Entry #60

Entry #60

Wednesday, April 25

9:45 a.m. Seems the critters are out and about and climbing the walls. Last night Aidan spotted something resting along one of the window panes. After taking a closer look, he saw that it was a bright green frog! The frog wasn’t even fazed when I took a photo, obviously a mellow amphibian. The other day I saw a lizard crawling along the window screen from my second-floor office—that's a long way up for an animal that's only six inches long. 


This morning we saw a bright green lizard, a Green Anole, bobbing up and down along the fence ("doing push ups"), its red chin flaring—I think he was showing off for the ladies.

On my morning walk with Izzie today, I saw a centipede meandering up the side of a building. Its legs were so fine, they looked like tiny hairs moving in unison. About five minutes into our walk, I noticed a large turtle huddled in its shell in the middle of the sidewalk. How it got there remains a mystery. It would've been quite a haul to scuttle all the way there.


When I picked it up, a bunch of water poured out, which made me wonder how long the turtle had been there, and if it was still alive. After our experience with the box turtle in the backyard, I figured this wayward turtle was probably fine but just hiding. I'd probably do the same.

What surprised me most about this experience was that Izzie didn’t run after this turtle or even bark at it. I held the turtle in two hands, causing me to let go of the leash. Izzie just stayed with me until I set the turtle down, back by the river. Ordinarily, she'd plunge right into the mucky water, but this time she miraculously abstained. 


Aside from seeing a Great Blue Heron in flight, we didn’t spot any other remarkable fauna for the remainder of the walk. We did, however, see a number of lawn signs, all Republican, for various positions, including “Constable.” I can’t help but think of Mary Poppins and the line, “Thank you, Constable,” when the two children in the movie are returned home after chasing their kites.

“In Texas, contrary to popular folklore, Constables were the first Law Enforcement Officers...[Their] sole mission [in the 1820s] was to act as the defense force for the new colony, repelling Indian incursions and large bands of bandits and cattle rustlers...When Texas was a Republic, the powers of the Constables were drafted into the constitution, and when Texas joined the Union. The Constable’s authority and duties and have remained the same and have not changed much over the years.” —www.epcounty.com/constables/history.htm

If only the Constables around here were like the nice, mustachioed bobby in the movie. One of the people running for office in The Woodlands has the surname “Nutt.” What a great last name for a politician! I wonder if he refers to his residence as the Nutt House.


Turns out there already is an actual place with this name, The Nutt House Hotel, in Granbury, Texas. 

Built of hand-hewn stone in 1893 by David Lee Nutt, the Nutt House occupies the old site of a mercantile store constructed on logs. It was here that two of the Nutt brothers, Jake and Jesse, both of whom were blind from early childhood, began operating their general store in 1866. David Lee was the younger brother of Jake and Jesse and served as their "eyes" in the mercantile store from the time he was 12.  In 1879 David Lee Nutt and his wife built a house that doubled as a hotel since the suppliers of Nutt's merchandise had no other place to spend the night when visiting Granbury on business. In 1968 the Texas State Historical Society awarded the Nutt House its medallion, naming it a historical and cultural landmark.(www.nutt-hotel.com/nh_history.html)

3:00 p.m. I just returned from a whopping three hours at the dentist’s office. The hygenist was obviously very thorough. Plus, I had to wait to get all kinds of newfangled X-rays taken and have a bunch of gooey purple cement shoved in my mouth for nightguard impressions. Still, that’s a huge chunk o’ time.

The dentist’s office was a far cry from the sterile, run-of-the-mill varieties. While the building itself is located at Market Square, a new shopping district designed to look like a quaint pedestrian plaza, the interior of the dentist’s office has more of a warehouse aesthetic—brick walls, exposed ceiling ducts, distressed cement floors, and an open floor plan. What’s interesting about this look is that buildings that authentically look like this (such as the Ice House near Levi’s Plaza in SF) are often the result of deconstruction, while this place was carefully constructed to appear this way.

