Wind From the South

"I'll get the tractor."

That's what my little brother said, indifferently, when my sister slammed on the brakes to avoid barreling into a two-foot high, seven-foot wide snow drift that had magically amassed itself while we were gone.

It had not snowed at all. This massive drift was completely assembled by the turbulent wind, which is still throwing snow around outside, vehemently, with the addition of freezing rain.

I know I am in rural Iowa in the middle of winter when it takes my brother in a tractor to just get to the door.

Castigation of a Cat Owner, Take 2

Before reading this blog, please read this one.
Alright. Now you are up to speed on the situation with my cats. I finally found a temporary home for them, and they are in a safe place where they are loved and fed and pampered. In the process of trying to find a place for them, though, I encountered some negativity from Craigslist pet stalkers. In any case, they are currently safe and happy, but I am still looking for a permanent home for them. There's your set-up. Here's the story:

Today, I went to the co-op to buy the ingredients for this amazingly delicious coconut vegetable spiced soup that I plan to make for my family this weekend. Going to the co-op is never uneventful for me--never. I am constantly running into people I know and saying stupid things or having strange communication.

(I once had an entire interaction with a cashier in which I thought we were talking about singing and she thought we were talking about my dead cat. And I once flirted with the produce department by blathering about how hot our mutual college-aged lesbian poet friend is when I looked over to see the poet's mother standing there, listening to me basically objectify her daughter.)

Between constantly running into people I know, dropping things, and running into the parents of my undergraduate lovers, I have learned to brace myself for anything while shopping at the co-op.

But I was not ready for the guy I encountered today.

Sometimes I think people fall out of thin air and present themselves as blog posts. Thanks, buddy.

So there I was, cutting myself a slice of orange-patchouli zum soap, far from the pet aisle, nothing remotely pet-related in my basket, not even covered in cat hair, when I heard a male voice ask, "So do you have a dog? Or a cat?"

I looked up to see an unassuming man making eye contact directly with me. He was standing by the bulk soap too, but he was just standing there. He made no indication that he was in line to chop soap. I tried to put the question into context. There was nothing about me that indicated I was a pet-owner at that point in time--I had not even visited the pet aisle. "Uh, no, er, yes," I said, unsure how to answer the question. The faces of Luna, Nubia, and Schmee were all dancing around in my head, and a tinge of grief for all of them was surfacing. "I mean, yes, I have two cats," I said, not quite sure where this conversation was going, nor how to answer such a simple question.

"Would you consider fostering a pet?" he asked.

I tilted my head and my heart filled with empathy. I know what it's like to try to find someone to take a pet. "I'm so sorry," I said, "I really wish I could. But I am actually trying to find a permanent home for my cats, too."

My overflowing heart swelled for this man and his pet that needed a home. I felt like we had something precious in common. Had I known him better, I would have taken his hand and squeezed it and told him not to worry, to just keep asking around--the right loving home will present itself!

But I was wrong. We were not kindred spirits at all.

The man grimaced and said, jarringly, "So you're just going to dump your cats?"

I stood there, stunned, patchouli-orange bar soap in hand, my snowy boots dripping onto the tiled floor, and looking at this man who had appeared from out of the blue to comment on my aptitude for discerning what is best for my pets.

"No," I said, "I am not going to dump my cats. I am searching for a loving home for them."

"Stray animals are being killed by the thousands," he hissed, his eyes narrowing and his voice dropping to an accusatory hushed bass. "Thousands and thousands of pets who are dumped by their owners are being slaughtered."

At this point I abruptly pushed past him and walked away, tears welling up in my eyes. Was this really happening? Who the hell was this guy? Why me? My arms ached for the fuzzy fur of my lovely pets.

I went straight to the check-out line, purchased my things, and left. The guy did not follow me. Only afterward did it occur to me that he had not been holding a shopping basket or towing a cart. He had not appeared to be shopping at all. And only then did I realize that perhaps I should have alerted a staff member of the strange behavior of this man.

I mean, he has a point--there are way too many stray animals out there. People are giving up their pets all the time, or taking on the responsibility of pet ownership when they can't really make the commitment. But, buddy, my situation is complicated. You don't understand.

I drove away from the co-op wondering what on earth prompted this guy to ask me, of all the many, many people doing last minute grocery shopping before darting town, about pets. What a strange coincidence. Right? The more I think about it, the more I begin to concoct some wild story about the connection of the co-op guy to the Craigslist lady. Maybe she discovered my identity and reads my blogs and knows that I shop at the co-op on a regular basis. Maybe he was her recon man. Maybe she knows I use zum soap. Maybe he was sent to Mississippi Market to intercept me and to shame me for giving up my cats.

Probably not. Probably it was a wild coincidence. Regardless, it shook me up a little, but at least I have something to write about.

And, for the record, one more time, my cats are safe and happy and healthy. And I am not a horrible pet-owner. Jeez.

Two Parties

Obligatory apologies for not showing this blog some love lately. That's all I'm going to say. Make your own creative assumptions about why I have been too busy to blog. It may have something to do with my recent popularity. I am so popular, in fact, that I was once invited to two parties on the same night. Last weekend.

I don't mean to brag about it, but it was a pretty big deal. Two parties! Count them: one, two! On the same exact night! My specific presence was requested at two extracurricular events at the same time. It wasn't even like these people wanted me there to babysit or play music or do anything remotely work-related. No! They wanted me!

So, in humble Liz fashion, I spent way too long deciding what to wear to two parties (I oscillated between snow boots and heels--I chose the heels) and showed up fashionably late. It happened to be the evening of a hearty Minnesota blizzard, but this was a minor detail. (Perhaps the snow boots would have been a tiny bit more practical, but who has time for feasibility when she is demanded at two parties in one night?) I have terrible night vision and probably should not operate anything larger than a laptop past sunset, I am deathly afraid of icy roads, I rarely traverse into the bustling city of Minneapolis, and I had recently lost a windshield wiper, but nothing was going to stop me from claiming my two-parties-in-one-night status! I ventured bravely into Saint Paul's neighboring city, driving approximately five miles per hour.

I was pseudo-accompanying my friend-turned-temporary-roommate to the first party: he had invited me but asked me to meet him there and neither one of us wanted it to appear to be a date. When I showed up, I realized that I only knew a handful of people, my pseudo-date included. Given that my non-date and I both wanted to remain visibly unattached so he could flirt with the straight girls (and given the slightly awkward reality of our sleeping arrangements as roommates), I stayed away from him. My options for acquaintance conversation quickly dwindled. Luckily, a co-worker had also been invited, and I spent much of the evening discussing recent events at the pre-school over wine (or, in my case, filtered water in a wine glass.)

Maybe it was because I had been invited to two parties on the same night. Maybe it was because I was wearing three-inch heels. Whatever the reason, I decided to brave it up and attempt to charm the strangers. I opened my conversations like this: "Hi, I'm Liz. I am invited to two parties tonight." At first, I didn't win anyone over, but after an hour or so, I suddenly became amazingly funny. Later, I would realize that there was a rational explanation this: the other people at the party were tipsy. Justification or not, I was making people laugh and I had a second party to attend. What a great night!

My ego purred when I finally made my way to the door and the hostess said, "No! You can't leave!" There was a crowd of five or six people surrounding the door, and they attempted to block my exit. Wow! I was that popular!

One of the other party-goers said to me, "So, Liz, are you heading to your second party?"

"Oh, did I mention that I have a second party to attend?" I asked, twirling my keys on my finger faux-distractedly. "Two parties in one night, in fact?"

"It was the very first thing you said to me," he said.

Suddenly, I became aware of the fact that my two-party-status was getting a little old. "Oh dear," I said, "I have been bragging about that all night, haven't I?"

A woman standing in the circle chimed in, "You mentioned that you would be going to a second party a few times to me tonight."

"I heard about it three or four times," someone else said.

I stood, slumping in my three-inch heels, near the blockaded door and tried to make a joke out of the situation. "I could have at least tried to find something else to brag about. Like maybe my excellent daytime vision."

The semi-circle of tipsy people laughed and tried to dissuade me from leaving. I charmed them with my jokes about other mediocre things I might have bragged about (my keen sense of smell, my waning algebra skill, my antiquated ownership of an actual boombox, etc.) Finally, after a few minutes of jovial banter, they agreed to let me go.

"Hey, Liz," one of them said as I turned to walk out into the blustery night to drive to my next demonstration of popularity. "Have fun at your second party tonight."

"Thanks," I said, blushing slightly.

"And, hey. Make sure to tell the the people at the next party what a hit you were at this one!"

Indeed. My entrance to the next party went something like this, "Hey, everyone, my name is Liz and I was a total hit at the last party I previously attended already tonight and I also have a boombox."

I don't mean to brag, but the drunk people at that party thought I was hilarious.

Are you a vegan?

First off, I am not officially a vegan. I can't claim the title, even if I do eat a mostly vegan diet because at any time, if you open my fridge, you will find eggs, yogurt, and sheep's milk. I'm a lactose-intolerant vegetarian. I often teeter on the edge of crossing that line--my body seems to be telling me to make the leap by rejecting most processed dairy products anyway. But so far, I still hold on to that feta and yogurt. Oh, how I love greek yogurt! And it's good for me!

Anyway, that is just to explain the conundrum which occurs when people notice my mostly vegan diet and ask, "Are you vegan?" Being an avid over-discloser, I promptly explain that I am a vegetarian and also lactose intolerant.

