Langer Loksh

The Last Tinker Bell Bathing Suit on Earth

Of course I bought it. The $35, last-one-on-Earth Tinker Bell swimsuit from the vendor on Amazon who said they had just one in a size 4, 37-43 lbs. It arrived quickly. The tag said size 3-4, 33-37 lbs. I sausaged Summer into it, and she was happy. I was not. They specifically said 37-43 lbs, and Summer looked like the Incredible Hulk about to burst the suit to shreds, instead of a diminutive wood sprite.

The return address said Cartoonfansclub.com. I called them up and a man, simultaneously conducting another conversation on another phone line in another language, assured me that if I mailed the suit back with a note, they'd send me a bigger one.

Their strategy, to list "one available" on their Amazon channel, had worked. I believed them and became obsessed with it, this one chance at redemption. For several days I woke up at 5:00 a.m., debating in my head whether I should allow myself to be extorted, and whether I was teaching Summer the wrong lesson.

Once it arrived, I didn't want to let the suit go. The guy at Cartoonfansclub sounded like he was just filling in for anyone who had a clue. What if the suit we had our hands on was really the last one? Who cares if it doesn't fit? I got the Tinker Bell suit back!

The guy assured me he'd put a bigger one aside for me. Having learned at least one thing from the scumbag idiot teenagers running the sprinkler park, I gave him my name. And I mailed away the suit.

I waited almost two weeks. I was prepared to mourn the loss of the suit AND the $35.00. And then Monday it came. The right size! Precious...

Here's the thing: I didn't really like the suit that much to begin with. Summer irritated me by wearing it every day and informing me with a toss of her curls that all the other kids at the pool, lake, sprinkler park, Tropiclandia, would be looking at her in her favulous Tinker Bell suit. But after we left it at the park, I felt awful. And once got the new one, I was way more excited than Summer was.

I can't stand for anyone close to me to ever feel the slightest shred of disappointment. I know that's not good parenting. The kids need to learn how to take disappointment, because life is full of it. But someday, I'm going to lose something of Summer's and I won't be able to find a replacement on eBay or Amazon or anywhere else. I'll save the lesson til then.

Fumarole

Note the comment that Maggie left here. Note that that means Volcano Girl has been corroding loved ones with sulphuric eruptions for, oh, almost 30 years. Note that I am considering going on medication.

Crunchy!

Printed on the bottom of our (as Maureen and Sean would say) "open and active" metallic sac of Pounce Tartar & Plaque Control Crunchy Chicken Flavor cat treats: "BEST IF USED BY MAR 15 03." Mmmmmm. That's how much I love our cat.

Unrequited Couple Crush

Lara, Vlad, Katya and Mischa came over for dinner as planned on Thursday night. The grown-ups chatted easily and the kids played together like long-lost cousins. By the end of the evening I was imagining shuffling through the back yard to their apartment in my slippers with a big mug of tea, mi casa es su casa, I'll pick up your mail if you feed my cat, come stay at our dacha, best friends 4 eva!

But both Lara, the mom, and Katya, the nine-year-old, complained about the other nine-year-old neighbor always knocking on their door asking if Katya wanted to play. I think there's some kind of cultural difference going on. Or maybe they just don't like that other family. I don't know. I just know I can't call them for a week or so, so they don't think I'm stalking them. Though Lara did leave me a message asking where we'd picked raspberries, because Vlad thought it sounded like fun.

Cross your fingers for me, I might have an actual neighbor!

Big Ol' Circle of Smiles Post

You Still Aim High

When I was a kid, it was: How would you rather die, by freezing to death or burning to death in a fire? Or: If you could only have one, which would you choose, invisibility or the ability to fly?

As an adult in the workplace, it was: Who would you rather sleep with, Dick Cheney or Osama bin Laden?

Today a new question, born of late-night grocery shopping and too many road trips to Maine and New Hampshire in one summer: Which would you rather have stuck in your head, "It's Alright to Cry" from Free to Be... You and Me, or Bob Seger's "Still the Same"?

