A Tree Grows in Austin

And into the garten she goes.

Two weeks ago, Cheeky started kindergarten. The first day came early, here in Texas, where for some inexplicable reason school starts in August. Remember the days when it started right after Labor Day? Isn't that the correct order of things? I think so.

Anyway,we had all summer long to prep for the auspicious occasion. Although Cheeky has been in full-time preschool for the past year, everyone was making a big deal about The Start of Kindergarten. "So exciting," they'd exclaim. "Such a big kid," they'd coo. "Wow, real school,"they'd say, waiting for some sign of acceptance, glee or even just a smirk from the kid herself. She'd suddenly turn shy (not that this is ever really a sudden or surprising occurrence) and say "Yeah." Not much else.

In the few weeks leading up to The Big Day, we tried to keep up the excitement by flooding her with information about how much fun, how interesting and great kindergarten would be. And while she humored us, she was nervous.

Then again, so was I. Much to my surprise the anticpation of my one and only "baby" embarking upon a lifetime of formal schooling (ok, not a lifetime but it sure seemed like it'd never end when I was in it) reduced me to a blubbering mess on a fairly regular basis. Oh boy. Blubbering in the summer before kindergarten - how on earth would I survive the first day????

The Friday before the official start of school, there was an orientation - meet the teacher, wander the halls, foster some vague sense of familiarity so the kid won't freak when we actually leave her there. The teacher was sweet, young and pretty - perfect for our princess-obsessed princess. To boot, her name was Chloe. What luck! But wait...is that a hint of sadism I detect? While she read a book to the kids about being tough and strong on the first day of kindergarten, I stifled tears. Then, I flipped over the handout. On the last page was a poem which I couldn't read at the time and over which I still get choked up, even as I inflict it upon you:

The First Day of School (as transcribed through a haze of tears)

Don't turn around my little child

don't watch me walk away...

Because I'll want to take you home

and keep you one more day...

Standing tall in brand new shoes

your hand is on the door...

If I could freeze this moment, dear

you'd be my babe once more...

But new adventures wait for you

new places and new friends....

The road ahead is wide and long

and filled with forks and bends...

It's time for us to say goodbye;

you show the strength I lack...

For as I turn to leave you there

it's I who must turn back...

Maybe not as rough, but I'd put that, in its context, in the same category as Love You Forever - a book that Cheeky chooses for us to read just to watch us cry. Every time. I swear.

Yet when the day came, I defied the odds and made it through drop-off without breaking down. And so did Cheeky! Piece of cake. Of course, then I came home to enjoy some solitude in front of the TV, only to be reduced to sobs while watching an Office Max. Commercial. Embarassing? Yes indeed.

Now that the tears (mine) have dried and we're two weeks in, I'm happy to report that kindergarten is a big hit. The first-day report was simply a head shake and the words "not good." The second day? "I like kindergarten! A lot!"

Way to go, Cheeky!

 

 

 

 

I still do.

Seven years ago today, I woke up a little jittery. I got out of bed, wandered into the living room of the awesome (it seemed so at the time, at least) one bedroom rental (next door to Al Roker )(who wasn't nearly as friendly as you might think!) that I shared with Crouton and planted myself on the couch.

Soon, he came out to join me.

"Um, so, wow, we're getting married today."

"Yep."

"I feel a little nauseous. Or a little hungry. Naungry maybe?"

"Let me make you a nice PB&J toast." (not quite as exciting as a nice MLT, you know, a mutton, lettuce tomato sandwich when the mutton is really lean and the tomato is ripe...they're so perky.)

And he did, and it was delicious, and it settled my stomach. But more importantly, it set a precedent. No, no, not of me complaining (although there IS that... ), but of him taking care of me.

For 7 years (9, if you count the premarital, living in sin ones), he's taken care of me. He's understood me, he's laughed at my jokes. He's made a few of his own. He's changed diapers (not mine, not yet) and taken over parenting. He's been my best friend and a great provider.