As with many modern dental offices, there’s a small TV screen in each patient area. Mine was programmed with a series of photographs taken by the dentist on his trip to Pompeii. Because I was there for quite awhile, I saw countless iterations of Pompeii’s excavated ruins, as well as other images of Roman architecture—all in thick, carved stone.

It was odd to watch images of these ancient ruins while sitting in Market Square, where instead of ashes trickling down from Mt. Vesuvius, there are occasional "styrofoam flurries" from builders carving faux-stucco trim at shopping plazas. The dentist certainly made a valiant effort to reproduce a feeling of solidity in his expansive office. Real brick, real cement—it's as solid as anything I've seen here. The window trim, however, was not solid wood, but laminate strips. I wish I hadn't noticed.

I spoke with the dental hygeniest for a few minutes while she prepped for cleaning. She told me that she came here to get away from the snow. I asked her how she likes it here and she said, “Well, the living is easy, but it's not easy living here." Having grown up in Upstate, New York, she believes that she's "too blunt" in the way she communicates, but said, "I'd rather be honest. I've never been lied to more than the first year I was here. People smile to your face, go to church on Sundays, then talk behind your back. I really had a hard time with this..."

To my great surprise, the dentist, a native of Waco, Texas, expressed similar sentiments. “The Woodlands isn’t like other parts of Texas. It isn’t ‘real’ here, though it was much different when [my family] first came here in ’97. There was no mall, there were bigger lots. Now all the trees are being torn down.” 


The dentist, whose practice is obviously thriving, said that he stays here because he’s happy with his kids' school, which they've attended since kindergarten. Plus, he spends half his time in Fredericksburg, where he has a 50-acre farm. "That's where I feel most at home," he said.


When I was finally done with my marathon dental visit, I ran back to the car worried about getting a ticket. Instead I got a glossy green card that read, “Oops! Your parking meter has expired. The 25¢ you pay for curb-side parking helps fund local charities and community events here at Market Street. So, please remember to drop a quarter in the meter. Thanks!” While digging for change, a passerby told me, “Paying the meter is optional here.” Wow. So this is what it’s like to live on The Truman Show. Sure beats getting slammed with a $45 ticket.

Before getting into the car, a twenty-something woman on the cell phone breezed past me, talking loudly on her cell phone, “I’m on my break, so I’m gonna go tan. I’ll be back in thirty minutes.”

11:00 p.m. Noah and David just got home from The Black Keys concert—Noah’s first official rock concert. He tried to share footage from the concert, but having gotten “mosh pit” seating (standing?), the volume was so loud, it sounded like static. Still, I could see how close they got to those rockin’ Akron boys. I’d wanted to go, but Aidan’s still a bit young to be moshin’ on a school night.

Thursday, April 26

2:00 p.m. When I got the kids up this morning, I took a quick look at the weather forecast, since we were all going on a field trip today. The projected high was 95 degrees with 94 percent humidity.

I ended up driving five boys (including my two) to the wrong destination. I was so pleased that I knew where the boat dock was, having taken rowing lessons there, that I didn’t bother following the teacher. Little did I know this wasn’t the place we were supposed to meet. If it were possible to be fired as a parent driver, I would’ve been dismissed on the spot. So much for promising to not embarrass my kids. I’m sure they were mortified having a mom with absolutely no sense of direction.

Thankfully, I managed to find the place (eventually), and not fall in or do anything wildly inappropriate while kayaking. I kept an eye on a few groups of boys who, were racing each other to the very end of the lake. I had the luxury of riding solo, so I almost felt like I was on vacation (aside from helping with the occasional wayward kayak).


Little did we know that the guide did not permit kayaks to venture as far as we did. One teacher paddled our way to inform us that we needed to turn around, but that was after we had reached the very end, with more than a half dozen Great Blue Herons and Snowy Egrets outlining the marshy periphery. 