Every Monday night, I attend this new-agey self-help group in a neighborhood far away from my regular Saint Paul co-op. I have adopted a ritual of stopping in at the unfamiliar co-op in that neighborhood and hanging around the deli, often ordering something which happens to be vegan, before going on my merry way to my group. The same guy is always behind the counter.

This week, I ordered a sandwich with hummus and vegan cheez. (I don't even like fake cheese. I only ordered it because I felt like if I was going to pay to have someone make me a sandwich that I could have made myself, I might as well "cheez" it up as much as possible.)

So I wrote down my order and handed it to the Deli Guy, who was by now familiar to me but with whom I had never really exchanged conversation.

A few minutes later, Deli Guy came out from behind the deli counter with my sandwich in hand. He gave it to me and asked, "Hey, are you a vegan?"

Because we had never had any personal interaction, I assumed this was about business. I figured there was a trace of butter in the something-or-other and he was making sure I knew what I was eating. Eager to reassure the Deli Guy that I can, yes, eat a trace of butter, I said, with a wave of my hand, "Vegan? Me? Oh, no, I'm not."

Shifting from one leg to the other to support the basket of things I was about to purchase, I was suddenly awkwardly aware of the vegan nature of every single item I was carrying. What's that? Vegan bakery? Oh, and that? Meat-free, dairy-free Amy's pizza? Rice milk? Vegan kimchi? A sandwich with cheez? And are those vegan Earth shoes?! I felt like I had been caught, red-handed (to use a very non-vegan expression, ugh, yuck, don't think about it too much), with a basketful of tell-tale vegan products and a blunt denial. I mean, it's true; I'm not a vegan. But I felt silly standing there, like a poster-girl for vegan shopping and denouncing the title.

So I quickly explained with a sheepish smile, "I am lactose intolerant," and then I turned and walked away.

At this point, I realized that Deli Guy had not been asking for business purposes. He may have been striking up a conversation with me, which I abruptly had struck right down.

In fact, I began to consider the other factors of the question: he had walked out from behind the counter to personally hand me my sandwich, rather than just handing it to me over the deli case, like usual, and then had asked me a very personal question. I am quite obtuse when it comes to the murky waters of heterosexual flirting, but, could he have been flirting with me?

I considered this for a moment, then shook it off and proceeded to the checkout.

Suddenly, Deli Guy appeared behind me. "Hey, I'm so sorry, but I totally forgot to put the 'Cheez' on your sandwich," he said, making finger-quotation marks when he said "cheez."

"Oh, it's okay," I said. (Remember, I don't really like Cheez anyway.)

"No, seriously, it will take me 30 seconds," he said.

"Um, okay. Thanks," I said, handing him back the sandwich.

I bought my other things and then waited for him to come back. I still felt silly about blurting out my lactose intolerance and running away. I spent a good sixty seconds, at least, re-playing the events of the deli counter over in my head, trying to figure out what meaning to take from the whole interaction.

Deli Guy reappeared, Cheez-laden sandwich in hand. He gave it to me and said, "Liz, have a great day. I'll see you next week."

"Uh, thanks," I stammered. I took the sandwich and quickly walked out the door, thinking immediately that I should have politely asked him for his name, but I didn't. He knew my name, and he remembered that I come in every Monday. I felt like the most awkward, or rude, person ever as I carried my groceries to my car.

This guy knows my name, one part of my weekly schedule, and that I am lactose intolerant and choose to eat vegan foods most of the time. That's a lot to know about me!

Unfortunately, he doesn't yet know I am a lesbian.

Conjugation/Broken Bones

In Spanish class today, I told the kids a story about a casa. One kid repeated the word by changing one very important letter, thereby stating, "caca," which is second person present tense of "to shit." It means, "He or she shits."

I kept my best disaffected teacher face and corrected him, "Oh, you mean casa, Joey."

"No," said Joey, with a big grin on his face. "I mean caca."

Narrowing my eyes, I realized that Joey and I had an understanding going on here. None of the other kids got the joke. "Joey," I said, suspiciously, "Hablas espanol en casa?" ("Do you speak Spanish at home?"

Grinning, Joey said, "No."

But I was on to him. He knew exactly what he was saying.

Suddenly I faced a dilemma: how would I properly discourage him from using that sort of language in Spanish class without, as a result, teaching the rest of the class the meaning, or at implying to them the taboo nature of the word? The last thing I needed was a roomful of four-year olds learning how to conjugate excrement. (Trust me, they do enough with the subject matter already.)

I let it slide. I just moved right on, and Joey forgot all about his little second-language show-off moment. I suppose this isn't completely resolved. I'll let you know how next week's review session about the story about the casa goes.

And my second tidbit from the day is about another kid, this one five, at the pre-school who broke his arm last week. Poor guy! He told me proudly this morning that he broke it in two places!

"Oh, that's awful!" I said, wincing with empathy. "How long do you have to wear your cast?"

The kid frowned and gave a dejected sigh.

"Three years."

Craigslist Etiquette

I finally posted an ad on Craigslist about my cats. In the ad I say that they have been my best friends and that I am moving and (heartbreakingly) can't take them with me.

I immediately got this response in my email, from "Susan" with a comcast email address:

"they cant be youur best friends then can they if you are so willing to gve themm uphave you ever herd of petfriendly aparments or what"

That's it. That was the complete email. No salutation, no last name, no contact information besides her email address. Of course, upon reading this email this morning, I burst into tears, because I don't want to give up my cats, and if I could sign a one-year lease in a pet-friendly apartment I would do it, and because she has no fucking idea what my story is, and it's none of her business anyway, but somehow this invisible woman who knows nothing about me succeeded in making me feel like the worst pet-owner ever!

I have always had really good experiences with Craigslist. Until today, I have only had professional interactions (save for the occasional "give me your bank account number so I can send you money from overseas" scam attempt). I have found a few places to live via craigslist and found heaps of jobs (piano students, nannying gigs, etc).

What bugs me the most about this response is how completely disrespectful it is. Her response was completely unwarranted.

My first instinct was to delete the email and pretend I never saw it, but once the tears started, I couldn't get her biting, un-punctuated, mis-spelled, rude run-on sentence out of my head.

Then I really wanted to respond to her, but I quickly realized that would be a bad idea. This woman doesn't deserve my time. Also, she doesn't deserve to see my email address (I never publish my email address on Craigslist.)

My friend Meg suggested to think of this lady as the drunk person who saunters across the street in the middle of traffic--you have to slow down for her because she just up and puts herself in front of you when you are enjoying your forward momentum, but it's incredibly irritating. If she would just follow protocol and cross at a crosswalk (or only respond to an ad if she had something relevant to say), then no one would be in danger of getting hurt. But she insists on stopping traffic, on interrupting your day to make you acknowledge her and to make you reconsider your speed and courtesy for pedestrians. And she makes you feel like you are the one who is going too fast, who is unconcerned about the safety of others, and who is too wrapped up in arriving at her destination as swiftly as possible. But really, you are the one who slows down, who lets her cross because she just planted her body in the middle of your track, and when she successfully moves out of the way, you can continue.

Susan with a Comcast email address doesn't know what I have been through these past months. She doesn't know that me coming to the decision to give up my cats is for their best health and safety, not for mine. I went to the opera on Saturday night. This is really dorky, but I was thinking about my cats. In the opera (Abduction from the Seraglio), the "bad guy" turns out to be quite gracious in the end and he lets his kidnapped lover go. He sings, "If you love something, it is best to set it free."

I know, I know, how completely dorky, but when he sang that line, I began to cry because I was thinking about my fricking cats. That's how much I love them. I think about them at the opera.

Anyway, as of writing this post, I think I have found a temporary place for them, with a friend who will love them to pieces, just like I do, for now. That is excellent news! Mama Schmee and Nubia deserve a safe, loving home, far from J-walkers and traffic blockers.

More Fun From the Kiddos

So sorry I haven't been keeping you in the loop. Here's why:

I have been working three jobs (and still not making enough money), subletting other people's apartments/houses and moving every few months, trying to find a home for my adorable cats, applying to grad schools (again), singing my heart out for measly tips on a weekly basis (my HEART OUT, people, while you eat your lunch, and all you can give me is your spare change!?), recovering from up and leaving a long-term relationship, traveling, nannying, getting rid of extra things, sewing Halloween costumes for neighborhood kids, and falling way behind in bookkeeping for my music studio. Whew. It's been nuts.

So here is an update on funny things I have heard recently while teaching at the pre-school or during piano lessons.

Case Number One: Imaginary Friends

Little Sarah has an imaginary friend named Kitty. She is always talking to Kitty, asking for Kitty's opinion, and making art projects for Kitty. One day, I was chit-chatting with the other teachers while Sarah busily snipped away at something artsy for Kitty. Sarah said to us, "I am making this for Kitty. She pooped all over the rocks. She likes to drink milk, you know."

I said, "Oh my!"

And she said, "Yes, it was messy. But she does love her milk." Sarah paused, holding the miniature scissors distractedly as she furrowed her four-year-old eyebrows. "Kitty really likes to drink milk from my breasts."

I blinked. I refused to make eye contact with the other teachers, for fear of an eruption of laughter or horrified, embarrassed snickers.

"But," Sarah continued, "My breasts are too small. I'll get big breasts someday, like my Mommy, and then Kitty can have all the milk she wants."


Case Number Two: Shoes

Little Katie showed up to music class without any shoes on. Now, the kids are supposed to always have shoes or slippers on their feet.

"Katie," I said, "Where are your shoes?"

