Why

Z has entered The Why Phase. She stands at the edge of the bathroom vanity watching me wash my face.

"Why are you putting soap on your face, Mommy?"

"Because I'm washing my face."

"Why are you washing your face, Mommy?"

"Becuase it's dirty."

"Why is it dirty?"

???

These questions are always linear, somewhat expected but always end in me being stumped for an answer. Why is my face dirty? Hmmm. I don't really know that it is, but how do I explain and do I really need to? I totally understand how "because I said so" entered the Mommy vernacular. It's the shortest way to end the relentless litany of whys.

"Why did you steal Daddy's little car from him, Mommy?"

"I didn't steal it, I'm just driving it because mine's in the shop."

"Why is your car in the shop, Mommy?"

"Because it has a power-steering leak and needs a new hose."

LONG PAUSE WHILE 3-YEAR-OLD BRAIN PROCESSES THIS INFORMATION

"You mean it has a hole in it, Mommy?"

"Yeah, sweetie, I guess that's what I mean."

"Did you take it to the shop in the little car, Mommy?"

"No, sweetie, I drove it there myself."

LONG PAUSE AGAIN WHILE SHE PONDERS THIS

"Because the big car is too big to fit in Daddy's little car?"

"That's right sweetie."

"Got it!"

The Glove

Now I know how people felt when John Lennon was shot.

Even though Michael wasn't shot. Time will tell, but it seems he kinda killed himself in a way. Or was it society? Or was he just the victim of his own life: no childhood, relentless spotlight, blah blah blah?

Still. I'm sad.

And I'm as nostalgic as everybody else who grew up on his music.

What are my favorite Michael Jackson songs? I can't even name them all. There is no top five. There may not even be a top 20.

I just remember so many moments that have happened in my life in and around those songs.

I remember the posters I hung of him on the walls of my bedroom, with multiple-colored thumb tacks. I think one even hung above my bed, on the ceiling. I loved him that much.

I remember babysitting when I was 12 and playing the Mom and Dad's Thriller album over and over because I hadn't yet bought one of my own.

I remember learning the dance to Thriller in my jazz class and regretted moving too early to perform it at the recital. (Although I would perform it for anyone that would sit still long enough to watch).

I remember crying as "I just can't stop loving you" came on the radio, because my own first love affair was coming to an end.

I remember watching that Motown special live with my parents on TV and then teaching myself how to moonwalk the next day.

I remember dancing to the Beat It video, my favorite part being that backward shoulder roll move.

I remember the first time I went to New York City, in 1991, and dancing to "Remember The Time" at a gay club when it was still just a remix single. And I remember marveling at how much the gays had no shame in their love for Michael Jackson, at a time when his popularity had begun to dwindle. I mean, the dance floor was packed. And there wasn't a person in there without his arms in the air.

I'm really sad that Michael Jackson died. I feel bad for his family. But I have to admit, I'm loving the revival of his music that's happening in honor of his life. I hadn't heard "Ben" in years. A song I also have to admit that I always loved. Or, watched that Pepsi commercial. Were the 80s really that strange? The zippered jackets. The parachute pants. The kinky hair. The glove.

RIP PYT. We'll miss you and all your weirdness. But thanks for leaving us with all those songs.

Vay Cay

The family just got back from an 11-day road trip extravaganza. Last Saturday, around 10am, we buckled Z and the Lil' Man into their plush, Britax Marathon car seats and headed west on 290. Destination number one: Albuquerque. Although, if you know anything about how big Texas is then you know when we stopped driving nearly 7 hours later, we were still in Texas. In a little town called Pecos. In an oversold and thus over-priced Holiday Inn & Suites. I had high hopes though I don't know why. The word "suite" to me connotes something in the area of fancy. At least dipping its toe into the waters of fance. But no. The Holiday Inn & Suites not only has a very bland, oh I'll go ahead and say it, a butt ugly logo design, but it is also full of itself, as well as false promises. I said, "so, the room has two separate rooms?" I get a straight-faced "yes." Their idea of two rooms however is a sofa next to two beds that is separated only by a little six-inch column jutting out from the wall. The fresh baked cookies in the lobby were nice though. And the kids had a blast jumping from bed to bed, like all kids should be allowed to do only while in overpriced, oversold, scratchy-sheeted hotel rooms. Chris, who is also graced in the fine art of setting his expectations to low, said in all seriousness, "This may be our best night." But after a set-your-mouth-on-fire-meal of local Mexican food, where we were unnerved throughout by a large, prominently displayed painting of Jesus that looked too much like one of the Allman brothers, we all slept well enough to tackle a second day of 7 hours on the road.

