The Force Of Nature

One of my greatest pleasures is hiking in the mountains – the cool, clean air, the fresh pine smell, the blisters like little badges of honor. When I gave birth to Yack, I was destined to not let this little bundle of joy take away one of my favorite pastimes.

At first, hiking with the little man was easy. I plunked him in one of those baby bjorns, threw my hiking boots on and charged up the hill. After five minutes, the rhythmic bouncing of my stride rocked him to sleep and I was at peace with a baby boy who was subconsciously appreciating the same sounds and smells as I was.

This went on for a good year.

And then overnight, my one year old turned into a three year old. And he didn’t want to be strapped into a bjorn, or any other suspension devise. He didn’t want to hike at all. He broke my damn heart by wanting to watch Sponge Bob instead of hiking. Was this kid even mine?

He didn’t care about the singing birds, or the way our dogs sniffed for animal waste on the trail. He didn’t care about hiking the way I did. He only cared about Sponge Bob.

But as any good parent would, I forced him. Fresh air should be mandatory. Exercise should be required. Talking about the beautiful surroundings should be a part of one’s own moral fabric. I was destined, forced, to shape this kid’s psyche.

Even if it made him hate me.

The hikes thereafter were memorable, alright. They consisted of crying, tantrums and clenched teeth. Looking back, I am so ashamed of how I behaved.

I began to hate hikes.

One of the options was to drop him off at a sitter’s and trudge on without my little offspring, my sidekick. But knowing that I only spend limited time as a working mom with the little man, I didn’t feel right about leaving him while I enjoyed nature. Plus, I had to capitalize on the time when I had positive influence over him, not to mention influence over his English language. I vividly recall one hiking highlight where he picked up a large tree branch, jabbed me in the gut and said, “mama, mira, una pistola,” to which I retorted, “that’s not a gun, Yack. It’s a stick,” to which he replied, “ah, un palito”.

These are the moments that make me realize he is spending too much time at Nena’s, not that there’s anything wrong with that.

These hikes were my lifeblood. I had to think of something fast to comingle my son with that I thought was a mandatory educational experience, nature.

So, I did what came naturally. I bribed him.

First off, there’s only so much trudging up the hill I can do with him strapped to my back, and since my child toting backpack only allows for about a 25 pound kid, we are well over our max. So is my back.

This recipe for success may be criticized by my well read “PC” parental friends; to you I say, I don’t give a rip about your opinion right now. All I know is that my kid and I are at the top of Bear Valley so go pound sand.

Here goes: I take a large zip lock plastic baggie of Gummy Bears, which I usually replace with those organic fruit pieces. He’s three. He can’t read. He doesn’t know the difference.

I put these little nuggets of gold in my pocket and as if I were Hansel leaving a bread crumb trail. I explain to Yack that if he just make it up to that big tree log at the top of that bend, he will get two.. yes, two Gummy Bears. I may even pull them out of my pocket to show that I am serious, letting him follow his nose like Toucan Sam.

And then he runs, no, he bolts of the hill, with candied treats on the brain. He is usually at the tree before I am, hand out, waiting for his reward.

I am pleased. I like hiking again. But this feeling is fleeting.

“I am done hiking, mommy.”

But we have only gone 100 yards. I offer more Gummy Bears until he is completely comatose on a full blown organic liquid cane sugar rush.

“I don’t want anymore Gummy Bears.”

I ask Yack if he’s thirsty. And I question which way my moral compass is pointing if I am withholding water from my child as an incentive to soldier on. I have only mild regrets when I say the following, “you can have water, Yack, when you reach to that second redwood right above that ridge.”

And then he starts to sprint, with what is likely a mild onset of dehydration.

But I am enjoying hiking again.

When Yack has finally had it, he faces me, pink cheeked, sweaty, pleading for me to pick him up the rest of the way.

“Why don’t you get in the backpack?”

It’s too small for him, he explains. It’s for babies.

And it is. But I give him a choice: walk, or get in the backpack. (Leg cramps? He’ll get over them. I will be the one suffering from carrying him, no?)

He chooses the backpack. His legs flop well over the foot rests. His shoulders peek way over the top of my neck. He has undoubtedly outgrown this thing, but how else am I going to hoof this 35 pound ball of three year old muscle down the hill? I ain’t gonna pick him up, that’s for sure.

And so it goes. He sees a bird here, a lizard there. He wants to get out of the backpack five minutes after he is in it. I bribe him to stay in. “If you stay in the backpack, I will give you more Gummy Bears.” He says no. He starts resembling a Gummy Bear. Perhaps it’s the delirium I am experiencing as I struggle to put one foot in front of the other.

This punk is heavy.

As luck would have it, we reach the car. We’re exhausted. By the time we are done, he has gotten into and out of the backpack at least a half dozen times. It takes us twice as long to go half as far. He’s seen the requisite things I would like him to view on a hike – the birds, the large trees, the mountain monsters that live in the “jungle”.