Katie, not one to beat around the bush, looked at me disaffectedly and said, "I peed on 'em."

things that make me miss her the most

tom yum soup with tofu, spicy
dolphins
calling the vet to get pet records
kids who ask me, "Where's Luna, Liz?"
dimples
folk singers with aussie accents
menards
genmaicha
puns
mad TV
tv on dvd
fall leaves
camping, without her

fall leaves
arias
opera
composing
mojo
home-made jewelry
stargazer lilies
daisies
october
singing, without her

Lake Como
the kids who ask about her
little pitbulls I see in the neighborhood
running, without her

Power of Prayer

Actual birthday card letter from my actual grandmother:

Hi Liz,
We think of you often and wonder how you are doing. Kjersti says they don't have an address for you as you are living with a friend. What is going on?
We keep hoping you will meet and fall in love with a nice guy, someone to share your life with. (that is our prayer for you) I am going to play cards this p.m. with my card club and grandpa is going to golf as it is stag day today.
Love you lots,
Grandma

I read this card aloud to my mother, my aunt, and my sister yesterday, where we had gathered at the unlikely location of a steakhouse in Nowhere, Minnesota.

My sister grunted and said, "Well. Now we can see just how strong the power of prayer really is!"


Just in case there is any merit to the power of prayer, let's hope that my grandmother is praying for my happiness more than for my heterosexuality. I think the two might be incongruent.

Pez

In Spanish class at the Pre-School yesterday, we reviewed a list of animal names we had learned the previous week.

I held up a picture of a cat, and the three/four-year-olds collectively shouted, "Gato!"

I help up a drawing of a pig, and the little ones yelled, "Cerdo!"

And then I lifted up a picture of a fish. This is what I heard: "Piss!"

"Uh, no. Pez," I corrected, stressing the vowel in the middle of the word pez.

"Piss!" the class shouted.

"Pez," I said.

"Piss!"

I am dumbfounded as to how they came to this conclusion. Maybe I was slurring my words last week, and they just got it in their head that a fish is called Piss in Spanish. These kids don't actually know what it is to "piss" or to "piss off" or be "pissed" or "pissy" or anything like that. It's a complete fluke. Right?

In any case, next week's class is steering clear of animals.

But I am just waiting to hear from that parent who pulls me aside next week and says, "I heard you taught my kid a slang word. Little so-and-so came home shouting Fish Piss."

Racer

Last weekend, I did something CRAZY:

I entered a kayak race.

This does not mean that I sat in a boat and raced from a start line to a finish line on placid lake water. This means that I paddled a 50-pound boat through whitewater (albeit measly whitewater to any seasoned kayaker), slaloming in and out of hanging gates, turning upstream and downstream as the course demanded and rushing with the current over a couple of sudden drops of water over rocks.

I was the beginnerest of beginners at this particular race, following closely behind a seven-year-old.

This summer I learned how to whitewater kayak and discovered that it is way fun. But I never imagined that I would enjoy racing in a whitewater kayak. That seems like a whole different thing. Speeding over class 3 rapids with your competent (and hott) teacher always right in front of you or behind you is one thing, but doing it while a slew of people is watching you, timing you, and knocking off points every time you hit a gate is pretty intimidating.

And exhilarating!

I don't want to mislead you here, with all this talk about rapids and slalom gates. I am by far a terrible kayak racer. But you have to give me some credit for racing at all, when I only sat my butt down in a boat for the first time, oh, three months ago.

I generally think of myself as someone who is not very competitive. Unfortunately, that is not completely true. I happen to have a small but fierce competitive streak in me, especially when trying something new. And since I was a beginner, I had the option of competing in two races: the whitewater course and a flatwater course.

Well, you can bet your bananas that on that flatwater course, which was easy to maneuver, I meant business. With a capital B. I wasn't risking falling out of my boat (which I did on the whitewater course--it's pretty fun to swim over rapids, but I'm grateful for the safety boaters who pulled me out before I smashed headfirst into a boulder), so all I had to do was paddle hard and glide through a few gates.

Because there weren't many beginners at this race, I was certain to get a competitively good time. I had my eye on that seven year old, though, because she was at about precisely my level, and my one and only mission for the day became about defeating the tiny boater who whizzed past in her gigantic kayak. I think she felt the same way. We kept exchanging knowing glances. You recognize people who are at your caliber, and you meld a sort of tacit bond with them. You find your competitors easily, and then you growl and wriggle and show teeth until you can finally compete.


Later on, at the awards ceremony (where I comedically provided live music by singing an original song called "Solid Ground," which is a metaphorical blues song about falling into a river), after awards for all the serious kayakers and canoe-racers droned on and on, it came time to announce the winners of the flatwater course. Finally, the moment I had been waiting for!

First place went to (dum, da-dum!) a serious boater who had dislocated her shoulder and could only compete in the flatwater course.

Second place went to----Liz Rognes!

And third place went to the seven-year-old.

Smugly, I grinned and faux-humbly accepted my red ribbon with a picture of a cow on it. (By the way, EVERYONE gets a ribbon. It's no big thing at all to get a ribbon. But I was elated!)
I sneaked a glance at the seven-year-old, who was happy enough to get her third-place ribbon. Her mother, though, caught my self-assured smirk and said, loudly enough for me to hear, "You did a great job, Seven-Year-Old. And, guess what, the girl before you only beat you by 10 seconds!"

The seven-year-old caught my eye, and I clutched my red ribbon tightly in my fist.

Ten seconds or not, I was the one holding the ribbon which said "Second Place," and she was the one holding the one which read, "Third Place."

Let the numbers speak for themselves.

And, next time, I'm going for First Place. All the way.

Move over, Tiny Boater. This Beginner is ready to leave you in the dust.

Er, foam.

Role Reversal

A six-year-old student who took a summer hiatus recently had her first back-to-school piano lesson. When I walked in the door, she greeted me with a grin and a big hug. I was flattered and took my seat next to the piano, glowing with love for my job and excited about this student's eagerness to start back into her lessons.

I opened up her assignment notebook and began reading over the notes I had written for her last spring, to refresh myself. She said, "Did you bring the flashcards?"

Sometimes I bring flashcards, as a special thing, for students, especially if they are beginners and need something a little more fun to help them learn the bass clef or time signatures or something. "No," I said, apologetically, "I didn't bring the flashcards."

I made a note in the notebook to "bring the flashcards."

The six-year-old nodded and looked at me closely. She squinted and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Well, Liz," she said, with a sigh, "One thing is the same about you. You are forgetful."

I raised my eyebrows, more amused than offended.

"And," she continued, as she peered onto the notebook where I had written my forgetful self a reminder to bring the flashcards, "one thing is different about you. Your handwriting is much better!"

I smiled and graciously stammered, "Why, thank you." (Even though I don't believe it for a second--my handwriting has not improved one bit. And, in fact, it wasn't that bad to begin with. But I'm not offended, I promise. I mean, it only gets messy sometimes when I am in a hurry. Really. My handwriting is very neat. Mostly. But maybe my lapsing memory serves me wrong on this matter.)

Nodding, she employed a very teacher-ly voice. Approvingly, she said, "I can see you have been practicing this summer!"

Like Usual.

The other day, I was hanging out with three of my favorite kids. We were playing kickball with a smaller-than-a-kickball-type rubber ball. After striking out, I poutingly sat on the sidelines with the four-year-old, who couldn't figure out that after kicking the ball (further than I could have), she was supposed to run to first base. "I can't do it, Lizzy!" she screamed. "I don't know where to run!"

I excitedly pointed toward first base and said, "Right there! You're almost there! Keep going!"

But "right there" was too obscure for her four-year-old brain, which saw so many possibilities. She didn't realize that there were four bases connected by straight lines--she saw a million directions in which she could run. That way? That way? That way?

I watched her little eyes dart in all directions, earnestly trying to figure out where "right there" was supposed to be.

And then she collapsed on the dusty ground and began to sob.

So I scooped her up and we had a short rest on the sidelines while her brothers attempted to play baseball with the larger-than-a-baseball-type rubber ball.

While we sat in the shady grass, both of us recuperating and nursing our egos, we took off our shoes and wiggled our toes in the late summer breeze. "Ooh!" I said, "My toes are a little stinky!"

And Theo, being four, picked up her shoe and put it to her nose. Then she pulled her foot to just below her nostrils and announced, "Mine are not stinky. My feet smell....like usual."

I laughed, thinking that was such a strange thing to say. "And does 'like usual' smell like?" I asked her.

"Plain," she said. "My feet smell plain."

"Plain, just like usual?" I said, smiling.

"Yep. Just like usual," she said.

Then she put back on her shoes, stood up, and announced she wanted to finish running to first base.

Extravagant

In the past week, I have been at altitudes of 2,400 feet and over 12,000 feet. My legs have carried me up and down Arizona's highest and lowest places. Well, second highest place, to be exact. I attempted to climb to Humphrey's Peak, which really is the highest point in Arizona, but an unfortunate mistaken deviation from the trail led me to Agassiz Peak instead. Second highest. But close. And only two days later, without fully recovering from the climb, I hiked to the bottom of the Grand Canyon and then back up the following day.

I have lots to say about both of these experiences, including other mishaps and potentially dangerous situations from which I gratefully escaped with only a few sore muscles (situations which may or may not have to do with unpreparedly climbing the San Francisco Peaks in monsoon season without adequate attire and then actually being caught in a monsoon, descending steep drop-offs of loose boulders and falling rock while watching the lightning pierce nearer and nearer, scaling a "no hiking allowed" fence out of dire necessity, and things of this nature).