Apparently this area was riddled with water mocassins, a highly venomous (and potentially lethal) snake that has no qualms about attacking territorial intruders. Ignorance was bliss regarding the snakes, which several kids spotted. Noah said, “It looked like an eel,” then added, “One of them tried to jump in Tal’s boat.” Thank goodness it didn’t succeed.

By the time we got back to the dock, the kids were famished, so everyone inhaled their lunches, while I went out to get some frozen fruit bars—I figured it was the least I could do after my driving snafu. Besides, I figured it would be a welcome refreshment after kayaking in the sun for the two hours.

The kids entertained themselves by cartwheeling and rolling down the grassy hill. They had a total blast doing this, and especially enjoyed the after-effect of walking around with the world spinning. It's the little things in life...

3:00 p.m. I just removed a wasp with a stinger so big, it looked like a jet-pack. After removing this critter with the traditional glass-and-envelope maneuver, I found a “love bug” (one bug attached to another, back-to-back) on our door, and a host of flies buzzing around. I don’t think I’m going to leave the back door open for Izzie any more. Seems The Bug Season has begun full throttle. 

Entry #59

Entry #59

Monday, April 23

1:30 p.m. I just read an article from the Sunday New York Times that reveals a scary truth about modern society. It’s entitled “The Flight From Conversation:”

“We live in a technological universe in which we are always communicating. And yet we have sacrificed conversation for mere connection.

At home,  families sit together, texting and reading email. At work, executives text during board meetings. We text (and shop and go on Facebook) during classes and when we’re on dates...We’ve become accustomed to a new way of being ‘alone together.’”

There’s a similar article in this month’s Atlantic Monthly that discusses the fact that while there’s more communications technology than ever before, we’ve never been more lonely.

“We are living in an isolation that would have been unimaginable to our ancestors, and yet we have never been more accessible. Over the past three decades, technology has delivered to us a world in which we need not be out of contact for a fraction of a moment...We live in an accelerating contradiction: the more connected we become, the lonelier we are. We were promised a global village; instead we inhabit the drab cul-de-sacs and endless freways of a vast suburb of information.”—The Atlantic

I literally live in a cul-de-sac. Near endless freeways. I also spend a great many hours alone, not so much because I’m antisocial, but because even when I go out, there simply aren’t many people outside (their cars or homes), unless they're out shopping. A realtor we know said, “There just aren’t a lot of people around.” What’s odd about this is that The Woodlands’ population is booming. You’d just wouldn't know it by looking around the neighborhoods.

This month’s Real Simple magazine urges people to reach out to their moms this Mother’s Day, citing that hearing their mother’s voice actually reduces stress, while emailing just doesn’t cut it.


"Researchers found that talking to Mom on the phone lowers stress levels, but chatting with her online does not. The theory is that it's the sound of her voice that's calming, not what she says (but no need to worry Mom with that detail)..." —Real Simple

The Woodlands was designed to be a suburban utopia of sorts (suburtopia? subopia?)—with kid-friendly cul-de-sacs, grassy front yards, walking paths and public parks. This place was planned down to the last marigold. Perhaps if the air conditioning and wireless broke down every now and then, we'd see one another more. Sprawling front porches would be a great idea, too.

Tuesday, April 24

10: 45 a.m. After school yesterday we baked brownies with the student who has devoted herself to being a vegetarian for the remainder of the school year despite the fact that she will not eat most vegetables or fruits, and craves bacon and steak. Still, her devotion hasn’t waivered. (Ironically, her name is Faith.) 

While waiting for the brownies to bake, I served some fresh raspberries and clementines. Faith hesitantly sampled one raspberry, while Noah and Aidan inhaled the rest. Getting this girl to eat fruit and veggies—even potatoes—is nearly impossible. Hence, the brownies. Her recent birthday was a fine excuse to resort to something sweet.