We dust off and get into the car. Yack says he wants to watch Sponge Bob on my iPad. I hand it to him without saying a word as we drive off.

I am happy. I like hiking... today.

Getting Camiloed

It’s coming up on a year since I started frequenting the Torture Chamber. I shoulda quit when I had the chance – when I finished the Tough Mudder race last October and lived to tell about it. That was one opportunity. The other was when I threw my back out picking up a barbell “like an idiot”. I was out for an entire week and would have felt justified if I never returned. Or when budget negotiations were steaming up at the Capitol and I didn’t have time to even eat, let alone peel away for a butt kicking. That’s, let’s see.. three times at least within the past year that I could have easily said, “See ya, Midtown. Good riddance. Nice knowing you and your stinky kettle bells.”

But I keep returning.

I hope it gets easier.

It hasn’t.

I search for a day when I walk out of there thinking, “hey, what do you know, I don’t feel like my breakfast is going to come back up and land in the parking lot.”

And that’s why I continue to go. To one day say that I not only survived Camilo and his ridiculous sandbag throwing, dumb bell raising, sled pulling workout, but that I also did something relatively productive afterwards.

I’m not real bright, I'll admit. Case in point: every two weeks or so I dare myself to survive a little one on one training session with Camilo. This is after three days a week of his group class. I do this not because I don’t get enough during the classes, I simply want to see if it’s any easier than the last time we met eyeball to eyeball, barbell to barbell.

Well, one of two things is happening. Either I am not improving, or he keeps quietly ratcheting it up on me. I can’t tell either way.

That’s because Camilo is quiet. Uber quiet. Sometimes, I have to strain to hear him and the only way I can tell if I am being a good student is if I get the obligatory fist bump. I like the fist bump, also known as Fo’ Knuckles. Getting the Fo’ Knuckles makes me feel super sweet, like I could probably hang with Camilo and his old baseball teammates from college without them thinking that I am a dork tomboy wanna be. Yeah, probably not.

This past week was an especially humbling workout with Camilo. That’s because my ego was bigger than my mobility. You see, I may have bragged a little to a coworker friend of mine about how he probably couldn’t survive one of Camilo’s workouts. He just started at the gym because he is doing the Tough Mudder race with me this year (yep, not too bright). And I mentioned that having alone time with Camilo is not only reserved for veteran Tough Mudders but also for those who have strong inner strength. I was basically calling my friend out as a pantywaist.

My friend reluctantly decided to join me.

“Okay, Tye, but I have to warn you, throwing up is okay, quitting is not.”

He gave me his “whatever, bring it” look and away we went.

Camilo was already preparing for us when we showed up, buzzing around in fast forward. Tye looked apprehensive at best. I think he even whispered to himself that he wasn’t ready for this. I approached Camilo and gave him a friendly shot in the arm. Perhaps a little non verbal sign that I was bringing my A game today and my buddy Tye was there to try and keep up.

Camilo then picked me up, put me on the back of his shoulders and squatted me five times, just like that.

Uh oh. As I was being swung in the air, I started having some doubts. Camilo was onto my inflated ego.

We started off slow which was a good thing, because I was worried about Tye, would he be able to keep up with my stellar physical capabilities? Tye ain’t no wilting flower. He has muscles on top of muscles but this was a different type of workout. I wondered if his heart muscle would be able to keep up with my heart muscle.

We started off the hour with “squats” and “clean and jerks” and finished off with several sets of “snatches”. (I often wonder about the guy who made up the names for these moves.. and yes, he was most certainly a guy.)

While Camilo was working on Tye’s form, I stayed steady with my reps, hoping that if I finished before I was noticed, he wouldn’t add more weight to my very comfortable barbell.

Grab those 25s over there, Brown.

Here we go.

After a few of those, I felt blood vessels popping in my face. I wondered if they would be permanent. Does Botox fix perpetual eye bulge and varicose face veins?

He kept telling me to keep my heel down and my knee out while I pounded out my reps.

I reminded him that I have a club foot and have some limitations in what I am able to do.

He shrugged. “I don’t see any limitations. Just keep your heel down and knee out.”

Apparently, there’s no room for pansy-ass excuses, so I kept my mouth shut (very challenging) and did what I was told.

Tye, on the other hand was making me look bad. He was dead lifting like it was Christmas.

You just wait until we get to the conditioning part, Tye.

Next, Camilo had us do burpees. Fifty of them. If you know what a burpee is, you feel bad for me right now. Camilo showed Tye the proper form since he was unfamiliar with the movement. Camilo jumped in the air like a flying squirrel, landing on feet and hands, knocked out a pushup and then shot in the air clapping his hands overhead. Burpees are dreadful. Don’t try them at home.

After thirty burpees, I wanted to hurl. Tye was sweating enough to fill a water cooler, but he was keeping up. This pissed me off. Tye was supposed to have collapsed by now, with me doing my last set of burpees over his dead body.