But, alas, I am not here to write about my hiking adventures. Not yet. That will come later, along with a top ten list of the most exciting non-life-threatening things that happened during my trip (you know, freestyling in broken French while suffering mild heat exhaustion, biking in the dark while pretty much unable to see at night, Charlie the bike-rental kid who was either hitting on me or hating on me, depending on the day, etc.)

I am here tonight, instead, to gush about my extravagant compensation for volunteering to give my airline ticket to a standby passenger. Well, maybe it's not really extravagant, considering that I am stuck here in Phoenix overnight, but to a month-by-month fiscally irresponsible young lady like myself, getting a free hotel room, a free breakfast, a free shuttle to and from the airport AND a free round trip ticket to anywhere in the contiguous U.S. is pretty luxurious.

So here I am, using free internet after my free swim in the underwater-lit, outdoor pool, under the open night sky, after a free shower with free lemon-verbena shampoo and lotion soap, just winding down from my adventurous trip with a free stay in a fancy-shmancy hotel room with two double beds (which one should I choose? How does one choose between two beds?). There is free coffee, free towels to use, free toothpaste, free air conditioning (it was 106 degrees in Phoenix today), free TV (which I won't use--even free, I still hate that animated box), free wake-up calls, and even free food for me, compliments of the airline.

Apparently there are people who seek out this sort of situation--who immediately ask at the ticket counter if they need volunteers to give up their seats. I didn't seek it out--I wanted to be in St. Paul tonight, snuggly in my bed (er, well, the borrowed bed I am sleeping in for the next few months). Instead, I got bumped from my flight, which was delayed anyway, and here I am, soaking up the luxury that only an unsuspecting, strapped-for-cash wide-eyed, lovestruck traveler can really appreciate.

This free stuff doesn't come without some amount of guilt for me--do I really deserve this? I mean, really, two beds? Three towels in the bathroom? Air conditioning?

But...for now I am just going to enjoy it. Luxury awaits me and my stinky backpack.

Anyway, if I were really going to be extravagant, of my own accord, I would have turned down the fancy-schmancy hotel room offer and rented a car and driven the three hours back to Flagstaff, from where I just came, even if for just overnight. Free food, multiple towels, and an outdoor pool are nothing compared to the extravagance that a little bit of romance can inspire.

My sensibilities keep me here, in this free hotel. Extravagant or not, even leaving Arizona is an adventure. Let's just hope I can get on my return flight tomorrow...

Prairie Mountain

Today I am at my parents' house in North central Iowa. It is the farm I grew up on, surrounded by miles of cornfields and prairie. As I drove up to their house last night, my car filled to the brim with my cats and their belongings, a kayak strapped to the roof, my anxiety high from a day of trying to pull my shit together and learning how to secure a boat to my little Ford Focus all by myself, I couldn't help but feel awed at the tranquility of their big, old farm house, the familiar, long driveway (that is now paved but was a duration of loose gravel for most of my childhood), the rows of tall, looming evergreens that my dad had planted when we were small, and the nostalgic, comfortable images of grain bins, the barn, the shed, farm machinery, and various animals squawking and braying to announce my arrival.

Their house is West of town, so as I approached the farm around 8:30 pm last night, I could see the sun, huge and orange, lazily lowering itself into the horizon. My sister, who is living at home now and working on the farm, had recently said to me, "Do you know what I notice about Iowa? The sky--there is so much color, and there's always a little pink in it, and you can see forever."

And as I watched the sun slowly, slowly settle herself into the head-high rows of corn, then sink amidst the crop, and then disappear into the endless horizon, I saw what she meant. It was beautiful.

Later, after a jovial dinner with all five members of my family (which included ridiculous banter about the donkey, a thoroughly detailed narrative about the lives and character maps of the roosters, and the inevitable plays on words that describe all the animals--"The cocks are chasing the ass again! Ha, ha, ha, ha"), I stepped outside to unload my car.

There were fireflies blinking everywhere! And I glanced up, and there was Cassiopeia, Orion, and all the late summer constellations, brightly gleaming above my head.

There is a lot of charm to this place.

And then, this morning, I woke up to the sound of roosters crowing, the lone donkey braying, and my mom's cat chatting with my two cats through a closed door. I came downstairs and looked out the window, to the South. To the North, the East, and the West, you can see for miles. You see nothing but rows of corn, soybeans, or prairie. You can see a blanket of unending sky, unfolding in all directions, whatever weather it holds taking it sweet time as it makes its way across the enromous palette of flatland.

To the South, however, you see something different. You see crops, you see miles of land, but in the center of the horizon, you see another, strangely misplaced vision.

You see something that looks like a mountain. A mountain?

Yes, a mountain. And it's a growing.

Each time I come home to visit my parents and marvel in the simplicity and beauty of the nature that surrounds them, I notice the mountain to the South, and how it gets a bit taller, a bit fatter.

That "mountain" is a giant landfill that acquires trash from all over the midwest. Less stringent disposal rules and cheaper taxing on dumping in Iowa keep Minnesota garbage spilling over and onto the mountain that lives just a couple miles South of my parents' house (70-100 truckloads from Minnesota arrive daily, according to my dad. He calls Waste Management Systems the Mafia of Garbage--"Google it, Liz, you won't find anything. They're the Mafia.") There was a big uproar about this practice a few years ago, including a write up in the Star Tribune about the landfill just outside of Lake Mills, IA, but apparently nothing has changed. (When I was a first-year in college, my choir director said, "Oh, you're from Lake Mills? I just read about the landfill there!")

So the ungarnished, natural beauty of rural Iowa is interrupted. Garnished, if you will, by pepperings (er, dumpings) of out of state trash, inevitably seeping into the groundwater and nutrient-rich soil.

My sense of awe in the infinite sky and the miles and miles of prairie is disturbed by a mountain of trash.

My enchantment with the loveliness and fresh air is also disturbed by the sound of a low-flying plane outside, right now, at this very moment, spraying fungicide on the crops. "It's crazy out there right now in the farming world," my Dad said to me this morning, when he told me about the pesticide plane. "Farmers are doing everything they can to make more money. Get rid of the aphids, get rid of the fungus, they increase productivity--and they'll make more money."

That lazy sun setting softly into the horizon last night sees all of this. I wonder if her heart breaks, like mine does, at the sound of fierce streams of pesticide, or the vision of a completely unnatural mountain growing by leaps and bounds in the middle of the cornfields and native wildflowers. (And don't even get me started on GMO corn. On Monsanto. On the ethics of hybridization. On hog farms. Among other things.)

Yes, it is beautiful here. And we are completely destroying it, one truckload of trash at a time.

Eye of the Storm

Someone recently said to me, "You are like the eye of the storm right now."

I'm telling you, people, I am stirring it up wherever I go right now. I turn to the left, and the dust erupts. I turn to the right, and the leaves scatter. I turn around, and an avalanche falls. I walk forward, and glass shatters.

I'm trying not to take it personally, but a few too many of these sorts of chaos have happened for me to really believe it is purely coincidental.

My most recent theory is that I am living a really, really intense version of the old adage: the only way out is through.

Apparently, I have been so deeply entrenched in the muck that every attempt I make for clarity is obscured by flying debris, at least for now, at least while I keep trudging along, making my way through it.

(Example. Ring, ring. Liz: Hello? Potential Landlord: I know you are planning to move into my property in three days, but by the way, your cats are not welcome here after all. Find other arrangements.)

So...here's a very mild request to you, in case you have some life-altering news for me: Give it a few days. My plate is full.

Least Helpful

When I tell people about my recent break-up, I usually get really empathetic responses, but I have also gotten some very strange reactions.

The most helpful responses go something like this:
"Oh, honey, I'm so sorry. Are you okay? Do you need a place to stay? Indian food? A book to borrow? Help moving? Hugs from my three adorable children?" ...and generous offers of that sort.

The most indulgently vindictive response I have gotten was this:
"Ooh! I hope you dig up all those perennials you planted!"

And the least helpful response, by far, was this one:
"Oh, Liz, that's good. It was such a terrible neighborhood!"

Piano Movers

The second most frightening thing I have ever seen in my entire life is three grown men with beer bellies and missing teeth putting my hundred-year-old Behning upright piano on its side and heaving it down a flight of steps.

I hired the less-reputable piano movers this time, because they quoted me a (nominally) cheaper price than the more-reputable, (nominally more) expensive company, and also because ever since I got word of the failing state of the piano, I haven't been quite so uptight about the upright.

Even so, seeing these men literally dripping their salty sweat onto the ivories while complaining of bad rotator cuffs, knees, and backs pretty much panicked me.

I watched them, wide-eyed and amazed at the terrible physical condition of the people I had hired to move a sacred 900 pound piece of wood. Who goes into the piano moving business with bad shoulders? Wouldn't it seem to be a strange career move? Perhaps a certain injury?

And as I listened to the three stooges yelling out warnings to each other, via cutesie nickname ("Hey, One-Leg! Catch that corner before it smashes into the siding!"), I began to think of all the questions I should have asked before hiring the less-reputable piano movers.

I should have asked:
1) Am I responsible for any injuries which occur while you are moving my piano?
2) If you bust my ex-girlfriend's brand new siding, will you pay up?
3) If you drop the piano, will you fix it?

As all these questions swam around in my head, I watched the three of them grunt and heave and shove my poor, sweet, heavy piano down Stacia's new front steps and into their truck. I wondered if I had made a wrong decision by hiring the underdogs. I was worried about my piano, but even more so, I was worried about the three seemingly fragile men, with their scraped up shins and bumbling banter.

"Whoops, we just ran over a garden! Those look like weeds anyway." (This wasn't my garden; it was a shade garden at my friend Dan's house, where my piano is being stored, and now his rental property is missing a few ferns.)