Hell, I moved to TEXAS for/with you. If that doesn't speak volumes, I don't know what does.

Marrying Crouton was the clearest, best decision I ever made - one that I have never ever doubted for a second. If you know me, that's huge. I can't generally decide what to order for dinner, so just imagine the magnitude of who to spend the rest of my life with. (is that until death or for all eternity? hmm....)

So, on this, the anniversary of the most fun day of my life, I with the Crouton a happy anniversary. I love you and would do it all over again. If we get the honeymoon part. And that guy, Andrew, who ran around our reception refilling my gin & tonic. And the gifts were nice, too.

Just kidding. All I need is a Crouton. They're so perky. I love 'em.

PS: this post totally counts as a card, right??

Actor for a day. Me. Really!

I'm actually quite surprised at myself for not blogging about this immediately, since it was damn near the most exciting thing to happen to me in...well, awhile. On a whim, I had registered to be an extra on my favorite show, Friday Night Lights. The fact that the show is filmed in Austin helped ease the pain of moving to Texas, so I felt the least I could do was offer up my acting talents (which I believe hearken back to an elementary school production about fruit.) But I registered online, diligently provided height, weight, a photo and various other embarrassing statistics, and waited.

So this is what it's like to wait for your big break in the glamorous world of Hollywood stardom.

Then, I got The Call.

HEY! Guys! Guys! I'm over here!!!

Did I have anything better to do on a Thursday afternoon that be part of a TV show? Hell, no!

OMG, OMG, was I going to be important? Was I going to be visible? Would they fawn all over me in hair and wardrobe? Most importantly, would Riggins be there?

(The answer to all of these was a resounding NO, but I didn't know that yet. Although the fact that I was not cast as a Mrs. Robinson-esque love interest for any football heroes but rather as a "pageant audience member" should have tamped my expectations a bit.)

I washed, brushed, flossed, spackled, squeezed my puffy summer feet into some grownup shoes and headed out for the set, an abandoned school near the Austin airport. Immediately excited to learn that Panther/Lion stadium is, like, right here all the time, just 10 minutes away, I parked and trudged over to the "bunker" where all the extras were assembling. On my way, I saw Aimee Teegarden pop out of her trailer with a Chihuahua. A brush with greatness so early in the process? This was promising.

Inside the bunker, it was a crisp and refreshing 10,000 degrees (I love you, Texas) and stuffed to the rafters with one of the most random assortments of people I have ever seen. There were men and women, old and young, thin and fat, Caucasian, Black, Hispanic (surprising, considering Austin is AKA Whitey McWhiteville. OK, at least most of Austin.). There were teens in ball gowns (the scene to be filmed was a beauty pageant) and sloppy middle aged men in bad shoes. There were Ladies of a Certain Age who arrived in their Lexus SUVs and full-on Texan hair. You get the idea.

While waiting, I (sweated) chatted with a few of these folks. They (sweated) told me more often than not that they were just doing extra work for the money, and hadn't even heard of or watched the show. We (sweated) discussed our careers as extras - some do it all the time, others, like me, were virgins - and waited while, of course, sweating. So much for coming to set "camera ready."

Anyway, after much waiting around ("THEY are having lunch now. You guys have to wait.") we got the once-over by wardrobe ("you're good.") and were loaded into shuttle buses that took us to the real set, a local Omni hotel.

Once there we (stopped sweating, thankfully) and finally shuffled into Ballroom A which was decked out as a pageant:

We sat arbitrarily in rows staring at the various people and gadgetry around the room. They said "rolling" and some other filmy crap a bunch of times and then opened and closed the thingies:

 

and then we were told to applaud ("golf applause, not too enthusiastic") when Becky received her award. Then, in about 5 minutes and 4 takes, it was over.