Camilo then made us to sled pulls along the wall of the gym. Next, he made us do medicine ball slams – too many to count. Then he told us to get a set of kettle bells. I went to pick up the 44 pounders - my comfort zone. Camilo took them out of my hands and handed me the 62ers. I let them fall to the ground as my shoulders about fell out of their sockets.

He told us to go outside and start walking. Chest out. Holding the boulders from hell in our brittle aching fingers. He told us to walk to T Street – a half block away. Tye and I exchanged “I hate you” looks. He hated me for getting him into this. I hated him for keeping up.

I couldn’t make it to T Street. My arms felt like they were being pulled off. Tye stopped too. I don’t want to know why.

Camilo asked if we needed a short break.

No, we’re standing here because we like the way that orange tree glistens in the sun.

“Well, we might as well make the most of this time. Ten jump squats.”

How about ten kiss my butts, Camilo? How about that?

Tye and I realized in short order that every time we stopped, we would have to perform these excruciating leaps. Not to mention how imbecilic we looked to the passersby.

We suffered through to T Street. Camilo said we were now to walk to S Street. I wanted to take the kettle bell and put it in his mouth, but I couldn’t lift it past my hip.

You’re lucky, Camilo. One of these days I will be able to reach it to your head.

After five sets of jump squats – yeah, do the math, that’s five breaks – we made it to S Street. I placed my kettle bells down with authority, elated that we were finished.

That is, until I realized that these hunks of metal were somehow going to have to get back to the gym.

Camilo, you have a truck, right? We aren’t taking these back.

Camilo just smiled and told us that he has a surprise waiting for us if we get these kettle bells back to the shade. The shade, my friends, was only 10 feet away. I love surprises. I imagined him having a Snickers bar in his pocket. Or maybe he was going to offer us a cold glass of what my son, Yack refers to as aqua de limon.

“The surprise” happened to be ten sprints up and over the hilly lawn. Camilo stood at the top, egging Tye and me on to go faster. “It’s Tough Mudder season. Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.”

I don’t like surprises anymore.

After the sprints, I refused to make eye contact with Camilo. I took my boulder sized kettle bells and sprint walked back to the gym. And yes, Tye was right there with me. I couldn’t shake this knucklehead. He was like a bad penny.

When got to the floor of the gym, we rolled out our backs and shoulders with Styrofoam tubes. Camilo approached both of us with his Fo’ Knuckles. Tye put his hand out to show me he was shaking. He was speechless.

Good, he got Camiloed too.

The Champion

There are many ways in which to describe my father. He’s big. He’s pretty funny. He’s resilient. Very loyal. And competitive. Obsessively so.

Most of his qualities – good, bad or indifferent – rubbed off on my brother and me. We also unfortunately acquired his unhealthy competitive nature. As adults with our own children, my brother and I realize that we too would rather win than improve the egos of our kids by letting them enjoy a small victory. We must actively go against the forces of our own nature so as not to instill the offensive overdrive into our young and impressionable toddlers.

That’s right, as my father’s daughter, I have come to terms with the fact that my bloodthirsty quest for victory is a direct link to his parenting skills, and if I am not careful, this perpetual cycle will see no end. I resist the urge to follow in my father’s footsteps and go all gonzo on my offspring.

Admitting it is the first step to enlightenment, no?

My father is a winner. In fact, he’s never lost a game; not to his friends, his parents, his arch enemies, his children, his wife (with one minor exception which we will get into). He’s that dad you could never beat no matter how hard you tried. Even when my brother and I crafted our skills to be better than him, we never conquered him. It’s because he would rather cheat his kids than lose. I am convinced beyond a reasonable doubt that he would rather lose his dignity than a game. Baseball great George Brett from the Kansas City Royals once said it best and I believe my father would agree: "If a tie is like kissing your sister, losing is like kissing your grandmother with her teeth out."

To prove my point, let’s begin with a short and partial list of the games in which he has never lost:

Racquetball, tennis, cribbage, the board game Sorry, golf, soccer, sprinting, the basketball game Horse, tennis, darts, bocce ball, spitting, horseshoes, Pac Man, Mrs. Pac Man, and Solitaire – yes, Solitaire. He won every single time. Figure that one out. Or don’t.

One of his favorite expressions in the racquetball court after slamming the ball in our backs:

“This is a tough sport, kids. You have to be tough to play tough.”

So why didn’t we just up and quit?

“Because quitting doesn’t build character.”

And apparently, character is something every child needs in order to grow tall and not get picked on at school. I wanted some character, so did my brother. So we hung in there until it was dark, or way past our bedtime, or wobbly and weary eyed.

This character building, as we had come to learn, was another term for doing everything humanly possible to beat the opponent. Cheating was not necessarily frowned upon, but getting caught was. Flipping the game board if one was legitimately losing, now that was considered okay behavior. Technically, it wasn't quitting. It was merely a hiccup, a do over of sorts.