In any case, the piano made it in one piece, and so did all three of the men. However, the process took much longer than it should have. Besides the smashed ferns, the piano movers managed to bust a couple of pieces of plywood and nearly take off a door handle, but other than those minor infractions, all went well.

Dan stood next to me when we arrived at his house with the piano, and he watched, amazed, at the struggle and sweat that the three men exuded. "Thank God I'm not doing that," he said. (Previously, he had volunteered himself and his roommates to move the piano. I thanked him for the generous offer but had declined and insisted on hiring professionals.)

And after all was said and done, piano safely in place in its new temporary home, one of the men sat down and began to play.

...And he was fantastic!

He immediately commenced with an eight-octave jazz improvisation, rocking the entire house into a daze. I instantly forgave the hassle (the 2-hour late arrival, the inevitable jokes about such a big piano for such a small girl, the tramped-down ferns) and listened to the best piano playing I have heard in quite a while.

Dan and I were a buzz of questions for the pianist. He shrugged and said nonchalantly, "Oh, I don't perform much anymore. I used to accompany Bette Midler, though, you know of her?"

......

And so, you must wonder, what was the first most frightening experience of my life if it wasn't this?

Easy. That was watching the same piano give another set of movers quite a struggle. But those piano movers? They were my dad, my brother, and a few friends.

I don't care who you've accompanied, especially if you are my family. But I will hire someone who has the right equipment, even if they have bad knees, over my friends and family any day. No way would I want to lose my brother to my Behning New York Upright.

Vacation

I am supposed to be on vacation this week, at my parents cabin on Spirit Lake, with Luna and Stacia.

However, a series of gut-wrenching events occurred, which has catapulted me into the ambiguous land of extracting myself from a broken relationship, and which has now given me a week on my own, free from vacation and also free from teaching.

When we called off our vacation (it's no fun to go on vacation with someone with whom you have just broken up), I decided not to reschedule my piano lessons. I planned instead to fill my days with therapy, writing, hot tea, music, friends, running, stretching, and reading.

What I got instead were days and days of no sleep, not enough food, the inability to concentrate on anything creative, and a knot the size of a mountain in my stomach.

I am coming around now, able to eat and sleep again. I have consumed massive quantities of chamomile tea and even attempted running (which didn't turn out well--trying run after a few days of hardly sleeping and eating is a bad idea). I have depended on my friends to the point of running out of cell phone minutes this month (I usually have hundreds of minutes left over at the end of the month). I have tried to take it day by day, moment by moment, and have even succeeded at enjoying some of those moments, in between fits of sobbing. (Like whitewater kayaking for the first time ever--pure fun. Or visiting the butterfly tent with the girls I babysit and watching the kids immerse themselves in a hunt for caterpillars. Or even getting the chance to watch Persepolis, the film based on the comicbook-style memoir by Marjane Sartrapi, not once but twice.)

All in all, I will come out of this alright. I know it because I have done it before.

I will eventually pick myself up off the floor, reassemble the pieces, and walk on.

I didn't really consider that it might be dishonest to cancel the vacation and then stay in St. Paul and not teach piano lessons. It never occurred to me that I might run into my students and their parents, and then have to explain why I am hanging around St. Paul without maintaining my regular schedule. Of course, I am not obligated to give any explanations at all--I am self-employed and get to set my own schedule. But I am also pretty friendly with most of my clients, and it wouldn't be out of line for them to ask, "Why are you not on vacation? Is everything okay?"

Case in point: I have spent the past few mornings at a neighborhood cafe, drinking full throttle coffee (my half-caff attempts have gone out the window during this emotional turmoil) and using the internet. In the past 24 hours, 2 of which I have spent at this coffee shop, I have run into not one, not two, not three, but FOUR parents of students.

FOUR.

What are the odds? I only have like 20 students. Running into 4 different parents is a full 20% of my clientele, right there, using the same coffee shop that I am.

So to most of them, I have just said, "Oh, my plans fell through, and I am taking a week off anyway."

But I can't help feeling a little squeamish about hanging out at what is apparently the rendezvous point for all of my students and their families (it just occurred to me that I should advertise here--holy moly potential student jackpot), and then pretending like I am just taking a leisurely week to relax. I mean, maybe I am. But I feel like there is a lot going on inside my head and heart these days, which isn't all that conducive to ease of relaxation.

All in all, I am not going to remain anxious about running into my students this week. Whatever. I never cancel lessons, I'm always (usually) on time, and taking one week off during the summer, even if I haven't left the city, is perfectly reasonable. So I'm not going to perpetuate that guilty feeling of being busted, of being found out, of being clearly not on vacation during the week I had canceled all my lessons.

(I have enough to be emotional about.)

And, besides, if 20% of my clientele is an accurate sample, I can safely say that most of my clients would be perfectly fine with knowing that I am taking a week off, for personal reasons, rather than for a family vacation.

Some of those clients (maybe more like 10%) double as friends. To those few people, I have given a more straightforward explanation of the situation, and from those few people, I have received generous offers of a spare bed, help moving, and an open phone policy.

"Call anytime, Liz," one client/friend told me, sincerely. "You're not just our piano teacher, you know."

Pain in the Neck

I visited a chiropractor for the first time today, and I will not be returning to her. I had a free consultation, compliments of the St. Kate's Alumni Association Reunion 5K I ran last weekend. I figured, free consult? Why not?

The chiropractor's first words to me, after introducing herself, were, "GOD created your brain so your body could heal itself."

Oh, that's lovely, self-healing and--what? God comes into chiropractor appointments? Isn't that inappropriate? Doesn't God have more important places to be, like oppressive religious institutions and twelve-step meetings?

I let it slide. (In all honesty, I was a little distracted by her yellow eyeliner and gold eyelashes.)

She went on to explain to me what a healthy spine looks like. She showed me pictures of healthy vertebrae and told me what happens when your spine is out of line. "GOD didn't intend for your spine to be crooked," she said, gravely. Every time she said the word God, she would accent it by elongating each letter so it was the most powerful word in the sentence.

Now I was feeling...really uncomfortable, and my internal crap-radar was starting to buzz. Doctors and health care providers aren't supposed to talk about GOD. They are not supposed to guilt you into using their services by claiming that your spine, your literal backbone, is wrong in God's eyes.

I really wanted to ask her to stop with the God-talk. I really wanted to get out of the room. But, being me, instead of speaking up, I just didn't comment.

She did a computer scan of my neck and took a somber breath. "Oh, this is bad," she said. "This is almost the worst we can see."

I turned to look at the computer screen. There were red bars surrounding the virtual image of my neck. "Red is very bad," she said.

"Well, what does it mean?" I asked.

"We won't know until we take your X-rays," she said.

I looked to the giant X-ray machine just behind me and panicked. Radiation! Toxic! No! "Is it necessary to take X-rays?" I asked.

"With this sort of computer scan, absolutely," she said.

And me, being the trusting, agreeable girl I am, agreed to X-rays. It was for my spinal health. God didn't want my spine to show up with red bars on a computer screen. I mean, this sounded urgent.

So she took the X-rays and then said, (before seeing the X-rays, since she wouldn't be able to look at them until later), "You will need to come in for an adjustment right away. First thing tomorrow."

I said, "Oh, I can't tomorrow, I am busy. What about Monday?"

She shook her head. "It has to be tomorrow."

"Um...I really don't think I can make it tomorrow."

"What are your plans?"

At this point, I should have (obviously) said, "My plans are none of your damn business." But instead, because when I am frightened, I default to believing that other people have every right to know every last detail about my inferior life, I said, "Well, I have plans to spend the day with my partner. We don't get to see each other very often."

She looked very disapproving. "F....'family' is important," she said, choking a little on the word "family" as though it was hard for her to spit out, "But this is even more important. If I told you had cancer, I bet you would come in tomorrow."

What I should have said was, "You might as well tell me I have cancer, since you just blasted me with your radiation machine!"

But, being me, I just said, "Look, I can't make it tomorrow. What about Monday or Tuesday?"

And she kept pushing. ("What if I told you you had a tumor? You have to come in tomorrow, first thing. Yes, I know it's Saturday, but you have to come in......" etc, etc, etc.)

At this point, my internal crap-radar was sounding a high-pitched alarm. We're talking surprised soprano top-range tessitura. I mean: A) all the God talk, and B) this non-budging insistence that I had to make an appointment for tomorrow morning. And C) did I mention the quiz I had to take in the waiting room? I actually got quizzed on my knowledge about the spine before I was allowed into the office.

It didn't add up to me. I believe that my spine is out of line. But I do not believe that I want to work with a chiropractor who is pushy about my schedule, who forces God into the exam room, or who insists to know what my Saturday plans are.

I looked at the exit door, which she was standing in front of. "I need to go," I said.

"I really need you to make an appointment for tomorrow morning," she said.

Bursting at the seams with frustration, I said, "I. CAN'T. MAKE. IT. TOMORROW."

She finally backed out of the way and walked me out of the room. "I am going to call you with your X-ray results," she said. "And then you need to make an appointment as soon as possible."

"Fine," I said, having no intention whatsoever to ever return to this awful place. She took one last cheap shot by handing me a sheet of paper with pictures of horrifyingly bent, disfigured, out-of-line spines and said, "Do you see how awful these are? What if your spine looks like this?"

I was curiously filled with the same feeling I get when I hear stories about women who go to Planned Parenthood and are intercepted by the Pro-Lifers, with pictures of how awful this could be for your baby. What if this was your baby? Would you do this to your baby?