I took Faith back home and then began cooking dinner. Aidan had been wiggling yet another loose tooth, then ran into the kitchen with a bloody mouth. “I think I pulled it out before it was ready,” he said, rinsing his mouth out in the sink. I had him bite down on a cold, wet rag, then went to get him an ice cube. Only thing was, there were no ice cubes. We did have some frozen fruit, however, so I grabbed the first thing I could find—a large frozen strawberry. “At least it’s the same color!” Aidan said, stuffing it in the gap that minutes ago held a baby molar.

Chomping on his strawberry, Aidan wandered outside with Izzie. Just as I was beginning to cook dinner, he yelled, “Mom! Come quick! Izzie has something disgusting in her mouth!” I called Izzie and she ran inside, though a bit too stealthily. Her mouth wasn’t bulging with anything, so I figured that whatever she’d had in her mouth was dropped outside. Still, I followed her as she trotted to the spot where she takes special treats, namely the off-white rug that was just cleaned last week. 

Izzie opened her mouth and deposited something on the floor. I walked closer to get a better look and saw a newborn bird, faintly breathing and completely unharmed on the floor. I got a paper towel and scooped it up. It took another breath, then died in my hand.

While we were eating dinner, Aidan commented how glad he was that we didn’t have chicken that night. I think it’ll be awhile before I can consume poultry again.

After dinner, my brother-in-law Eric called to tell us (jokingly) that he was sending Teddy, the puppy we fostered, back our way. Apparently Teddy had pooped in his shoe. “I think he has something against males,” said David, recalling an incident where he found a steamy pile from Teddy beneath his office chair, but only after stepping in it. “He wants to be top dog.”

Eric maintained his sense of humor about this and even sent us a photo. The email read: Teddy: Round One. I reassured Eric that the ball (or rather, balls) will in his court soon after Teddy gets neutered. I have the feeling that the reduced testosterone might curb Teddy’s desire to fill shoes with something that smells even worse than Eric’s hot, sweaty feet.

2:30 p.m. According to today's Huffington Post, Lunchables are listed among the most processed foods out there. Noah and Aidan have told me that a lot of kids at their school bring Lunchables every day, even though the school provides a hot lunch. Aidan reasons that it’s in part because the food’s not all that enticing, but moreso because “kids around here love meat and the lunches at school are vegetarian.” Seems the cold cuts in Lunchables are not so much actual meat as meat by-products:


“While we’re all for eating nutritious, whole foods whenever possible, we also know the reasons you reach for that frozen pizza or those pre-made veggie patties...Still it’s easy to be fooled by labels and packaging making false health claims or hiding sneaky unhealthy ingredients...To start, look for ‘foods with ingredients we know, recognize, can situate in some part of the plant or animal kingdom, and can pronounce,’ writes David Katz, Director of the Yale Prevention Research Center. It’s also a good idea to avoid foods with more than five ingredients; ...additional [ones] are often preservatives, sugars and other additives, many of which we can’t even digest properly.”—Huffington Post


While the Ham + American Cracker Stackers appears to be a simple snack of cheese, ham and crackers with a “juice drink,” it actually contains more than 61 ingredients. It's more like a science experiment resembling food—faux food, if you will. It may very well survive unscathed in a time capsule, so there are some long-term benefits of this reconstituted, chemically altered food product. You might as well eat a Twinkie, a veritable health food in comparison, with a mere 39 ingredients.

4:30 p.m. Noah’s hoping to take an accelerated art course next year, though, like everything else around here, the competition is intense. While the ninth grade campus was fairly empty (school had already let out), I got a glimpse of what it would be like to be in a school of 1050 ninth graders just by walking throught the cavernous cafeteria. Even without the critical masses, I felt overwhelmed. I sure hope the kids fare better in crowds than I do.