Aside from cheating and throwing tantrums, there are a few other strategies that I feel compelled to share here, because they served me so well in life. They are as follows:

Game: Ping Pong
Strategy: Lick ball when opponent isn’t looking. Put a lot of spin on it. Slam opponent in the face so if it doesn’t hit table, opponent will be too blind to see.

Game: Horse Shoes
Strategy: Clank horse shoes together behind thrower’s head, preferably right before their release.

Game: Horse
Strategy: Continue with the easiest lay up in the same location until opponent cannot hold ball over head any longer. This may be coupled with constant ribbing during shots. Warning: the game will likely drag on for hours without a miss. The challenger with the most endurance and height typically wins.

Game: Racquetball
Strategy: aim that bouncy blue ball right in the back of opponent as hard as possible. This will create a semi permanent donut shaped bruise and will inhibit opponent from gaining leverage. (It should be noted here that when we would play with my father, he would “teach us a lesson to get out of the center”, which required us to run all over the court. He, on the other hand, would stand in the same place during the entire game aiming the ball at us. Instead of playing racquetball, we played a modified version of dodge ball. Racquetball is supposed to be a great workout, but my dad didn’t lose a pound, even as the undefeated champion at our neighborhood club for two straight years. You can't get in shape if you stand in one place the whole time.)

Game: Trivial Pursuit
Strategy: This involves some handy work. Pick the card up out of the pile backwards, take a quick gander at the answer on the back of the card, memorize. Look like you are straining to think before blurting the correct answer. Look surprised at getting it right.

Game: Swimming
Strategy: Kick wide and don’t swim straight. The goal is to swim into your opponent, causing slight panic and confusion. Must be made to look like an accident.

Game: Darts
Strategy: having a very large and flexible torso helps. Lean as far as possible with toes well over the line. Act like you’re falling before throwing the dart. If this doesn’t work, heckle during opponent’s turn.

And if all else fails, throw whatever is in your hand – cards, play money, golf clubs, racquets. This will end the game immediately without anyone being declared the winner. This is known as a hung jury and another game will soon follow with slates clean.

This is how I grew up. This is what I learned from my father.

Doesn’t sound too bad, huh?

Well, the dysfunctional obsessive need to win didn’t stop with the games. It could be daily routines.

Eating: “Are you going to have that last French fry?”

If I didn’t eat my food fast enough, I’d lose it.

Driving: "I bet I can spot more words with letters that begin with S than you can. Ready go. “STOP! Street Crossing! Subway! Santa Cruz! Slurpee!"

Watching television: “I don’t want to watch Three’s Company. I want to watch Cheers. Where’s that remote control? I had better find it before you do.”

This invariably led to a mad scramble amidst the couch pillows, shag carpet, coffee table. Crying. Something breaking. My mother yelling.

Doing chores: “You better pick up the dog poop faster than I wash the dishes.”

And the most annoying part of losing was his ridiculous victory song. Chest puffed, biceps pumped, singing to Queen:

I am the champion - my friends
And I’ll keep on fighting - till the end -
I am the champion -
I am the champion
No time for losers
'Cause I am the champion - of the world -

I've taken my bows
And my curtain calls -
You brought me fame and fortune and everything that goes with it
I thank you all -

I never quite understood his need to beat small children at physically and mentally straining sports such as wrestling and word games and eating, but I recognized his pure pleasure in winning, which made me wish for someone to take him out.. Someone, anyone, needed to knock him on his knees. Do it for the children.

There simply was no stopping the insanity, and as personal quests go, it became an obsession of mine to get good enough to beat him at anything. I focused my efforts on ping pong. It was the only game that I could practice day and night with one willing participant. That was my mom. She always encouraged me to find a hobby. I told her that my hobby was trying to beat dad. She supported this. We played a lot. We played in the morning before school. We played after soccer practice, before bed.

Before long, my hobby became her hobby. She got good.

The ping pong games that my parents played were more than silly recreational occurrences, they were full contact sports. They typically ended in the dark, in tears or paddles being broken. These were not enjoyable times, watching the two of them battle. And why did my mother continue to play with my father? Because she knew that someday she would actually beat the bastard.

It was a day of infamy. It will forever be celebrated as a win for the underdog, the bullied, the victim. It was a win for those of us who lost to my father too many times to count, for those of us who suffered irreparable mental scars and permanent physical ailments. It was a win for those who experienced the wrath of humiliation. It was the Hollywood ending.

With one game, my mother leveled the playing field ad infinitum. My father would no longer be immortal; he was now just one of us – a normal person who loses a game once in awhile and then takes out the trash.

This is how I remember it: I had a couple of my high school friends over as we lay by the fan playing video games in the living room. It was nearly one hundred degrees outside and we were miserable. I assumed my parents were in full battle mode in the backyard because I heard the shrieks coming from the patio – a typical occurrence. I ignored the hollers for awhile, but they became so distracting, I peeked into the backyard to see how badly my father was beating my mother.