We herded ourselves into Conference Room D to gorge ourselves on granola bars and bananas, (Why no more craft services?) then did a police lineup to see who would be picked for the next scene, to take place in a C-level Mexican restaurant (sorry, Tres Amigos, but the truth hurts, doesn't it?). We stood against the wall while a dude picked us. Trying to shake off any long-buried family scars from dark places, I tried to look cute. Or at least like someone who eats at Mexican restaurants. And WHOHOO! I was picked. I changed my shirt in a bathroom that was a casserole of partial nudity, and I was ready.

This meant herding into the back of some stranger's BMW convertible with another dude and my pretend husband (who I believe, sadly, to be gay) and hurtling at high speeds towards certain death on the highway, or dinner.

We got there safe and sound, then dutifully shuffled over to our table - right next to the big breakup scene! - and sat down to dinner. Which looked like this:

 

My "husband's" meal, on the other hand, looked like this:

Which begs the question: how is it fair that even in my pretend world, I STILL HAVE TO EAT SALAD???? It's not.

Anyway, we pretend ate, and I tried to pretend talk to my pretend husband while trying to ignore the sorta-celebs having a cheesy breakup at the next table while I tried not to cough and ruin the scene. Once again, they said rolling, then some filmy crap, then snapped the thinges then said cut then we were done. I got home at 11pm tired from all that hard work and starving from the less-than-satisfying dinner. Yet all in all, it was a fun and interesting thing to do.

Some important and no doubt earth-shattering observations:

1. It takes a LOT of people to film ONE tiny scene in a TV show.

2. It must take a LOT of time and money to produce, like, a WHOLE episode.

3. Film would have been a cool career. Oops.

4. Stardom would have been an even cooler career. Oops again.

5. Working as an extra is mostly boring, but something you might want to try. Once.

6. People are strange, but sometimes interesting.

7. It's too hot in Texas to have to "work."

8. If you think working as an extra will make you rich, guess again. And don't spend your $58 check all in one place!

9. Friday Night Lights is a cool show made by cool people.

10. No Riggins! No Coach! Not even a Mrs. Coach. I was ROBBED!

So...you probably won't see me getting a SAG card anytime soon. But you might, if fact, see me on TV, if you squint really hard, and zoom in really close to that blur in the background, sometime in 2011, on NBC...

French Alps? Piece of cake.

So, I just got back from a little adventure. And before I collapse in a cardiac event or become a quivering pool of total muscle failure, I thought I'd take a moment to share my experience.

Inspired no doubt by the scores of paradoxically nacho-eating, shirtless-lake-trail-running, race-winning, perkily enthusiastic and grotesquely fit people who surround us here in Austin, I have decided:

I will embrace sport.

Not just the regular stuff either. Sure, there are still the dull, lifeless trips to the gym where I move my legs in endless circles without ever going anywhere. And there's even the occasional muscle torture class or wog around Town Lake, mostly to ogle the pretty young things going by. But having recently incurred a rather painful, quite irritating, definitely boring (just ask Crouton) and apparently incurable heel injury, I decided to branch out.

Today, I dusted off my Brooklyn basement-banished, no doubt loser-ish (just ask Austin bike snobs) hybrid bike, and rolled down the driveway.

I was scared. It's always intimidating (to me, at least) the first time I set out for a run or ride or whatever somewhere new. I don't know exactly what I'm getting myself into, I don't want to get lost, hurt, or appear overly stupid and clueless.

I consulted a map and chose a route. I'd just go north a bit, then hang a right, then go south and loop back home. I figured it'd take an hour or so, and using the map I chose the most bike-friendly route. No problem.

The map, however was not perfect. It neglected to mention The Hills.

Nope, not talking about L.C. versus Heidi here. (embarrassed that you know what I'm talking about? We both should be.)