We arrived in Albuquerque and were greeted by Chris's folks, his step-sister and nephew and their five animals: four cats and one dog. Since we've been back, Z has mentioned how much she misses Nene and Bubby a few times, but has used those cats in multiple stories told to everyone she's come in contact with since our return, as well as entertained us with the same five stories of animal bonding experiences throughout our entire 13-hour drive home (who's counting?).

"Remember when Isaiah put his paw up and gave me a high-five?"

"Remember when the orange kitty dragged the mouse by her tail?"

"Remember when we went on a kitty hunt?"

I get the impression she likes cats. And wants not one, but four of them. Just like Nene and Bubby. To this I say, Thank You allergies.

It was very hard to leave them because we had planned to go to Colorado for six days alone. I don't mean alone alone, as we would be staying with friends and then in a house that sleeps nine people, but alone meaning we would embark from their house as just two adults with only our own mouths to feed and our own butts to wipe. It's always hard to leave the kids, but marriages need attention too. And sometimes you just have to head to a large annual music festival in the mountains of Telluride, go horseback riding in Durango along the way, and drink lots of cocktails with your honey.

Which we did. And it was awesome. Almost all of it was beautiful and restorative, which is what all vacations should be. The kids had a blast. They went to the zoo. They went to the Aquarium. And perhaps most exotic of all, they went to church. They slept longer hours than they do at home, which had me scratching my head, but I think it must have been the showering of attention from two grandparents, one aunt and a super fun cousin, as well as the crisp night air flowing in from open windows that must have done it.

We had a lovely reunion with them on our drive back in Balmorhea, which did more than makeup for the lying we endured in Pecos. If you ever happen to travel through West Texas, and need to stop for a night off Highway 10, please consider the accommodations of the El Oso Flojo Lodge. It has a little river that flows beside it and a restaurant next door that advertises itself as Balmorhea's "Cutest Little Restaurant in Town." Unlike the Holiday Inn & Suites, those Balmarheans know how to advertise with dignity.

After wearing my winter coat a few nights prior while swaying to Bluegrass music under to Colorado stars, we were welcomed back to Texas with 104 degree heat.

Thanks Texas, I love you too.

And thanks Nene and Bubby for taking such good care of our little monkeys.

Mwah!

Second Childhood

I grew up in dance classes. From that first class in preschool, when ballet took the form of imitating a giraffe, I was hooked. By the time I was thirteen I was taking three classes a week--tap, jazz and pointe--and a combination of all three in a four-hour Saturday morning workshop. The walls of my room were literally wallpapered with posters of Arabesquing bodies, worn ballet shoes under leg warmers and legs that plied (plee-ayed) in the first position. You remember this classic poster, right?
Well, that was my life. My passion. My first love. Until one day I looked in the mirror and I was awkwardly tall and clearly not fit for a lifetime of being hoisted above someone's shoulders under a spotlight. (Sniff Sniff)

Dance has since been my one that got away. Which is why I got so excited on the day my daughter started ballet class. And so disappointed when her enthusiasm too quickly turned to fear and then a dropping of the class.

For about 12 years I've been telling myself I was going to take tap classes again. Because it's the one form of dance that doesn't require a willowy frame. And because it was always my favorite anyway.

Last night, I finally went to the first dance class I'd been to in 25 years. I was immediately reminded why I dropped classes in the first class. That wall of mirrors is a mean one. But I was also reminded why I'd been pining for that room ever since I left it. The bars against the wall. The hard, scuffed floor. The loud music. The dance instructor shouting to be heard above it. And the rhythmic stomping of feet.

I think my cheeks hurt afterward from smiling the whole time. I felt subconscious on the way there. Especially when I was at the store trying on my tap shoes. I asked myself, "What is a 38-year-old woman doing taking a tap class?"

The way I felt afterward answered my question.

What's so silly about wanting to feel like you're thirteen again?

In Good Company

I find other people's failures inspiring. I know it sounds mean, but admit it. Doesn't it make you feel better about yourself to know that others in the world are failing just as much as you are?

Reading this article in The New York Times on Sunday gave me new hope. And it excused me from having to constantly make excuses for not blogging. After all, if you read the article, you'll see that it says 95% of blogs are abandoned. Is it so bad if I choose to compare myself to that 95%, rather than the Dooces of the world?

I mean, at least I haven't totally abandoned it. And I honestly have no plans to. There is just a limit to how much narcissism a person can log in a given day. Like they said, and like I said here, Twitter and Facebook are to blame.

So, thank you to those few readers who still visit me here. Mom. Mindy. Vanessa. Hi ladies. Thanks for your patience. And thanks to anyone else who wants to follow me on Twitter.