And there she stood almost completely naked with just the paddle in her hand, jumping up and down (my eyes, my eyes) in excitement because she was winning.

My mother’s clothes were wadded up in the corner of the grass.

Like watching a car accident, I couldn’t look away. With every point my mother scored, off came another article of clothing until she bounced freely like a front row groupie at a Kiss concert. Under normal circumstances, I would have been still with fear knowing my high school friends were within eye shot of my mother’s bare boobies. But this was different, my mother was about to beat my father in a game. An actual game.

I called for my brother. “You have to see this now.”

We all knelt down, eyes fixated on the game, petrified that if my mother didn’t win, our lives would be ruined. I couldn't breathe. All of us stared in awe; my brother and I giddy with slight possibility of triumph, not concerned with what Naked Mom would do to our reputation at school.

And then she won. And aptly gloated. Arms in a bicep curl, strutting her victory around the table, not minding at all that she had eye witnesses.

I am the champion - my friends
And I’ll keep on fighting - till the end -
I am the champion -
I am the champion
No time for losers
'Cause I am the champion - of the world -

My father retreated to his garage where he put his Chinese custom made ping pong paddle on the top shelf where it still sits unused to this day.

The aftermath was blissful, but short lived. My father still challenged us kids to competitive nonsense, but with far less fervor. All we had to do was remind him that he lost to an old naked lady, which put him in his place ever so slightly.

Of course, word got around school that my mother was a peace loving naked hippie, but once the story was explained as to why she did it, most kids who knew my dad thought that the expose’ was a tiny footnote in his defeat.

It was something that had to happen.

And so when I have the slight urge to jump up and down after beating my three year old in Candyland, I suppress those feelings, knowing that if I feed the hunger, I too may find myself racing his father at the track and field in nothing but my skivvies.

A Really Stupid Gift

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Getting Schooled by the Pool

It began as a required feature during our house hunting spree five years ago. Pants and I wanted, no, needed a pool. Considering the fact that we suffer through 110 degree summers, feel a perpetual need to have fancy things around to attract friends, and harbor a nagging yearning to recreate the volleyball seen in Meet The Parents, it was more of a necessity than say a kitchen or bathroom.

You think I’m kidding.

The house on which we ended up settling was in a word, dumpy. But it had one hell of a pool. The first time I laid eyes on it, I thought it looked Olympic. Do they even make pools this big anymore? Certainly not, as it accompanied our 80 year old tudor. The pool came with a springy diving board to boot; I was giddy.

As Pants and the real estate agent were “envisioning” a complete remodel of the inside of the house, I was bouncing on the diving board in the rain donning my jacket and boots. Thoughts of margarita fueled swim parties fogged my head.

I was sold. We put an offer on the house that the owners couldn’t refuse. And since it was a seller’s market at the height of the bubble, we overbid. No one was getting this pool but me. No one.

The house needed so much work that we didn’t move in for eight months. I paid no mind. I went to my pool after work, on weekends and I swam in it lap after lap. Pants came along too. He had to. Someone had to oversee the demolition project inside the house. As he peered out the window covered in sawdust, I would wave during my backstroke.

I was happy.

Things began to change when we finally moved in. The pool turned on me, on us. The first red flag was the insurance agent. He told us we had to get rid of the diving board. He told us that it’s a liability waiting to happen. (If you jump at just the right angle, you can hit your head on the wooden patio overhang but only if you’ve been drinking heavily is there ever a chance of that happening, which knowing my guests, put the odds at probable.)

I freaked. There's no way we could get rid of the diving board. The property value alone would take a nosedive. Pants told me to calm down, that there was a way around this little snag.

So, we lied. “Yes, we will take it down.” We have since painted it with a grainy finish to really improve on the footing and grip. And this is after we were told that painting a diving board is not a good idea because you can’t see age defects or cracking in the board if it’s refinished. “It’s a liability.” Uh, yeah, we know that, but so is driving to work every day but you don’t see me scaling back that activity, now do you?

Then the pool started turning colors, a swampy green to be precise. It didn’t happen overnight. It crept up on us, starting with a slight Gatorade color. “Perhaps it’s the way the sun is setting, right, Pants?” I would sway back and forth, squinting my eyes from the kitchen window.

“Why yes," Pants would reassure me, "the sunset appears to be green this lovely evening.”

I knew we had to call in reinforcements when I was swimming one day and couldn’t see my own feet. So, we hired a pool guy, who told us that the thinger ma’ bobber needed a new motor. So we bought it.

That didn’t work.

Then another pool guy that we hired after “letting the other one go” told us that we needed to clean the filters every other day. So we did that.

That didn’t work.

