Field Day

Today is field day at our elementary school.

So I feel this is the time you should know these two things about me:

One: In first grade, I jumped the farthest in the long jump competition. I jumped six feet. I can feel through the Interweb your respect for me. And let's face it: I deserve it.

Two: For years, I was the record holder at my junior high for longest SHOT PUT THROW.

Did you hear that?

I threw shot put.

Have you met me?

I'm not exactly the prototype for the shot putters among us.

Photo by Cameron Spencer/Getty Images

But I went to a junior high where the track team consisted of roughly 8.5 people, and that was when I wasn't faking sick and staying home.

So at track meets, we all did everything. Our coach would insist it didn't matter where we placed, just that we participated. We got points just for participating. It was track and field socialism.

At one meet, I remember doing long jump, throwing the shot put, running in the 4 x 100 and 4 x 200 relays, AND running the 200m hurdles. Prior to that afternoon, I had never run a hurdle in my lifetime. Coach just took me out to the middle of the field and showed me how, emphasizing the socialism piece and assuring me that it didn't matter if I tripped in my spikes or when clearing a hurdle. My dad was a dentist and he would fix me all up, lickety split.

We did it all. It was a small school. We also had homemade uniforms, which were certainly intimidating to the other teams. That and our hair.

This is how I ended up throwing shot, getting a school record in shot, and then being harassed and ridiculed for roughly a decade about my shot record. Of course, now I really wish I would have stuck with it. I could use a little less mom-jiggle in ye olde upper arms these days.

So track and field day. Word on the street is that Thea is a speedster. Mitch has my man-calves, which will help him in all sorts of ways. 

May the wind be at your back this weekend, dear readers. And may you get lots and lots of participation points for your team.

P.S. Hey! The print editions of my books are all up and rocking. They're really pretty. I have some at my house. For instant cool factor, click on the covers to the left. Summer is upon us, people, and it's time for a good read by the pool. OR you could buy all five and do some bicep curls, since you're no longer throwing shot put. Read AND tone! What a deal!

Foxy Lady

I used to have lots of interests. I used to be well-rounded and interesting at parties. I used to be nuanced.

OK, that's not true. I was never nuanced. And I've never been much for parties.

But I DID used to have a life that did not revolve around wildlife. Remember Chuckles? And Da Poss? Well, they have cousins. Or step-cousins. Or rival gang members. And now they are living under our deck.

Meet Mrs. Fox.

Yep. A fox. She moved in right after we got back from our trip to New York. Right as I was feeling all self-righteous about how we Iowans don't have rats hanging out in our streets and licking up the subway sludge, these were the events in chronological order:

1. My mom calls me as I'm sitting in La Guardia and tells me she has called Animal Control because there is a rabid raccoon in our backyard. Scout the mini-Schnauzer, she says, is safe. No mention of the kids, but I assume they're safe too.

2. Our first morning back, we find the remains of an opossum on our deck. And by "remains," I mean fur and a kidney. The poor 'poss met his demise. ON OUR DECK.

3. We come home from school that very day and this animal was preening on a bench. ON OUR DECK. OUR DECK IS THE DISCOVERY CHANNEL.

What does a girl do when she has a mama fox and three baby foxes living in proximity to human children and a mini-Schnauzer? She calls this woman. Let's call her Deb, and let's also call her The Fox Whisperer.

Deb is a licensed wildlife rehab worker, and she has rescued all sorts of animals, from baby squirrels and raccoons to bald eagles and pelicans. Last year she rescued a bobcat who was hanging around a school playground. When she told us that particular story, I asked her if she would be open to moving in and protecting our family as her full-time occupation. Deb looked nervous at that suggestion, so I let it drop.

I know, I know. They're really cute. And they are wild animals. They are both these things.

So Deb caught three of the baby foxes and was trying her darnedest to catch the mama fox. Our plan was to relocate this little family to another penthouse suite, one that was not as close to our house but still had a doorman and amenities. I thought South Dakota sounded like a good option.

Deb was phenomenal. She even used a live chicken for bait at one point. (Note: No chickens were harmed in the process of living this blog post. Please do not sic chicken activists on me. I'm busy.)

The chicken didn't work. And then we realized that there were not just two or three baby foxes. There were six baby foxes. And there was a reason the mama fox kept looking at me like this. 

SHE WAS EXHAUSTED. Her little fox nipples had had just about enough. She hadn't slept in days, she was sick of all the barking and the bickering and the crawling all over her to get to dinner. She needed help and a nap and a really big glass of wine that she didn't want to pump out later. And also, where the heck was the male who got this whole ball rolling?!

Perhaps I was projecting. 

So we just left the foxes alone. We are coexisting. We are Discovery Channel-ing. And we are trying not to think about the rabbit's head, single furry rabbit's foot, and unnamed internal organ that Mrs. Fox left on our front step. Perhaps she thinks it's a kind gesture, like zucchini bread.

I hope you're proud of me. I chose to live in THE CITY, a city of around 400,000 people. And yet, I am like that Australian guy who died who loved animals. I'm a lot like him. 

Happy weekend, friends. And may the only wild animals you encounter this weekend be the ones who who share your gene pool.

 P.S. For your viewing pleasure, THIS, it turns out, is what the fox says. (This noise is a lot cuter during waking hours. Three in the morning, there is no such thing as cute anything.)