I had to wait for Noah’s “free sketch” (i.e., art test) for about a half hour, so I decided to take a walk around the area. Before crossing the street, a car pulled out from the high school driveway. This car, a small white sedan, would be unremarkable if not for the eyelashes on its headlights. I’d seen Rudolph antlers and bright red noses, but until today, I’d never seen a car with eyelashes. Seems somehow fitting for The Woodlands, where every magazine, newspaper and shopping center offers countless ways to improve, augment, or otherwise aesthetically enhance your exterior.


Apparently, Car Lashes® (already trademarked) is "THE leading supplier of female automotive aftermarket products." For $26.99, you, too, can give your car a feminine touch. Or, if you'd like a tad more sparkle, you can add a strip of "Diamond Crystal Eyeliner." But wait, that's not all! Take your car to the next level of bedazzlement by adhering Twinkles to your license plates, wheel rims or dashboard, then top it off with a Crystal License Plate Frame. Sunglasses highly recommended (to prevent blindness from an oncoming rhinestone-studded car).

Entry #58

Entry #58

 Tuesday, April 17

9:30 a.m. What is it about Texas that makes for the juiciest real-life stories? In this past Sunday’s New York Times, there was a feature about a forthcoming film, Bernie, about “a small town funeral director beloved by nearly everyone in Carthage, Texas, sweet-natured and gregarious, a lover of show tunes and Jesus—who ends up murdering an ornery wealthy widow...” No one would believe that this incredibly genteel, generous man could kill this widow, despite Bernie’s outright confession of shooting her four times in the back and stuffing her into a freezer, so the trial had to be moved “two miles south just to find a jury [who was] willing to convict him.”

The article is written by the real-life nephew of the widow, “my Aunt Marge, Mrs. Marjorie Nugent, my mother’s sister and, depending on whom you ask, the meanest woman in Texas.”

What’s really funny about this article is that even the author is dumbfounded by all the odd details of this Texas story that seem like stereotypes contrived by the movie makers, but are actually completely true:

“There are little things in ‘Bernie’ that aren’t exactly true, bits of dialogue, a changed name here and there. But the big things, the weirdest things, the things you’d assume would have to be made up, happened exactly as the movie says they did. The trial lawyers really did wear Stetsons and cowboy boots and really were named Danny Buck Davidson and Scrappy Holmes. Daddy Sam’s barbecue and bail bonds, just a few blocs from the courthhouse in Carthage really does have a sign that says, ‘You Kill It, I’ll Cook It!’ And they really did find my Aunt Marge on top of the flounder and under the Marie Callender’s chicken potpies, wrapped in a Lands’ End sheet. They had to wait two days to do the autopsy. it took her that long to thaw.”

Ironically, the author was living in California when his Aunt Marge was murdered. Seems Texans are drawn more to Southern California than Northern, but still...there’s the Texas-California thing going once again.

“I was living in Los Angeles when Aunt Marge was murdered in 1996 and hadn’t been to Carthage, where I was born, in quite a few years. I went back for the trial in 1998, because, let’s face it, it’s not often that someone in your family becomes the focus on a sensational murder case...And there was someting about Aunt Marge’s ending up in a freezer that seemed appropriate. She’s always been kind of coldhearted. It was not an unfitting end.”

Another Texas resident with the surname Nugent, namely Ted, has also been making headlines. Unlike Aunt Marge, however, Ted Nugent is very much alive and hot under the collar, making such “provocative comments” at last week’s NRA convention that he is now under surveillance by the Secret Service:

“Ted Nugent...doubled down on his recent political provocation, telling the Dana Loesch radio show that the Obama administration is full of ‘corrupt monsters’ and ‘communist czars’ and that House minority leader Nancy Pelosi is a ‘varmint’ and ‘subhuman scoundrel.’...Mr. Nugent did not take back the assertion he made at last weekend’s National Rifle Association convention that if President Obama is reelected, ‘I will either be dead or in jail by this time next year.’ The Secret Service has already confirmed that it will be visiting the aging shock rocker to determine if that phrase is an actual threat.” —Christian Science Monitor

When Rick Perry was running in the Republican presidental race, Ted Nugent was among his endorsers. Nugent is now a vocal endorser of Romney, earning this headline by the Christian Science Monitor: “Ted Nugent: Worst political endorser ever?”