Then Pants decided that he was going to tackle this little pool problem on his own. "No need to throw money at someone who isn't going to tell us how to fix the damn pool." So we began throwing money at troubleshooting. We spent nearly our mortgage payments on chlorine, metal free, acid, neutralizer, non neutralizer, de fogger, anti aging agents, algae controllers, and salt. Yes, even salt. And sometime Pants' efforts paid off, but only so far. The minute he would get it back from swamp to Gatorade, we would cheer with joy, knowing that a bright blue was within reach. But then we would have to add water due to evaporation, or was it a leak? And then we would head three shades back to swampland. I was afraid that I was going to lose something in it, like my bike, or my dog, like that Chihuahua found in the swamp in Florida after 19 days. Don’t believe me? Google it.

We began cancelling parties which is what I considered hitting bottom. Sorry, I would email, not this weekend. We are out of town. When friends asked if they could drop by anyway to take a dip (yes, we have a few friends under the category: "I am only friends with you because you have a pool and I am going to prove that fact while you are out of town this weekend and during the Winter when I will pretend not to know you), I would have to indiciate that the pool was under quarantine.

We began to retreat to the cool mountains, forgetting we ever had a pool or friends.

I gave up on that pool rather quickly, but Pants couldn’t let it go. It became an obsession with him. I would wake up at 6 a.m. and get breakfast ready for Yack. I would look everywhere for Pants, until I heard the scrubbing sounds of the Polaris. I would follow the sounds to the backyard, where I would see Pants sweeping the sides of the pool down in his pajamas. Stripy and flannel, if you must know.

Poor Pants.

Weekends were spent in hiding from our friends, with Pants driving back and forth and back and forth and “I have to make one more trip to the pool place before they close”. He would pour and clean and spray and take apart and put back together. I could add up the hours of time spent on the pool for you here, but I don't want to be responsible for spreading that negative energy around the world wide web.

On one particular evening, we were discussing Pants’ pool frustration with a sharp tongued and opinionated friend (those are my favorite). He told said friend that he had done everything he could do to that pool. He’s poured every type of product and cleaned every piece of equipment.

“There’s nothing else I can do”. He looked sad.

Snarky friend responds, “Why don’t you pee in it, see if that works?”

And that’s exactly what Pants did. He marched out the back door, stood at the water’s edge and proceeded to take a long, beer soaked leak into the pool.

But that didn't work either.

Then one day, the fifth pool “expert” came over and told us that the wood bench underneath the old and decrepit fiberglass at the shallow end of the pool was rotting - the cause of the green swampy tint. "It's probably making your skin itchy too." Funny, since it had been over a year since I swam in the damn money pit, I would be happy with a little itchy skin for the sake of a good ol’ half gainer.

Based on #5's assessment, Pants and I made the very difficult decision of draining the 30 thousand gallon pool (for the third time – our sincere apologies to our neighbors), and scrape off the fiberglass, take out the bench and redo the entire pool for the low low price of $eatbeansandriceforayear. Pants believed that by scraping off the fiberglass himself, thus exposing his lungs to asbestos and other unknown chemicals, it would save us a good chunk of the cost. It did, but if he keels over prematurely due to a rare form of lung disease, I am going to be pissed.

This little project took over three months, and cut into my pool time in a serious way. Alas and just in time for winter, the pool project was complete. And it was beautiful. Every shade of blue imaginable permeated through the glistening waters. I felt a sense of euphoria and a new found attraction to Pants. After an entire year of trial and error, my man mastered the art of pool maintenance. Perhaps we should start a side business.

But wait.

Winter ended.

Spring sprung.

And with the beautiful warm blue skies came an olive colored cesspool.

Pants ignored the change in our pool’s demeanor. He took off on a trip with his old high school buddies and drowned his sorrow in manly things and left me and Yack to stare at the pool in disgust. We attempted to ignore the pool by not making eye contact with it. We kept ourselves preoccupied with play dough and paints indoors with the shades drawn. We also went on long trips to the park. We even saw a pool at the local park, so inviting, so clean, so blue.

“Mommy, look, it’s a pool. Let’s go swimming.”

“No honey, we don’t have your bathing suit. Besides, we have a pool at home. Daddy is going to fix it when he gets home.”

“But that pool is yucky.”

When Pants got home from his trip, he called pool guy #6 who put Pants at ease the minute he arrived. He spoke in soft tones and used a lot of eye contact. He listened to Pants lay out the chronological trials of the pool while putting a supporting hand on his shoulder. If I wasn't mistaken, I might have even seen Pants shed a tear. I could be wrong about this as allergy season is approaching.

After assuring Pants that all will be right in the world, pool guy #6 dumped enough chlorine to blind a large elephant and told Pants to be patient.

That night, we went to bed anxious, hoping that pool guy #6 was here to save the pool, to save us.

And just as if it were Christmas morning in May, we awoke to azure beauty and a renewed hope for summer and our sanity.

So to my dear seasonal friends, you may return with your towels, your large brimmed hats and barbeque meat, for we are back in cannonball business. But make it quick. This blissful state of affairs is bound to be fleeting.