I'm talking about hills that have enlightened me to a few things:

1. It makes perfect sense that Lance hails from Austin. Two words: training ground.

2. I am not as fit as I need to be/think I am/used to be/fill in the blank.

3. There is no shame in getting off your bike  once twice okay, three times and walking up a steep hill as you gasp for breath. Well, maybe there is a little shame but did your lungs ever burn so badly (and while "inhaling" does not count) that you had no shame?

Against the odds, I survived. I saw some beautiful homes. Ludicrous homes. We're talking uber-rich. Yoohoo, Michael, this means you. The weather was perfect, the scenery was lovely (wildflowers, even a TEMPLE! Like for Jews!) and I got a hearty enough workout to justify my recent jelly bean consumption (at least in my mind).

So thanks to the non-snobby cool guys at the bike store who restored my steed to its original lustre. And thanks to the two kind souls who, as they walked by pushing their bikes away from the inappropriately named "Hike AND Bike Trail," saved me by simply asking "you're going THAT way?" (I promptly turned around.)

Today's sport is conquered, if only for the moment. Up next? Rowing. Wish me luck. And in the meantime, to quote the immortal Tobias Funke, "who wants to take me to the hospital?"

Okay, now you're buggin' me.

Anyone who knows me knows this: I do not like bugs.I have never liked bugs. I was not one of those kids who's fascinated by little critters, picking them up, chasing them, pulling off their wings (when applicable). In fact, some of my most lucid early childhood memories involve Bug Incidents:

When I was about 3 or 4 or whatever age it is when you allegedly begin to form memories, I was mixing a potion in a plastic beach bucket in our family room. I nonchalantly picked up a black "fuzzie" from the carpet and placed it in the bucket. Much to my dismay, the fuzzie started climbing up my mixing spoon. GAH! CARPENTER ANT!

Another time, in Spain, I was dutifully dressed in a flamenco dress for a dinner outing. The dress was bright green with black, white and red polka dots all over it, fringed in white. I was sitting at the table when all of a sudden - could it be? - one of the polka dots moved. GAH! SPIDER! I jumped up from the table and started madly swatting at my dress, much to the confusion and consternation of my family.

So how is it that I now find myself in a state that, with great pride and no sense of irony declares that here, "Everything is Bigger"?

Like what? Like the cars, the homes, the steaks, the people (they certainly are tall here, but Austin does not breed large folk, they're way too fitness crazed for that). And, of course, the bugs.

When we first arrived here in August, it felt as though someone had opened the oven door and shoved us in. It was 105 degrees. Seeking to cool off, we checked out a local favorite, Barton Springs, which must be the country's largest (and coldest) natural swimming pool. We wandered around, found a spot that wasn't too crowded and carefully waded in. Not a nature lover (does it surprise you?), I was immediately struck by two questions: 1) what was that slime on the bottom and 2) were those helicopters flying along the surface?

Number one is easy, of course, it's moss or algae or whatever fancy word you want to use for rock slime. Number two? Why, BUGS of course! Dragonflies. The size of small choppers, doing recon along the length of the pool, the audible whhirrrrrrr of their rotors nearly drowning out Cheeky's nonstop chatter (which is quite a feat, trust me). They looked like this:

Okay, fine, it's nature, right? They have every right to be there. But you know where they - and any other kind of insect that is larger than an ant (like these, to be referred to from now on simply as "They." Sorry about the image, I have to confess I stifled queasiness when I searched for those)- DO NOT have a right to be?

My. House.

Specifically, they DO NOT have the right to boldly climb up a kitchen cabinet in broad daylight ,while we are standing RIGHT THERE. They also DO NOT have the right to hide out in a drawer filled with spatulas, spoons and other handy cooking tools that are frequently utilized, only to poke their antennae at me and laugh when I bolt from the open drawer. They DO NOT have the right to be lying, belly up, many legs a-twitchin' at the bottom of a cabinet I open to get the syrup for Cheeky's breakfast.

They DO NOT HAVE THE RIGHT.