Angrily, images of disfigured human bones in hand, I walked out of the office.

But not before hearing...what kind of music is that? Is that the Evangelical Christian station?

And now, almost two hours later, as I am writing about the stupid experience, my phone is ringing and ringing. Yes, she is calling me to tell me about my X-rays. What do you want to bet she says something like, "Oh, your X-rays were awful. You have to come back immediately. Right now. No, RIGHT NOW. ANSWER YOUR PHONE! God hates people who wreck their spines. Come back and pay me whatever I overcharge you because God tells you to. God made your brain to heal your body, and your sinful pagan lesbian spine is making God very angry....I neeeeeeeeed your moneyyyyyyy...."

Oh, Lizzy, another lesson learned. Never go to to a health service provider without doing some basic research first. And, when you hear the Christian station?

Run.

Free Beer

I deem this The Summer of Picnics in Parks with Various Children.

That may or may not be such a great title for a summer. It sounded much better in my head, before I typed it into solid text. Before, you know, I realized the potential...interpretations of such a title.

In any case, I am spending my summer mornings nannying for two different families. And they are polar opposites of each other.

In one family, the kids wake up early, eat a balanced breakfast of farm-fresh eggs (straight from the underbellies of the chickens in their backyard), brush their teeth, clean their rooms, and are prepared for a morning of interactive activity--tag, bike riding, beading, etc. In the other family, the kids wake up late, may or may not eat breakfast, and if they do eat "breakfast," it's some shoddily disguised starchy high fructose corn syrup concoction trying (just barely) to pass for cereal with watery milk, and then they watch a strange assortment of television shows allegedly targeting kids.

In one such television show, a character held up a sign that read, "Free beer."

The six-year-old sugar-induced beginning reader sounded out the letters. "F...r....ee...B...eee...rrrrr. Free beer!?"

I nodded, "Yes, good reading. It says free beer."

Later in the day, the same 6-year-old decided to play Legos. He asked me innocently if I would please play Legos with him.

"Just a second," I said, as I tried to finish a chapter in the book I was reading.

There was a pause before I heard him say, enticingly, "I'll give you free beer!"

Students' Siblings

1. I recently taught a piano lesson in which I spent the entire half-hour very aware of my student's little brother who was sitting behind me, in a big, overstuffed, comfy chair, his little four-year-old toes dangling far from the floor, his peanut-butter-smothered fingers quietly holding a pair of binoculars aimed directly at me. He didn't make a peep. He just sat there, quietly kicking his short little legs, sniffling from a recent cold, and held those binoculars steady. The. Whole. Time.

Talk about teaching under scrutiny.

2. Yesterday, as I was leaving a student's house, her little sister ran to the door with urgent information for me. I was just closing the door, and the chatty, tiny kid planted herself in front of the entryway so I couldn't quite follow through with the shutting of the door, on account of the tiny girl standing in the way. "Teacher Liz," she said, her eyes big. "Yesterday, I went poop! On the potty!"

Her intellectually way-over-my-head parents (with post-name credentials that span the entire length of the alphabet) stood behind her, chuckling at their cute potty-trained daughter, and I said the only thing I could think of to say: "What a great... location for that activity!"

I turned around and walked away, thinking, "Liz, what did you just say?"

Immune

Last week, when I came home from the Kindergarten Camping Trip, Stacia was lying in bed, surrounded by Kleenex and cold pills. She was feeling miserable, with a sore throat, aches, and a headache.

I consoled her by holding her close and giving her a big kiss. She said, "Don't kiss me--you'll get sick too."

"Oh, no I won't," I said. I went on to brag about my strong immunities. Working with kids and all. I talked smack about how I never get sick, how I can be around all kinds of viruses and not even sneeze.

And now, a week later, I have had to cancel all my lessons for today, as I lie on the couch with a down comforter, alternating between shaking with chills and sweating, with a 101.3 fever, a sore throat, massive body aches, and a headache.

So much for my strong immunities.

Hierarchy

There is a carefully constructed hierarchy at our house, and it's not exactly what I would have expected.

We have three pets: Nubia the Cat, Mama Schmee the Mama Cat, and Luna the 10-month-old puppy. Mama is Nubia's actual mama. They have been my cats since Nubia was born, four years ago (she is the same age as my sobriety--4!) These cats have been with me through multiple moves, at least two girlfriends, living on someone's porch, emergency evacuation from unsuitable living conditions, a few unsavory flings, and all these years of recovery. Schmee actually lived with me while I was still drinking (though she was not my cat at that time), so she saw me in all my glory. They love me a lot, and Luna is their second dog to contend with.

The previous dog was a former girlfriend's pug/pin, a little bouncy rowdy thing that was about the same size as my cats. Nubia befriended her pretty quickly, but Mama never adjusted. She kept her distance and neither provoked an argument nor partook in any anger arousal.

Now that Stacia and I have had Luna for, oh, five months or so, my cats are finding their bearings with this new addition to the household.

Nubia has always been the shy one. She hides in the strangest places, like in any of my houseplants, which the plants despise and so do I.


With Luna around, Nubia hides under furniture, in closets, in Holly's room, and in places I will never know about because she is so well-hidden. But as time goes by, she is becoming more and more a quiet friend to Luna. I caught them touching noses the other day. I couldn't make a big deal about it, because they are both a little sensitive about the ramifications of their relationship.

When it comes to the hierarchy, though, Luna is one up on Nubia. Luna really wants to play with Nubia, and she will sit in front of her, tail pounding the floor, doing a play bow and basically begging for Nubia's attention. If Nubia runs off, Luna will chase her, as far as she can before Nubia will jump up onto some tall piece of furniture that Luna can't reach. I am sure that Nubia flirts with Luna--she will stroll past slowly, rubbing her tail against Luna's chest, as if to say, "Just try to come after me, Doggie!" And then the chase begins again.

But when it comes down to it, Nubia is a fraidy cat and hides while Luna tries to play with her.

Schmee, on the other hand, is not a flirt. She keeps her distance from Luna at all times, except when she thinks Luna is trying to provoke her. Then Mama will leap toward Luna and chase her as far as she can.

One day, Stacia and I were standing on the second floor landing, between steps going up and going down. Nubia came whooshing past, followed by Luna, followed by Schmee. The trio chased each other all the up to the attic.

That is how it is here, Schmee is the alpha and will chase Luna until Luna begins to whimper.

Not only will Schmee instigate terror, but she will also purposefully steal Luna's bed. Luna knows not to argue, so sometimes I will find the two of them sleeping in the living room, Schmee on the dog bed, and Luna on the floor next to her bed. She is too afraid to kick Schmee off of her territory. In fact, she try the trick she uses to get up onto our bed: if she wants to come up on the bed with us, she has to sit and wait to be invited. She knows this. So sometimes, when Schmee is on her bed, she will sit pretty and wait for Schmee to say, "Hup!" Which, of course, Schmee never says because she is a selfish lady.


Even now, as I write this, all three animals are on the couch with me. But if Luna so much as looks at Schmee, Schmee will growl like you have never heard a cat growl before. So Luna refrains from making eye contact with Schmee, and, as much as possible, she attempts to keep to her own business.

If Luna is coming in from outside, and if Schmee is sitting by the door on the inside, Luna won't come in. She will just sit pretty and wait for Schmee to say, "Go!" like we do when it's time to allow her to come in. But, of course, Schmee never says go, and I think she knows exactly what she is doing.

This is a cat who is certain that her actions will get her what she wants. She is ruthless and she knows exactly how to achieve her goals. Still, I love her. She is fuzzy like a teddy bear and she will curl up in my lap when I am reading, as if to say, "I love you, Liz, even if I don't love anyone else." How can you not feel special when someone like Schmee, a known rebel, a maverick loner, an unapologetic manipulator, loves only you?




And so I let this cat curl up in my lap, and I let her go outside if she wants to. Call me a pushover, but this is a love that is very special. It's like I am her tamer. I am the only one who can reason with her. And I take that as an important responsibility as well as a great privilege.

Pieces of You

Upon reading Swiss Cheese, a colleague of Stacia's asked if I was going to frump the violators. (I later learned that to "frump" someone is to "friend dump" them.)

Of course I didn't frump my mischievous friends. I would much prefer to strike back. And anyone who would frump someone over placing a Swiss flag in your front yard is, well, overreacting. It's more like I "frush" these women. Meaning, I openly have a friend crush on them and earnestly want them to like me.

Last week, Caity asked if I would learn a particular Jewel song to play at an open mic. She wanted to sign along (she's fluent in ASL) and have another friend sing the lyrics. It would be completely satirical and playful, to the soundtrack of a very serious song. I thought this sounded like heaps of fun and immediately agreed to what sounded to me like an excellent friendship-building activity.

When the time came around to actually learn the song, I was horrified to discover that the lyrics of this particular song are not only serious but quite provocative. Perhaps offensive. I text messaged Caity and told her I would accompany her on the guitar but refused to sing the lyrics.

When it came down to it, I backed out altogether. We arrived at a local cafe open mic, me in the lead with my bulky guitar on my back. I took one look at the serious, middle-aged folk musicians lined up to perform and spun around on my heels and walked back out the door.

"I will not do it," I announced, theatrically. It all came together for me at that point--why on earth would I agree to accompany a song for which I wouldn't speak the lyrics? Why would I risk offending someone, especially someone in this folk music crowd, which could potentially be a very lucrative networking scene for me?

Caity was horrified and, I think, very disappointed. I shoved my guitar into Megan's hands and said, "You play it."

She stammered something about not being able to play that song, and I said I would teach her, it's not hard. But I won't play it. End of story.