A Stranger in My Own Land

Pants and I made a concerted effort to raise our son, Yack to be bilingual. When he was a mere fito. By the way, to my monolingual readers, fito means embroyo – a word I learned yesterday at the El Festival del Dia De Las Madres, but more on this later.

Pants wasn’t 100 percent sure on my whole bilingual idea but since he was hell bent on raising our child Catholic, he went along with it. Note: I didn't have any objection either, but I am the lazy version of Catholic – Episcopalean – did I spell that right? And after reading the cliff notes on Catholicism, I figure it was good to teach your kid to be kind to others, pray to God who is going to watch over you, and don’t judge. I wasn’t sure I had the requisite mom tools to do that all myself. I welcomed the church’s assistance.

Pants went along with my line in the sand because I was so accommodating to his. When mi fito was about eight months gestation, we began looking for a nanny who spoke Spanish. Our search didn’t take long because once we found Nena, the jig was up. We fell in love with her and her entire family. In fact, Nena is Yack’s God Mother. Papa Nena is Yack’s God Father. We are one big happy extended family.

Nena comforts me by speaking English because it’s glaringly obvious that her English is way better than my four years of high school Spanish. And so,through this little exchange, Yack seems to have mastered both languages, and Nena seems to be improving in English. I too just keep getting better at English. Hmph.

Part of the deal (in my own head) was that Nena would be mean and make me speak Spanish. We even tried this a couple of times. She would just start rapid firing her native tongue at me, but stopped after awhile when I just nodded and smiled. My head hurt, but she sounded so nice.

But as time progressed and our families became closer, there was many an opportunity for me to be hoisted into a whirlwind vernacular of unknown sounds and accents.

First, Tita and Tito. Nena’s parents. They do not speak English and when they visit from Mexico, it’s sink or swim time for me, which usually means I am two inches under water breathing through a straw. (Nena does very little translating unless I ask, and I don't ask.)

Do I feel self conscious, anxious, and well, dumb? That would be a yes. I can’t express how many times I have started a conversation with, “como se dice” – how do you say…

But it’s not just the language barrier that makes me feel that way. It’s also the culture. Sure, I feel very privileged to be a part of it. And I haven’t an ounce of regret for having our son grow up as a member of the Mexican community, but it sure can be intimidating. For instance, raise your hand if you are not Mexican and you know what a posada is..

Didn’t think so. This is a tradition that occurs during Christmas time. It’s a ritual reenactment of Mary and Joseph’s search for lodging in Bethlehem. She is pregnant. They keep getting turned down. For twelve evenings, prior to Christmas, there are parties at a different house. This includes knocking on a lot of doors, singing Spanish songs, drinking hot chocolate and banging the crap out of piñatas. And I offered to host one of the nights. How difficult could it be? I don’t know, how difficult is it to have twenty people in your house who don’t speak your language and are asking you where the bathroom is?

Cut through the anxiety, and there was me loving it, and sad that we didn’t do something like this around our neighborhood. I don’t even know the name of the guy on the corner. He has a nice dog, though.

Or, how about just yesterday’s Festival Del Dia De Las Madres? I went with Yack, Nena, Papa Nena, their boys and Tita and Tito. It was at their church which is also where Yack and Nena’s hijo go to school. Yack is the only non-Mexican kid (by skin color alone), and it doesn’t phase him at all. I am jealous of this.

The first half of Yack's class is in English and the second half is in Spanish. He exudes confidence during both times. In fact, one day I was helping in class during Diversity Week. La maestra was teaching the children about being different but celebrating and respecting those differences. “Class, who among you looks different?” Many brown arms darted towards the sky. And in unison without being called upon, they all said, "Yack!". When I looked at my son, he was beaming with pride. He scanned the room, relishing in all eyes on him and pointed to himself, “Me!” He smiled. He liked being different.

As we were standing in line to get into the gymnasium for the Festival Del Dia De Las Madres, I said to Tita which probably sounded like a preschooler in Mexico, that Yack is going to miss her when they leave and I asked her when her flight leaves. “Dos y media en la manana.” I got that no problem, but then she began to talk to me about the airplane, and I think sleeping was mentioned. And something about airplanes again.

We strolled into the Festival where I was pinned with a ribbon to indicate I was a madre. Yack was behind me but bolted when he saw his Mexican classmates from preschool. “Mira, Mami, es Diego..”

“Adios Yack..”

As I looked around the room, I noticed that I was Yack in the preschool classroom that day. I was the only white person there, and clearly the only one who didn’t speak Spanish. I was the different one.

Why was it that my son could handle diversity with ease and even thrive on it, but I was feeling that I didn’t belong there, that I was somehow intruding in on a piece of culture that wasn’t my own? Funny, everyone there was overwhelmingly kind and made me feel welcome with hand gestures and smiles. But the way I was feeling is probably how Nena feels when she is shopping, eating at restaurants, pumping gas, going to museums, parks, the ice cream store, getting clothes for the kids, going to the DMV.