I lived in NYC for a total of 15 years. Once I graduated into higher-class housing (no more slumlords, up-to-code electric, you get the picture), I can count on one hand the number of roaches I encountered.

I saw that many IN OUR KITCHEN in the span of 3 DAYS.

Husbands were summoned. Shoes were wielded. Bigger shoes were wielded. Calls were made.

I stood there, stifling tears (yes, tears, I'm not proud) as Crouton got ready to leave on a business trip and the Bugman rattled off a list of common pests here in sub-tropical Texas: tree roaches (which I firmly believe is a euphemism used here to make them sound "cleaner" or "more natural." Ha. Give me a dirty NYC garbage roach any day, they're much more appealing), earwigs, silverfish. Gross, gross, and gross. As he spoke, I watched his and Crouton's gazes turn to the floor near the kitchen island....and...STOMP. "That one was a freebie," he said with a smile.

Gross.

So, we signed up for bi-monthly "pest" control. We bought the pitch hook, line and sinker. We took out a second mortgage to pay for it.

And I'm (mostly) (but let's not talk about Them out loud) happy to report that sightings and stompings and scamperings have trickled to a slow crawl (so to speak). I no longer expect to be greeted by something with more legs than I every time I open a cabinet or turn on a light. Sure, every now and then one gets away and lies in wait, secretly feasting on crumbs and sticky bottles, slowly building its strength and size until its next attack. But I guess it's just a fact of life here. I don't have to like it. And I don't. But maybe bugs deserve some respect, too.

Just not IN MY HOUSE.

Stomp.

Apropos of nothing.

It is not at all unusual for Cheeky to hijack any given conversation with a total and complete non-sequitor. I'm sure the parent of any four year old has been there. One minute you're discussing dino-nuggets for dinner and then suddenly they blurt out something like (for instance) "Duncan's underpants have a pocket so his penis can stick out when he pees!"

Sometimes parenting is like being smacked in the face with an encyclopedia.

So I shouldn't have really been so surprised when, after finishing a bedtime story about, no doubt, a princess or someone fancy or how dinosaurs say good night, Cheeky blurts out:

C: Mommy, how do they make babies?

Me: What sweetie?

Hoping for a fleeting moment that I heard her wrong, but...

C: How do they make babies?

Not a chance. Heard her loud and clear. Trying not to choke, I attempt to skirt the issue only slightly with a nice vague response...

Me: Um, well, babies are made by mommies and daddies.

She pauses, she contemplates. She is clearly not satisfied by that answer...

C: But who makes mommies and daddies?

Oh boy. Feeling totally unprepared right now.

Me: Well, their mommies and daddies make them.

With a coy smile, she fires back.

C: But who make their mommies and daddies???

Shit. Now what? I clearly can't escape her line of questioning. Deciding to be an enlightened parent, I offer:

Me: Well, some people believe that God created all people and things. And others believe that we evolved from apes.

What, too highbrow?

She did look at me a little funny. Especially as I stumbled on my own tongue trying to explain Darwin to someone whose favorite show is "Imagination Removers(sic)" and who periodically checks in while watching TV to ask which people are real and alive and which are animated.

I did my best. But something tells me she'll be back. With better, bigger, more specific questions.

Maybe it's time to consult the all-knowing. Wish us luck.

In honor of your voyeuristic tendencies. (No not THOSE, the kind that compel you to attend real estate open houses just for fun.)

Rather than start the new year off in an overly ambitious, deep or thoughtful way, I've decided to use this blog for a narrated photo tour of our house, on the off chance that someone out there might actually be interested in such a thing. The house was briefly clean enough right before Christmas to take photos that would not incriminate our collective slovenliness, so I seized the moment. Enjoy the tour, and don't worry, something ambitious, deep and thoughtful is forthcoming. Maybe.

Welcome!

Fine dining, anyone? Sure, if you bring your own chef. Imagine untaping and unwrapping each and every strand of shells on that chandelier. Now imagine doing it while standing on the dining room table. Sound fun? You're right, it wasn't. Thankfully, Texas law says the lighting fixtures stay with the house when you sell it.