New York, New York 2016

Marc and I went to New York a couple of weeks ago. 

I have security clearance to talk about this now because we are no longer out of town and you can't come rob our house. When you live with a conspiracy theorist, you have rules.

But he's a very cute conspiracy theorist, so I play along.

Here are the highlights. And you don't even have to come over for dinner and watch the slideshow! 

1. I met my publisher. New York is the home of my new publisher, Skyhorse, so I was able to meet my team! I prepared for the meeting by working on blending in to New York culture. I'm pretty sure I nailed it.

I told the Skyhorse folks they would know me by my fanny pack. Because I'm from Iowa. I'm pretty sure they knew I was joking. (P.S. If you read this post, you will be relieved to know I did not take along my magenta portable urinal. I have my standards, people, and they are high.)

Here's the team! Two Nicoles and one Bri, all of them delightful. I am old enough to be any of their mothers. They were polite enough to pretend not to notice and to carry my walker to the coffee shop.

For those of you wondering what the inside of a publishing house looks like, here you go. Two smiling editorial types and not one ounce of stress. I'm sure this was completely typical.

2. I renewed my hatred for Times Square. For those of you thinking about walking through this part of New York, do not. You'll need to shower afterward. And join an monastery to clear your mind. The Naked Cowboy is always a bit jarring. I worry about him during New England cold snaps.

Also, word on the street is that Elmo tries to cop feels when taking photos. I kept my distance, though Marc was readying his ninja moves just in case.

 But then he got distracted from protecting my honor and found great pants instead.

 3. We went to some great shows. Here's how we felt when we got rush tickets for The Color Purple. 

Jennifer Hudson was delightful in her last week with the show, but can I tell you about Cynthia Erivo? 

Photo by Norman Jean Roy

I don't have enough ethereal adjectives to describe this woman. She is up for the Tony for best actress and she should win or there is no justice in the world. I want you to know Marc and I had to sit in the theater for about ten minutes AFTER the show to compose ourselves, we were so moved by her performance. I have never seen anything like it in all my days. 

We also heard some ridiculously good jazz in Brooklyn. We love this guy, John Pizzarelli, and we are pretty much groupies. We also enjoyed meeting a Brooklynite named Babs (not joking) who wanted to tell us lots of things, and of course we listened and loved it and appreciated her pronouncement at the end that we were "a lovely couple." Hand swish, toss of the wig, and she was gone. 

4. We got some tips about real estate hunting in NYC. "Outdoor space" is a little different there. 

5. We ate very, very well. Here, here, here, but let's talk about The Food Sermon in Brooklyn. Um, I could crave this food every day of my life. The owner/chef, Rawlston Williams, is a theology-school drop-out, and I could write a bit about how his coconut-ginger sauce did something to my soul, but you probably won't believe me.

At one point, the gentlemen who had talked us through what to order saw me swooning on my stool by the window. And they nodded, like they see The Swoon every day and not to worry about it. Comes with the Sermon.

Such a great trip. I do love that city. And I also love coming home. Because WE ARE HOME NOW. No need to try robbing us, okay? Marc is back and ninja-ish, so just be warned. And he's wearing his new NYC palazzo pants, so if you weren't deterred before, consider that visual.

Happy weekend, everyone!

Show Choir: No, we're not kidding.

We are in show choir season around here.

You heard me. Show choir season. Kind of like lacrosse season or volleyball season only with lots of sparkles and jazz hands.

I used to be in show choir, before the turn of the century.

I loved it. We sang, we danced, we ratted our hair, we all used the same startling color of lipstick. It was pretty much amazing.

Now my daughter is participating in this odd social ritual, and I feel like I'm watching my life play out again. Only now I'm trying to record still photos and video at the same time and whispering furiously with my mom, who looks almost eerily happy to be back in the saddle. I'm positive she will want to order a sweatshirt and she'll probably start making posters to hold up during the ballad.

If you are not from the Show Choir Belt (a term I just made up and want to trademark immediately), perhaps this entire idea is foreign to you. Marc, who went to high school in South Dakota and Minnesota, finds this whole show choir idea to be slightly obscene, certainly a little sketch. Marc was in jazz band in high school, which means, among other things, that he was smarter, more thoughtful and less shallow. OR SO HE THINKS.

Did he and his band nerd friends get to look like this?!

(PLEASE NOTE: This is not a self-portrait. Though I surely did own these Trump-orange tights back in the day. AND I ROCKED THEM.)

And did he get to shimmy and smile and emote and dance in weird Helen Keller-era shoes in front of hundreds of people while stage make-up made a slow slide down his face? No, no, he didn't. He just played "A Train" and "Take Five" and "Girl From Ipanema" hour after hour and tried to look disinterested and ironic, which is WAY more work.

So here I am again, watching my daughter sing and dance and try to sound as much like the girls in "Pitch Perfect" as possible, though this is only a vague idea to her since her mother will not let her watch that movie because of all the sexual innuendo. Sing "Shut Up and Dance," yes. Watch movies about shutting up and dancing, no. It's a complicated system but it makes perfect sense to me.

Have a great weekend, everyone. Work on those facial expressions, perfect that jazz square, and do your best to get that jazz saxaphonist in your life to just shut up and dance with you.