Nena is an angel. She translated for me and handled the seating arrangement. She spoke in quick expressive tones to the hostess and introduced me to the Father. I decided that being there was good for me, and began to soak in the culture – the smell of beans, rice and corn tortillas wafting in the back, the mariachi music echoing on the gymnasium’s ceiling. The video of the fitos...

I sat in between Tita and Tito and began watching the video. It appeared to be a video of a fertilized egg, and then the fetus and then the embryo. I didn't contemplate the political undertones, merely took in the beauty of a little frog turning into a baby, then suddenly Tito hit me on the shoulder, pointed and said, Fito.

Tita laughed and nudged me with her elbow. I wanted to tell them both that I love them, that I think of them as family, that Yack says a prayer for them every night. I wanted to tell them that I think they are the warmest people I have ever met, and that their hearts are as big as two redwood trees, and that their culture makes me envious. I wanted to tell them that they are considered grandparents not only to Yack, but to us as well, because everyone loves grandparents. Not everyone loves parents. And I wanted to tell them that I will put them in my pocket and take them with me wherever I go, and that I feel safe with them. Saying all of this would have required a LOT of "como se dices?"

Instead, I just put my hand on Tita’s back and gave her a little rub. She kissed me on the cheek.

Maybe she knew what I was thinking. Maybe they both did.

Goal Accomplished. Grace Failed.

Yeah, it’s been awhile. Don’t bust my chops. I have been rehearsing for my theatrical debut. (More on this later.) For now, I thought it appropriate to comment on my March 31st goal of accomplishing ten pull ups. If it is dire for you to know why I decided on ten specifically, I will have you know that the actual amount didn’t come from me, but that sadistic she devil herself, Shira and that wretched gym she owns, Hell Incarnate. Originally, I set out to do four pull ups by the end of 2010 and after several torture sessions that included medicine ball hurdles, bear crawls (don’t ask), and umpteen burpees –(Lucifer’s way of inflicting pain on the innocent) I barely managed to hump my chin up to the bar four times. But that didn't seem good enough for Shira. She wanted 10 out of me.. by March.

So, March came and went and don’t think I took this little “bring-her-back-so-she’ll-continue-to-pay-her-member-dues” gym challenge. I managed to max out on eight pull ups by my allotted due date. Oh well, game over. Thanks for playing.

Then April 6th rolled around and Shira asked if I had accomplished my goal. (She was out gallivanting at power lifting “conferences” in places like Ohio and Utah for the better part of March and wasn't around to keep an eye on my progress.) I whispered that I accomplished my ten and let’s leave it at that.

She knew I was lying.

I am not very good at lying. My eyebrows elevate, clown like and I have a stupid drunk look on my face.

I swear, Shira. I did ten. Let’s move on.

Well then, Brown, let’s see them because I don’t believe you.

With head bowed, facing my ultimate failure in front of one of few women I do not want to disappoint, I headed for the pull up bar. Might as well get this crap over with so the requisite ridicule can ensue.

I got to eight, then nine – it should be noted that by this time, I resembled a maimed squirrel who has been hit by a car. Tail thrashing about, my little frail arms close to snapping, head bobbing on top of an almost non functional neck. By number nine, I had stirred up quite an audience in the gym, thanks to Shira. The cheers, “Go Brownie. Don’t Give Up. Pump Those Bi’s” (Insert obligatory sexual orientation joke here).

I won’t lie. Those words of encouragement from other victims of gym hell sure pushed me into thinking that I could lug one more pull up out of my being. And even though I felt like a beached goldfish, I yanked my way to victory. I dropped in exhaustion as Shira uneventfully proclaimed, “Hmph, I guess I will give that to you.” Apparently, you have to keep a modicum of immobility when you are being judged on proper pull up etiquette.

Whatever, Shira. I’m done. See you next week.

Shira wasn’t done. She loaded up a barbell with what looked to be an excruciating amount of weight and told me to dead lift. “Not only are we going to max out on your pull ups, we are going to max out on your dead lift too.”

To hell we are. Oh wait, where was I?

With Shira’s coaxing, and my peeing in my pants a little, I managed to max out on dead lifts that day too. I did a sumo style dead lift – legs spread, toes pointing east and west, hips forward. This was more appropriate than the regular toes forward, feet shoulder length apart due to my physical limitations (the club foot doesn’t allow me to have my right heal firmly planted on the ground). Sumo might be easier, but Shira didn’t let on that it was. She just said that after 200 lbs it was my max, but we shall return to this spot for more weight when I recover.

Um, no thank you. I don't plan to recover from THAT.

Perhaps I will avoid her for awhile. Perhaps I will go to the gym – because I have a Midtown S&C addiction, and just not make eye contact with her.

That might be hard since I have a private lesson with that She Devil on Friday.