Wednesday, April 18

10:30 a.m. The mosquitoes have been out in droves of late, which is why David suggested we wear sweatshirts last night when we took Izzie for an evening stroll. Little did I realize it was still about 80 degrees and humid, so we looked pretty ridiculous.

We ran into some neighbors who were also walking their dogs, two Miniature Doberman Pinschers. The husband, a financial consultant who works from home, was wearing his usual pressed long-sleeved dress shirt, khaki shorts and boat shoes. His wife was wearing a breezy, short-sleeved Tommy Bahamas-style dress. “Looks like you’re dressed to be back in San Francisco,” said the husband. “Well, we didn’t want to get bitten up by mosquitoes,” I said, realizing I sounded like the sort of person who goes to the beach covered from head to toe in gauzy SPF garments and clownish zinc oxide. I pushed up my sleeves, only to have a mosquito land on my forearm. “You see what I mean?” I said, slapping myself.

This couple looked at us like we were dressed for the Arctic, gave us a pained grin, then said, “Okay, then. Have a good night,” and walked away. I said goodnight, took off my jacket, then slapped off another mosquito.

Thursday, April 18

7:00 p.m. Aidan had his first 7x7 (i.e., touch football) practice today. We didn’t have time to go home before practice, so Aidan looked rather out of place in his long, dark jeans amid a sea of shorts-clad kids. Still, he seemed to be doing really well, catching the ball, running in all sorts of plays. When he was told to go really far out, I was impressed at how fast he ran, only one of his shoes fell off Cinderella-style, and he missed the catch. “I fell into about a million invisible prickers,” he later said.

After sitting directly on the grass, I ended up with a rump full of prickers, not knowing that the seemingly lush, grassy field was more like a carpet of cacti. Plus, I was wearing yoga capris, which seemed to beckon them. 

A woman sitting on a portable folding chair there apparently saw me trying to sit on my purse and offered me her zippered chair case—a welcome relief. Next time I’ll definitely bring something to sit on.

There are signs posted all around that say “Positively No Pets.” I've never seen a no-pets sign phrased quite that way—seems very Texan: polite yet resolute. 

Friday, April 19

10:00 a.m. After school yesterday, we overheard an old man talking to a much younger one just outside Starbuck's café. “I’ve learned that finances are finances and God is God,” he said. I didn’t hear the rest of the conversation, but I could easily imagine it.

While checking out at the grocery store, the cashier asked me, “So whatcha makin’ for dinner?” I said I was probably going to make “vegetarian Mexican lasagna.” “Sounds pretty strange,” he said. “It’s pretty good actually," I said, then explained “My older son is a vegetarian.” “What exactly IS a vegetarian?” interjected the bagger. “Does that just mean he doesn’t eat meat?”

The man in line behind me had a pile of Swanson’s pot pies and TV dinners. As I was leaving, I heard the cashier say, “So you like frozen dinners, huh?” The man purchasing them responded, “Yup. This way I don’t have to cook.”

You can learn a lot about people by seeing their groceries. Cashiers rarely comment on them, though. Seems it's an unspoken code of cashier conduct. It would be funny to plant an “Inappropriate Grocery Clerk” character at the HEB and see how people react—something akin to Kristin Wiig’s Target Lady. “Your old deodorant failed ya, huh?” “Why Super Plus?” "You actually eat that?" At least my cashier was socially appropriate.