I felt awful for flaking out at the last minute.

You would have changed your mind when you saw that crowd too! Or perhaps you would have said no from the very beginning. You wouldn't have even considered the possibility of performing a song that would make everyone in the room uncomfortable. But you have clearer boundaries than I do, you with your healthy resistance to peer pressure, and I am learning.

So, in classic Liz style, I didn't make the decision until the very last possible moment, standing at the entrance the open mic room, with gray-haired men and women singing cheeky songs about animals and lovers staring at me, wide-eyed and frightened with a guitar on my back. And, in classic Liz style, I dramatically whirled my body around and marched back out of the cafe and purged an ocean of justifications for why I couldn't do this, not here, not now.

Megan agreed to learn the song, immediately. It was starting to rain, and she couldn't learn the song in the cafe, since the folk scene was rendezvousing over swiss water decaf lattes and cookies, so we took over the nearby bus stop shelter. After making the obvious busking jokes about how we could just sing the song here and hope for some change, I handed my guitar to Megan and showed her the opening d minor finger-picking pattern.

She learned the song quickly (I secretly suspect she knew it all along and just wanted to see if I would actually go through with it), and as we were rehearsing, it suddenly began to downpour. Sheets of water smashed against the roof of the bus stop shelter, and thunder exploded everywhere. I protectively whisked my guitar away from Megan and packed it up safely in its case, away from any blowing rain. "We can't leave until it lets up," I said. "I'm not taking my guitar out there in this rain."

And poor Megan, shoved into playing this ridiculous song, and now trapped in a bus shelter with a neurotic flaking accompanist, just began to laugh. We both realized what a ridiculous situation this was.

How many bizarre events must transpire in order for one to find herself stranded in a bus shelter in the rain with a guitar, a friend new enough to still feel slightly awkward but old enough to have impersonal collective memories of a former activist group, and an offensive folk song?

However we got there, we escaped relatively unscathed, as the rain outburst was short and Caity pulled around in her car.

Plan B was to go to the local lesbian bar and just ask if we could perform one song.

So we drove to Pi, parked in front and waltzed into Happy Hour. Caity fearlessly approached the bartender, and moments later she was buzzing back to us with excitement that they would turn down the music so we could play one song.

I still refused to participate in any way except for videotaping the performance. Caity, her friend Howie, and Megan all went outside to practice, and shortly they returned.

The music was quieted. All eyes were on them.

Megan began to play the opening d minor finger-picking pattern, and Howie began to sing. Caity faux-emotionally began signing the words with broad, delicate hand motions.

All in all, did people think it was funny? Did they get the humor of singing a Jewel song with an entourage of interpretation? Did they find irony in the fact that they were singing a song that is supposed to be about tolerance and love but kind of comes off sounding offensive?

I was looking through the viewfinder of the camera, so I can't attest to the stunned looks on people's faces or the laughter from those who got it. I can't tell you whether our friend Sarah's eyes were huge and round with horror or if she wore a smile. I can't tell you whether that bartender was tapping along to the ambiguous duple/triple meter or whether she was considering calling off the performance.

What I can tell you is that I was laughing. It looked pretty funny to me. Maybe the funniest part was realizing how ridiculous I would have been up there, with my serious guitar playing and inability to act.

When it was all over, people clapped. One person came up to us and said she loooooooved the performance. Most people just went back to what they were doing before, like enjoying their first-date dinner or appetizers.

Considering this from the next-day perspective, I am glad I chose not to perform the song. And I am glad I got to experience the performance as an audience member.

It turns out that I'm just not as brave as my deviant friends. It's not that I am scared to make people uncomfortable with things like international flags decorated with permanent marker cartoons tied to their front stoops or well-intended badly written songs, it's just that it makes me uncomfortable. And maybe that's okay. Maybe I can just be the one who laughs at the outlandish and hilarious things my braver, social-norm-challenging friends do as I shake my head and say, "I could never do that." Not that I am a social-norm-follower, either. But I am okay being exactly who I am, without stepping too far outside my comfort zone. On the other hand, pointing a toe over the comfort line is probably good for me now and then. And I am convinced I had a whole leg out there last night, before I dramatically flung myself back into my cozy shell.

And that open mic with the folkies? I'm going back there next week, to sing my own, safely inoffensive, predictable, solidly in one-meter-or-the-other folk songs.

Mashed Potatoes

I often write down the crazy things kids say while I am sitting with them at their lessons. They probably think I am writing their assignment for next time, but really I am directly quoting their ridiculous outbursts.

I recently found a small sheet paper folded up in a pair of jeans I hadn't worn for a while. This is all it said:

X: My fingers smell like mashed potatoes
Me: Did you eat mashed potatoes?
X: No. I think our soap is old.

Conversations with another 6yo Piano Student

Student: "Liz, you look like a pre-school teacher."

Me, unsure how to take this: "Wow, that's convenient because I am a pre-school teacher." (Is it the teacher clothes...you know, baggy cotton and linen and earth shoes? Is it my kid-smile? Is it the ever-present pony-tail with two or three pencils tucked inside? The mug of tea I lug around? What does a pre-school teacher look like?)

Student: "Yep. I knew it, you look just like a pre-school teacher."



This student must have been curious about my life outside of piano lessons, because after she told me I looked like a pre-school teacher, she had this question for me:

Student: "Liz, do you have any kids?"

Me: "No, I don't."

Student: "Why not?"

Me, considering my response carefully: "I just don't. Some people do have kids, and some people don't."

Student, visibly considering this in her little kindergarten brain: "Is it because God didn't give you any kids?"

Oh, boy.

Kindergarten Clean Police

One of the things that Stacia and I have traditionally irritated each other about is housecleaning. I'd say that neither one of us is an immaculately clean sort of person, but also that neither one of us is a complete slob.

That said, one of us likes things to stay relatively neat and one of us doesn't mind a little clutter.

So the story goes: the tidy one puts things in piles or tucks them away in order to keep the table top clear, and then the less tidy one sees the recently cleared space and uses it for her other loose items. And the process repeats, endlessly, until both of us are dizzy with the spin of items piling up and being swept away, piling up, and disappearing.

"Where did my Item X go?" the less tidy one will ask.

"I put it in the pile of Loose Items for you to put away," the less cluttered one will respond.

"But where is that pile?" the less tidy one will say, becoming irritated with the fact that she can't find the important thing she just put on the dining room table, last week, because her neat freak girlfriend keeps moving her shit.

The longer we live together, the more we each bend a little to the other. The tidy one keeps her space clear but shrugs off the piles that aren't an immediate health hazard. The cluttered one notices when she spills cranberry juice on the counter tops and takes the time to wipe it up.

So, all in all, is our house tidy? No, definitely not. But is it terribly messy? No, not usually. It is probably a pretty average-looking place--could use more frequent vacuuming, dusting, and window-washing, but the dog toys stay in their box unless Luna is playing with them, the newspaper gets recycled or composted after we finish reading it, and the kitchen is usually (most of the time) clean.

I have backed off a lot on arguing about the state of the house. Am I the tidy one or the cluttered one? Does it matter? In fact, I think we each wear both titles, depending on our moods and how busy we are. I certainly can think of times when I have been the one to cover the table with loose sheet music, old mail, a broken metronome, and snacks from the car. And I can think of the times when I have grumbled over that same table being covered with Stacia's drill set, scuba clothing, and loose receipts.

The point is that neither one of us is perfect at keeping her share of the house clean, and the longer I live in a community of three people and three animals, the more I can relax about the pile of dusty, defunct speakers that sits in the corner of the dining room, because how important is it that they move? What sort of personal satisfaction will I get from having that corner clear? Sometimes I think I take physical clutter a little too seriously--that if the table is strewn with crap, I feel like it's personal. Like my head is strewn with spiderwebs and I can't find a coherent thought through all the chaos. (Now you know who the nagging, tidy one is.)

In any case, this is a process and I am making small strides toward being okay with the state of the house at any given moment.

But yesterday, when a six-year-old piano student pointed out that our house is not very clean, I felt personally affronted. What! How dare she?! No, our house may not be spotless, but we try very hard to keep it liveable. "Liz, I do have a question, but it doesn't have to do with piano," the piano student said, as we finished up her lesson and she climbed down from the bench that is too tall for anyone under 4 feet.

"Sure," I said (these are usually my favorite kinds of questions), "What is it?"

She wrinkled her nose and gestured to the living room. "Do you ever clean your house?"

Ugh--that kid knew how to push my buttons! Feeling quite offended, I said, "Um, yes, we do clean the house, of course." I felt like I was stammering--trying to prove something to this Kindergarten Clean Police. What I wanted to do was retaliate. I wanted to assign her ten pages of theory homework or extra practicing. But instead, I just stood there, sheepishly looking around and noticing things like those dusty speakers, Luna's bones, and the mountain of shoes that had been silently growing near the front door.

At that moment, her mother arrived to take her home. As they walked out the door, I overheard the kid say, "Mom, they really need to clean their house."

To which the mom responded, "Well, honey. Some people just don't have time to keep their houses clean."

Swiss Cheese

This morning, I offered to drive Stacia to work. Sleepily, I grabbed my (half-caff) coffee in one hand and the dog in the other, and followed Stacia out the door onto the porch.

Where we stopped dead in our tracks.

There was a red banner carefully strung to our front stoop. From the back, we couldn't see what it was. I hopped around to the front and saw this doctored Swiss flag:




You can see that there is some beautiful artwork. There is a very lovely cow lactating into a bucket, a Swiss watch above her head, a chocolate bar drawn on the left, a very accurate depiction of the Swiss Alps and a mountain climber on the right with the words, "We kick your ass by doing NOTHING." And words along the bottom part of the white cross that say, "So how's that continental drift? India is raming (misspelled) into Asia! So fuck off."