Receiving room? Library? Office? We're not quite sure. All we know is that it definitely worked as a Christmas tree placement room. Now we just need to redefine it for the other 364 days of the year.

 

This is the bug that stalked me for a while after I thwarted its efforts to come inside the house by closing the front door on one of its pincer death claws. It laid in wait for about a week, perched just above the front door, awaiting the perfect moment when I'd let my defenses down enough for it to pounce on my head. (Happily, it seems to have a) died b) flown/jumped away or c) redirected its stalking at some other hapless, bug-loathing local resident)

Speaking of bugs, here's the kitchen. (Just kidding.) (Well, not entirely.) (Really, it's been much better since the exterminator came.) I can't say enough good things about this room. There's a whole cabinet for spices! There are EMPTY shelves in some spots! There's a walk in pantry! There's a 58-inch plasma TV! Need I say more? Only downside is it's next to impossible to heat, and we've rapidly become wussy cold weather Whiny Shivering Complainers. And as much as we chuckled at the thought of having/using/needing a fireplace while living on the surface of the sun, that's come in handy.

Like the shades? You, too, can have them for only $5.97 at Home Depot. Who wants to place a bet on how long those'll be there? Good news is, KING SIZED BED. AAaaaah. Now we never have to touch. Not in bed...

...not at the sink...

...and not even while we're in the shower at the same time. (ask me sometime about how, during a completely non-sexy, perfunctory shower wherein we both happened to be there at the same time, Crouton tried to crush my head against the tiled corner when I reached for the shampoo. I cried.)

This is the Hands-Down, No Contest, Best Room in the House. Can you guess which spoiled only child gets it? If this room doesn't win her friends, I don't know what will. (although something tells me the trampoline that Santa brought might factor in there.)

A crazy "Jack and Jill" bathroom, for the aforementioned only child. It features not one, not two, not three but four sliding pocket doors which are an excellent way to crush a small child's finger. Although, to her credit, Cheeky's only done it three or four times so far. Someday, when I have an advanced degree in electrical engineering, I will rewire the bathroom so that each light bulb is not on a separate switch. Don't ask.

This is good, in theory. But in practice, mostly it's a mess.

This is a life-sized recreation of our entire living space in Brooklyn. And it's also Crouton's Man Cave wanna-be. Unfortunately I don't think it qualifies as a cave since it's on the second floor and homes in Texas, for some reason, do not have basements. Sorry, Crouton.

 

This is the back yard. which Cheeky doesn't quite understand, because it's not a soot-covered, dirty, overcrowded city playground. Someday we hope to have a lawn chair or something for grownups to use. We can dream, right? Oh, and nevermind the nooses hanging from the trees.

These are some bookshelves in our carport. Oh wait, that picture was supposed to go on craigslist. But hey, as long as I'm here, anyone need two giant bookshelves?

So that's it, really. I could include photos of our double secret spy laundry/storage area or the cool hamper chute or the TWO ADDITIONAL BATHROOMS or the weird tree balls that litter our yard, but I figure you've probably seen enough. In closing, I will say one more thing - Happy New Year, plan a trip to see us in 2010...

...because we have TWO GUEST ROOMS! (and we'd love to see ya.)

Jewish? You know, like Michael Dell.

Here's a shocker for ya: there aren't a whole lot of Jews in Austin.

I know, big surprise.

A few days after we moved into our new house, our neighbor came over to introduce herself. We chatted for a while, and she - as a transplant from San Francisco - shared some wisdom on what to expect in Austin. Stuff like where to eat, where to sign Cheeky up for sports, and where to shop for groceries. She also had a warning - people will ask what church you go to - it's annoying and intrusive but often asked. So what if I respond by saying "I'm Jewish" - will that shut them up? She said sure, you could say that. And when they respond with a quizzical "What's that?" you could say, "You know, like Michael Dell (Austin's most famous Member of the Tribe, apparently) (it all comes back to Dell around here).