Sunday, April 22

12: 45 p.m. Just when I think I have nothing more to write about, I attend an event with the former President George Bush Sr. and Barbara Bush—Houston’s local heroes. Okay, I wasn’t with them per se, but I was in attendance with them, specifically at Neil Berg’s 100 Years of Broadway. Mrs. Bush cast a striking presence with her shock of white hair and royal blue suit, while Mr. Bush was less visible seated in his wheelchair. 

The fact that a two-term president and his wife were in our midst was kind of surreal, mainly because the Bush family’s influence here is ubiquitous. Houston's Intercontinental Airport is named after George H. W. Bush; there’s even a full-size bronze statue of him inside.

There are Bush landmarks everywhere in Texas: the George Bush Presidential Library and Museum in College Station, George Bush High School in Richmond and the Barbara Bush Library in Harris County, just to name a few. The Bush family and their offspring are without a doubt the First Family of Texas.

I was struck by the fact that this elderly man in a wheelchair watching 100 Years of Broadway with us once held the most powerful position in America, if not the world. Seems he's taken a liking to brightly colored socks in his old age.

Our friend Adam Friedson is the producer 100 Years of Broadway, which has been successfully touring for eight years thus far—quite a feat. Neil Berg, the show’s creative force, is a multi-talented composer and pianist who interspersed entertaining stories, both personal and historical, throughout the performance.

The five singers are all bona fide professional Broadway performers, and their singing was incredible. Plus, they shared poignant stories about their lives off-stage, which always seems to draw in the audience. I'm a total sucker for stuff like that. 

Erick Buckley, one of the five performers that night, said that he used to sing 'Bring 'em Home' from Les Miserables to his infant son at bedtime, then ended up landing the part of Jean Valjean on Broadway. When his son turned ten, he appeared on Broadway with his dad, who sang him this very song. Buckley then sang 'Bring 'em Home' to us, which, of course, brought the house down (and made me cry).

While waiting for the kids near the VIP Green Room, I happened to be standing next to someone who was evidently someone, because when a woman with a coral-colored blazer exited the elevator, she greeted the woman next to me, then extended her hand and introduced herself to me. Little did I know she was the CEO/President of the Houston Society of Performing Arts (SPA). I discovered this when I opened up the SPA Magazine and saw a photo of her, along with a “Thank You” from her to the audience, then saw her walk onstage to introduce the event.

We had great seats, though I must say I’m quite thankful we weren’t right in front. A couple sitting in the front row was treated to a love song by one of the actors, a leonine man who starred as the beast in Broadway's Beauty and the Beast, among other roles. “Because my wife isn't here,” he sang to a woman in the front row, kneeling so close that I’m sure the poor woman could smell his breath, and was probably pelted with spittle as he projected to the audience. Noah was cringing during this song. The object of the actor's faux affections sat stone-still while her husband smiled broadly and clapped.

After the performance, our friend Adam took us to meet some of the performers, who were out in front signing autographs and CDs. “I’ve never seen a line like this,” said Adam. Rather than waiting in line, we walked over to meet Roger Cohen, the show's drummer. Aidan had a chance to chat directly with Mr. Cohen, who told him, “Wear earplugs. You can break your arm and fix it, but you can’t fix your ears.” On the way back to the car, Aidan was walking tall. First thing this morning, he was playing the drums. Good thing it’s an electric kit, or he’d have awoken the entire neighborhood.

Entry #57

Entry #57

Sunday, April 15

9:30 a.m. I just saw the biggest cockroach I’ve ever seen in my life. It was so big, I actually directed it back outside—no capturing necessary. Seems I could’ve trained this thing, or lassoed it and taken it for a stroll. Odd how bugs of this size take on the look of prehistoric creatures.

“I don’t like Texas bugs,” muttered Noah, who tried to pick up what he thought was a dead cockroach the other day with a piece of toilet paper, only to have it scurry across the room. I ended up finding this creature, a far smaller version of the one I encountered this morning, on its back, a pretty clear indication that this time around, it was actually deceased and ready for pick-up.