And, in the center, in bold letters, "NEUTRAL AS SHIT"

Completely confused, Stacia and I looked at each other. "What the hell?" she asked.

"I don't know," I said. "We're not even Swiss."

We took down the flag, put it in the porch, and got in the car to drive to Stacia's work. The whole way there, we contemplated what this symbol of Switzerland on our front stoop could possibly mean.

"Are we neutral about something?" Stacia asked.

"I don't know," I said.

"It looks like someone who is pretty clue-y about world politics wrote this," she said. "But what the hell? Why was it on our doorstep?"

"It looks like something someone might have made for a protest," I said. "Like something about political neutrality. So...what the fuck? Why us?"

You have to understand--we are new in the neighborhood. We live on Aurora Avenue, which isn't unsafe but is a street on which, since I have moved here six months ago, there have been a few par-for-the-course drug busts, squatters, homicide, arson, etc. Not unlike any other street in urban St. Paul, but still. I have had a few weird interactions with neighbors who creep me out. One time some guy followed me in a car for a whole block, just to tell me that I better pick up any shit my dog leaves behind. I once watched two women attack each other by physically knocking each other down and throwing punches at each other in front of our house. And once, while sitting on the couch watching a made-for-TV movie starring Marlee Matlin, I heard about seven gunshots fired nearby. We found out in the newspaper the next day that someone had been shot and killed on our block.

No, I don't feel unsafe here. I may not go for walks at night by myself--but I wouldn't do that in Merriam Park, either. All of the stuff that has happened has been spread out over many months, and we know our neighbors and like the location. We have never had any indication that anyone had anything against us.

Until, ironically, the Swiss flag appeared on our front stoop.

As we neared Stacia's work, we decided that we ought to call the police. "I'm not worried about it," Stacia said, "But I think we should file a report, just to have it on record that this weird thing happened."

"Okay," I said, in agreement.

"And ask them about a No Tresspassing sign," she said. "Ask I can put one up or if I have to get clearance from the Police Department."

"Okay," I said. She was right--it was creepy to think of someone opening the gate and sneaking onto our front stoop to oh-so-carefully tie a flag to the rails. Why our house? Why not the neighbor's house?

So when I got home after dropping Stacia off, I called the cops. They sent an officer immediately. He reeked of cologne and a macho sense of duty. "Do any of your neighbors have anything against you?" he asked.

"No," I said. "I don't think it's a big deal, we just wanted to file a report."

"Ma'am," he said, "In this neighborhood, we can't take this sort of thing lightly. I'm going to take this banner as evidence and submit it to our Special Investigations Unit."

"Uh, okay," I said.

So he took the Swiss flag, with an air of great gravity and stinky cologne, and returned to his Po-Po-Mobile.

I continued with my day, working on some scheduling for the summer, and then got ready to go to the Children's Center to teach music. On the drive to the pre-school I called my friend Caity to tell her the crazy story.

Teasingly, I left her this voice mail message: "You didn't happen to tie a Swiss flag to our front stoop last night, did you? Because if you did, you'll have to get it back from the cops. And if you didn't, call me because I have a great story."

A few minutes later, I got this text from her:

Dude, you called the cops!

To which I responded, stunned:

It was YOU?

And she said:

Of course it was me and megan. That's what we like to call a love crime.

I couldn't believe it. I should have known! She had recently told me about another prank she had pulled on a marquee sign, where she had rearranged the letters to spell something inappropriate. But I never imagined that she would have put a fricking Swiss flag in front of our house. What does that even mean? I was simultaneously shocked, flattered, and relieved.

I called Stacia to tell her, and she busted out laughing. "That's gonna be hard to top," she said.

So then I had to call the police, apologetically, with the news that the whole thing had been a prank. That was one of the more awkward phone calls I've had to make. I never have liked dealing with the cops. Especially since being arrested. But this was....one of the more not-so-fun phone calls I had to make. The cop I talked to sounded really irritated and told me there was nothing he could do anyway, since they had already filed a report and that an investigator would call me soon.

So now Caity and Megan's beautiful artwork is in the hands of the Western Precinct Special Investigations Unit. Congratulations, ladies, you have done well!

And, now...to think of an adequate prank in return....any suggestions?

Compost Urgency

Sometimes I think I am dating a teenager. Don't get me wrong--I love Stacia, and she is an amazing, wonderful, beautiful, intelligent, funny, generous, loving woman. I am lucky to have her. She can still make my heart twitter, when I see her walking toward me on the University of Minnesota campus, underneath the lilacs in full bloom, a big smile on her face, wearing her plaid button-up and recently-hemmed khaki pants that she thinks are too short, her dimple appearing just for me. Or when she comes home and greets the dog, joy gleaming from both of them as they see each other for the first time in eight hours (oh, soooo long!), and I can't help but feel all warm and gooey when I see her so happy.

I know that I love her, and that means I take her at her worst as well as her best.

The thing is, her worst isn't all that bad. In fact, if I am in the right mood, I can find it to be incredibly adorable.

Take last night, for example.

We have been working really hard on our back yard. We had planned to borrow a tiller from a friend this week, to till up the raised garden bed, where we will plant...herbs? Vegetables? I don't even know exactly what we are planning to put there, but last night it became an urgent task to get the tiller and fifteen large bags of compost.

I had gone to a meeting that lasted one hour (8:00-9:00). At 9:02 p.m., Stacia called, sounding anxious. "I just picked up the tiller from Juju," she said, "And now we need compost. Can you get it tomorrow?"

This threw me off guard, because I didn't realize that she had already picked up the tiller and was planning to do this project tomorrow, which is now today, a day which is filled to the brim for me (I am procrastinating by even writing this account). I mumbled something about it being a busy day but that I would try.

Angrily, she said, "Ugh, forget it. I'll do it myself," and hung up without saying goodbye.

Lucky for me, I had just gone to a 12-step meeting. Now, I am not a huge fan of 12-step meetings. I think they are mostly dogma-filled, heterocentric, punitive programs that work well for white men with big egos. But some meetings step away from this model and take a gentler, more empowering approach. The meeting I had gone to left me feeling strong and empowered. I knew that there was nothing I could do to make Stacia calm down, nor did I need to. I was Codependent No More. (A friend once told me this joke: What's the most common STD among lesbians? --Codependency.)

So after she hung up on me, I took a deep breath, shook my head, and went about my evening. I filled up the car with gas ($40.10 for 10 1/2 gallons), and drove home. I received another phone call from Stacia, who was livid. "They are all out of compost here," she said, referring to the Menards on University and Prior. "I have to drive to West St. Paul and I have to get there before 10:00."

"Honey," I said, trying to be a voice of reason. "It's late, come home. Do we really need compost to start this project? Can't we mix it in the topsoil later?"

She was furious. She informed me that I had no idea what I was talking about, and how did I think she planned to accomplish this project without compost? She was clearly irritated that she had to drive to West St. Paul, but she had to call me just to tell me anyway.

What my reasoning voice did not tell her was that there are plenty of garden centers in regular old St. Paul that are not Menards. She could have picked up compost at a location much closer, and perhaps even cheaper. In fact, the city of St. Paul runs a free compost site, where residents can take as much compost as they'd like, when it's available. But I didn't think it would be helpful, since my previous attempt at reasoning was so frankly shot down.

And so I waited for her to come home. She did, around 10:00 pm, with a truckload of bagged compost. (600 pounds in all, she told me today--I don't know if she was exaggerating, but it was a lot, lot, lot of compost.) I thought, I hope she had someone help her load all of this. (She said, today, of course I didn't have anyone help me. And I think, there is something really endearing about her intransigence, but she is going to hurt her stubborn self one of these days.) I helped her unload the never-ending mass of heavy, mineral-rich black dirt, as we silently piled the bags in the yard and covered them with a tarp.

We exchanged a few terse words, and then I excused myself and went upstairs to read.

I wondered if she would come upstairs and give me a big hug and tell me she was sorry. I wondered if I should go downstairs and tell her I love her. Maybe I should apologize for not helping more. Maybe I should have offered to drive to West St. Paul instead of her. Maybe I should have gone with her.

But then I thought of the anxious, angry energy she had, the urgency she instated which I didn't think was completely necessary, and I decided to just give her some space tonight. Or maybe to give both of us some space. I settled in to read, and the cats joined me, purring loudly to let me know they wanted to sit in their particular places--one on my right side, nestled in between my arm and my body, the other one on the pillow to my left, kneading relentlessly and never really finding that comfortable place.

Just as I started to relax, my phone buzzed, telling me I had a text message.

This is all it said:

can i eat some of this food

(Meaning: Can I eat this ginger/tamari kale and potatoes that you made tonight?)

I responded:

of course

And then I thought, how funny and kind of adorable that she came home in such a pout and still asked me if she could eat the food I made. How....sweet and angsty and wonderful. She still loves me, I know it.

And, if this is her worst, if stubbornness and an urgency to till the garden is the most difficult piece of her in relationship, I'll take it, hands down. And I'll even take it lovingly, because you can't believe how cute she is when she pouts. That dimple that appears when she smiles? It appears when she frowns, too, only much more expressively. And those eyes that shine clear blue when she greets Luna at the door? They can turn stormy, the color of the ocean, unpredictable and deep gray/green when she is upset.

Even at her most recalcitrant, furious moment, she can be the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.