My Best Friend's Wedding

Julie and Tom were married in Julie's home town of Glastonbury, CT. The weather was perfect. The ceremony was sweet--Julie had no bridesmaids, but Summer and all of the other children there were asked to walk down the aisle ahead of her. Her brother stood up for her, and Tom's sister, for him. The party was exactly what Julie wanted: no dancing, just croquet and badminton and free-flowing drinks, food, and laughter. (Summer had heard about the party ahead of time; in the middle of mass, she leaned over and whispered in my ear: "I thought you said there would be games.")

That's my necklace Julie's wearing--something borrowed.

Julie and Tom, we wish you a long, healthy, happy life together!

Skip, the incredibly cool guy who married us, told us that the secret to a successful marriage is communication. Like this recent exchange, conducted on a piece of paper taped to a kitchen cabinet. Sharpie: Jill, pencil: Jeff.

Come to think of it, the secret isn't communication. It's keeping your sense of humor.

Shout Out to the Nursing Mamas

When Charlie was born I invented this in my head, but didn't ever do anything about it. Actually this is more complicated than the one I invented--mine didn't have the little Life board game people pegs. Yeah, mine was pretty much a pink rubber band. I was going to sell it for $5 at my OB/GYN's office and give the profits to breast cancer research. But, um, I didn't. So, I salute the Milk Bands gal for getting on the stick.

The Cycle, Part II

Summer's great grandmother, G.G., called us up and invited us to dinner because some distant relative were passing through and how often do your kids get to meet their third cousins? So we drove over there and met a lovely mom and three kids from Minnesota and their neighbor, who'd come along on their vacation. The dad is a farmer and could not take enough time off to drive out; he'd be flying out and driving back with them.

Upon meeting them in the driveway I experienced a flutter of anxiety--less than I would have a year ago, but still, I steeled myself for comments about Charlie's facial differences. Inside, I stood at the kitchen island with the Minnesota mom, prepping salad and garlic bread. "The six-year-old first came to our family as a foster child," she tells me. "She was a victim of domestic violence and suffered frontal lobe damage."

I wonder what she was thinking in the driveway. And I wonder when my anxiety over this--this gorgeous, hilarious, Olympic caliber, rock star baby--is going to go away completely. When will I break the cycle once and for all?

The Russians are Coming

When we bought our house eight years ago I fully expected to be welcomed to the neighborhood with pies. Instead, we get an occasional wave from the cranky seniors next door. All summer long we sit schvitzing on our back porch listening to (THUNK, "Whoo-hoo!") our neighbors' grandchildren jumping off the diving board into the pool we are never invited to enjoy.

Imagine my dismay when I discovered that a Russian family with a nine-year-old daughter and a son Charlie's age have been living in the apartments behind us for a year. I vaguely remember seeing a grandma pushing a baby in a stroller when I was in my post-partum Charlie fog, but it didn't occur to me that the baby would have parents who would want a pie.

So tomorrow night the Russians are coming for a barbecue. Summer is so excited because nine-year-old girls are like the Beatles, or Jesus, or, in my case, Al Gore.

An aside: in 2000 Al Gore and Joe Lieberman had a rally at the park next to my office. They arrived via water taxi with the sunset behind them and, you're going to have to take my word on this, Al Gore is seriously hot in person. At least he was six years ago. Teddy and Joe Kennedy were there too--Teddy looked pale and tired and Joe looked tanned and magnificent--like he was made from some different molecules than everyone else, molecules that come in brighter colors.

Throughout the campaign I was peeved with Joe Lieberman for spouting religiousity on the stump. I prefer my church and my state sold separately. And it was tedious--it seemed to fall into the bad-for-the-Jews category, but maybe I was being overly sensitive. So what do I do when the candidates reach my section and lean forward over the rope to shake my hand? I yell "God bless you Joe Lieberman!" and he says "God bless you too, Sweetheart!" My co-workers just about fell over laughing at me.

Anyway, back to the neighborhood. The same day that I found out about the Russians, I met another family with a nine-year-old girl living in the condo on our other side. They could see into our bathroom window, if we ever opened the blinds. They have been here longer than we have. So now I'm wondering, should I have invited them too? Or is it their own fault for not bringing us a pie?