uneasy, but absolutely fine.

Then I called Terri. I explained the situation: I HAVE TO run and Reiley CAN’T keep up, and asked her to check on Reiley every ten minutes or so – by cell phone.

And I was off! Until Terri called to tell me that Reiley wasn’t answering her phone. I panicked immediately. After all, what was I thinking? Leaving a 12-year-old GIRL alone at the beach?! I called Reiley. She didn’t answer. I called again. Still no answer. I tried one more time.

“Hello. What do you want?”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“You’re not answering the phone.”

“Oh. There’s no signal.”

“Okay, if you don’t hear from your Auntie Terri, call her. Every ten minutes.”

“Okay.”

We passed each other roughly an hour later at the North end of Dog Beach. Reiley turned around and we proceeded to jog-walk back toward the car. She complained that her feet hurt, her knees ached, she was hungry, and had finished her Gatorade. I left her at the Life Guard Station, ran to the car, and then went back to pick her up.

Forty minutes later, I called my spouse, catching him just before his lunch was over. I called from my mom’s, where I’d stopped to pick up our other children, to let him know that we were headed home.

We made really good time. Just over an hour later, I was executing my final approach to the rock climbing gym for Quentin’s internship in “climbing instruction.” My loving spouse called. “Where are you?”

“Dropping Quentin at the gym; it’s late, so we’ll climb while he works.”

“Okay.”

Wednesday evenings are tricky. With just the right amount of luck, I can get Quentin a ride from climbing to Boy Scouts, and a ride back home afterward. This was not one of those evenings . I dropped Quentin off at his Scout meeting and went home to shower and fix dinner. I asked him to text me when he was finishing up, unless he could get a ride…I think he said, “Okay” before ducking through the front gates into Collete Elementary School.

By 8:00 PM, I still hadn’t heard from him. It was my turn. I text Quentin, “Where r u?”

No response. Half an hour later, I left to pick him up. As I closed my door and tossed my purse on the passenger seat, I heard his phone beeping. At least, I knew why I hadn’t heard from him.

I’d just parked in front of the school when I saw him heading to a friend’s car; he’d managed to find a ride home. If I’d only known…I wouldn’t be sitting outside a local elementary school, braless, in short sleeping shorts and pink Uggs flip flops.

Wait a minute, that almost sounds like that song by Blake Shelton…”Maybe I wouldn’t be driving like hell, flying like crazy down the highway, calling everyone we know …”

It’s still so incredibly loud. I am sitting at Starbucks “working” – alone, I might add, while the boys climb and the girls help dad with dinner. Although I did consider taking another stab at revising an article on women’s peace activism, it has been too loud to think clearly enough to manage a scholarly revision.

Instead, I’ve checked my email, returned phone calls, which I’ll come back to, and read the final chapters of Stephanie Myer’s Breaking Dawn.

Starbucks is noisy – and this from someone who uses the blender to make “frappuccinos” or smoothies nearly every day. But it’s not just the blenders. The music, while not itself objectionable, is loud. I swear the passersby outside can hear it too. Then there’s the traffic. This particular Starbucks sits at the first light to the right off the 215 freeway in Riverside. I can’t hear the conversations around me, but I CAN hear the trucks roaring by.

I never realized how loud trucks are until my run earlier today. But then, I’ve never taken a long run along such a busy street before: Cajalco between Van Buren and the 15 freeway. Super sized pick-ups tricked out for landscaping duty. The trash trucks so many little boys salivate over riding. Semis. Street-cleaners. Moving vans. FedEx delivery vans. Add to that, chainsaws for heavy-duty “gardening” on one side of the street, air conditioners running overtime behind homes on the other. Even with the volume on my iPod turned all the way up, I couldn’t hear a word of what I was listening too.

So you might say I was “primed” to pick up on the decibel level I am currently experiencing.

Despite the racket, I did manage to leave a half dozen messages successfully. Thank goodness! I had to plug my free ear to converse with the one woman I actually reached – an insurance agent I persuaded to re-run my DMV record now that my “rolling stop” has been dismissed.

I also checked my email…and, of course, read…while the Internet pages loaded, slowly here for some reason.

It seems quiet, if not solitude, is as hard to come by away from home as it is in a full house.