I'm not the most observant Jew (just ask my brother)(yes, you, Ian). In fact, you might say I'm a skeptical agnostatheist. But that got my hackles up - I just might have to try a little harder while we're swimming in a sea of Christians.

But I hadn't given much thought to Hanukkah. It hasn't really been prominent on my radar since I was 11 and tried to hang Christmas ornaments from a ficus in our house. (It's a Hanukkah bush, Dad... Take It. Down.) I always saw Hanukkah as a kid's holiday, a way for us Jewish kids to feel less depressed around Christmas time, made into a bigger deal than Jewish tradition would have it by the pressure of the Hallmark machine. We hadn't even bothered to tell Cheeky about Hanukkah, figuring we'd keep things simple (and pagan, which is soooooo much more fun) until she was older. Older apparently meant 3, when she came home from her (Quaker) preschool and asked me, "what's Hanukkah?" Talk about a Jewish guilt trip.

So we "celebrated" last year by giving her a present, a bag of gelt, and reading A Blue's Clues Chanukah (not to be out-shined by Cheeky's favorite, Hanukkah Bugs.)

(PS, how seriously can you take a holiday that no one even knows how to spell??)

This year I didn't even know when Hanukkah would begin until I was totally and completely put on the spot by Cheeky's preschool teacher. I went to pick the kid up last week, and over the heads of 20 four year-olds waiting expectantly for storytime, she bellowed, "Chloe tells me at her house, she gets to celebrate TWO holidays."

Oh, really?

"And we were thinking maybe you could come in and talk to the kids about Hanukkah."

Um, er, uh, okay, I guess?

"Well, I'll do my best but I have to admit some self-doubt in my ability to properly educate such young impressionable minds on the meaning of the holiday."

From behind me, I hear "I can help, I'm Jewish too."

Whaaaaaa?

This came from an assistant teacher in the classroom, Mr. Gabriel. What? Another Jew in Austin? We've just doubled the population.

"Okay, we're in."

The plan was set in motion. The Hanukkah books were plucked from Cheeky's bookshelves. But wait a minute, what about props?

I didn't trust Austin to stock much, if any, Hanukkah fare so I used part of our NYC jaunt to stock up on essentials - 20 bags of gelt, 20 dreidels, general feelings of Jewishness....

I didn't have a menorah of my own so I went on Menorah Quest. My journeys took me to Target (nope, only Hanukkah cups and plates and a sad banner proclaiming Happy Hanukkah!), Whole Foods (they did have a small section and didn't look at me like I had three heads when I asked where to find the Hanukkah stuff. But then again, they don't call it Whole Paycheck for nuthin'.), and ultimately Book People, a local "we're so cool and local" book chain that does have a great vibe but can't really justify charging more than every Border's, Barnes & Noble, Amazon and the like.

There I dumped $53 on a semi-tarnished silver plate or silver-look menorah. At the counter, I asked about the return policy since Menorah Quest had not fully concluded. The checkout lady said "oh, that's so pretty! But we only take back Christmas items for a week following purchase."

Really? Christmas items?

Anyway, I swallowed my snicker, got out of there and felt well-prepared. And then...the big day.

I settled into the circle of kids, all silent and dumbfounded by the mere word "Hanukkah." I read the Blue's Clues book to them. They stared, they blinked, they asked insightful, probing questions like "which one is Orange Kitten?" Then I poured out a bag of dreidels and they swarmed me. All was not lost.

I walked away feeling pretty satisfied. They were, after all, very cute. And when I left they were busy learning the Hebrew letters and the rules of the game (lame as some of us more jaded folks may find it).

Yeah, I feel pretty good. Now 19 more people in Austin know that there is, in fact, another Holiday besides Christmas (there might be hope for Kwanzaa, too, but only if the kids venture to East Austin, apparently). Of course now we're obligated Chez Cheeky to observe Hanukkah AND Christmas, resulting no doubt in the creation of the Most Spoiled Child Ever.

But it's okay, it's all in the name of education.

The Morning After.

Okay, I know I am not supposed to admit this publicly, openly, with an electronic trail that will exist forever, but here goes:

I am 40.

It happened. I turned. We went to NY. There was a party. We flew back to Austin. I got a vacuum. It's over now. It's officially the morning after (at left, Cheeky the morning after the party. Hungover? Maybe.).

So how does it feel?

OLD.

I was one of the last of my friends to reach this auspicious age, and I have to admit to being a bit smug all along. Sure,when I was waiting...and waiting...and waiting to turn 21 and retire my expertly procured fake ID, it was a bit annoying. But I knew that someday I'd be happy to be the youngest.

And I was. For a while. But now that we are (almost) all the big four-oh, it doesn't seem to matter. Because we are ALL old.

I mean, somewhere, out there, the world probably, like, sorta expects 40 year-olds to be Grown Ups. I always thought of 40 year-olds as Grown Ups. But now that I am one of Them, I'm still waiting and wondering when I'll shed my cocoon and take flight into adulthood.

Is this the face of a 40 year-old? Hint: the smart answer is no. 

I certainly feel older. I seem Grown Up in some ways. I'm in charge of a child, for one. I have a car. I own a tiny fraction of a house. My knees creak when I bend and straighten them. Doctors I visit graduated medical school TEN YEARS after I graduated college and are TEN YEARS younger than me. I keep Kleenex in my purse. I just used the word purse.

So maybe I am a little bit Grown Up. But that doesn't mean I have to be happy about it. Until I settle into grim acceptance, I'll just sit here and nurse my hangover. Anyone care to join?

Oops.

I didn't want to see it.

In fact, once I saw it, I desperately wished I could un-see it.

But I couldn't. It was scorched into my corneas. All I did was turn on the computer upstairs and click on "gmail." How could I know that it'd spring open to Crouton's inbox?

Right there, when the page loaded, was an email in bold: SAVE THE DATE - December 5: Claudia's Surprise Birthday Party.

GAH!

Really, I didn't want to know. But now that I did, what to do with the knowledge? Keep it to myself? Confess to Crouton?

I was stuck somewhere in the middle. Impressing even myself, I managed to stay quiet for 2 weeks. I tried to dumbly play along when my mother asked where I wanted to go for dinner on the 5th while we're visiting NY. I nonchalantly reminded Crouton to call a sitter for that night so we could go out. But they were good, and I started to wonder....

Maybe the save-the-date went out and no one could come so the party planners abandoned the plan. Maybe they changed the date. Maybe I saw it wrong. Maybe?

So I began to panic. And wonder. And worry about how I'd justify the purchase of a new outfit and and feign surprise. And worry that Crouton hadn't invited all the right people.

A quick ambush phone call to a college friend answered my questions. (Maggie - it's not your fault, I already knew.)

Yes, there is party planned. No, Crouton is not retarded, he invited the right people (but not my brothers?? ) No don't tell him you know.

I tried not to.

I tried some more not to.

I caved.

Crouton, to his credit, was only mildly accusatory. Then, defeated. A few cocktails and we laughed it off.

No, I won't be surprised. But what I am and what I will be is grateful. Grateful that my husband had the foresight and focus - while his life has been uprooted too - to start planning a party for me four months ago. And amazed that he was able to keep it a secret. And glad that, despite my feeling that I'm not up for celebrating this particular birthday (I won't say which it is, but it rhymes with shmorty) it would be good to mark the occasion with a visit to NY, a little bit of family, a lot of friends and, no doubt, pigs in blankets.

Thanks Crouton (and Mom) for knowing what's good for me even when - especially when - I don't.

Let's party!