It’s April 15 today, a date traditionally associated with taxes. This makes me wonder: if Tax Day falls on a Sunday, does this mean that accountants have one extra day to file? According to Wikipedia, “when April 15 falls on a weekend, Emancipation day, or any other holiday, tax returns are instead due on the the following business day.” This year, they’re due on Tuesday. I imagine that accountants are thanking their lucky stars for the two extra work days. Seems every minute counts when you’re busy crunching numbers.

4:30 p.m. We just returned from Houston, where the kids went to their final art class and I had the opportunity to see “Come Fly Away,” a Twyla Tharp-choreographed dance performance set to Frank Sinatra music. Not only did I gain a greater appreciation for The Chairman of the Board (a.k.a. Ol’ Blue Eyes), we were also treated to some truly spectacular live music and dancing. The ensemble danced for 80 minutes straight without a break. I kept wondering, “How do they remember all the routines?” I can’t remember the most basic driving directions without getting lost, let alone a dance sequence. I was completely in awe of these beautiful, effortless dancers.

On the way home we passed a truck that said, “A flush beats a full house.” It was an advertisement for Christopher’s Plumbing.

Monday, April 16

11:00 a.m. I just returned from meeting a friend for coffee, a lovely Scottish woman who’s the mom of a friend of Aidan’s from school. She shared her adventure to The Doll Hospital in Old Town Spring, which struck me as both hilarious and spooky, mainly because the shop’s owner (a.k.a., “the doll doctor”) seems to regard her dolls/patients as living, breathing creatures.

My friend and her mother were visiting this shop, not for a repair, but to purchase a doll for her daughter as a special present. After making their purchase (which they immediately felt obligated to do after being “introduced” to various dolls on a first-name basis), the doll was wrapped for giving, though the face was left uncovered “so she could breathe.” My friend’s mother was instructed to cradle the doll like a real baby, and did so until they left.

While I have yet to visit the The Doll Hospital, I did check out their web site. I even listened to a couple of videos, complete with chilling introductory background music and a virtual tour by the orange-haired owner/doll doctor.

“’Peer through the dim lights, past the gaudy stacks of feathers and pearls, diamonds and ribbons, and one thing is very clear: This is one weird operating room. Ann Pizzolato, owner of The Doll Hospital, repairs a doll at her shop in Spring, Texas. It’s almost indecent, really. The patients—balding, dirty and glassy-eyed—sprawl naked in plastic tubs. ‘Sorry honey,’ the doctor mutters, inspecting her pliers. ‘Didn’t mean to whap your legs. Who wants to be next?’ She operates without anesthesia, alone in a chilly ward in a converted Texas cottage in the Houston suburb. But her patients don’t complain...They emerge from the recovery room starched in spanking new finery, coiffed and painted and ready to be adored.” —Associated Press

The thought of visiting a place like this strikes me as something from The Twilight Zone, reminiscent of the episode where the mannequins come alive on Floor 13 of a department store. I could never look at my mom’s porcelain dolls in fear of them blinking in my general direction, let alone an entire store of them.

Truth be told, I was always more drawn toward stuffed animals than dolls as a kid, though I remember a few that captured my interest. In second grade, I received a doll called Baby Grow-A-Tooth in a school holiday exchange. Shortly after receiving her, however, my older sister shoved a Good n’ Plenty in her mouth, which somehow caused the doll’s head to fall off. I couldn’t get the doll’s head to stay on, which led us conclude that eating candy is not only bad for your teeth, it’s also bad for doll’s heads.

My younger sister had a doll whose pony tail could grow if you pressed her belly button (seems “growing” was a dominant theme of dolls from the 1970s—female dolls, that is—I don’t imagine male dolls with growing body parts were sold at the local toy store). We thought pressing a belly button to make a doll’s hair grow was fascinating, that is, until my sister pressed it once too much, or pulled it too hard, and her pony tail would no longer retreat into her head. Instead, she now had a large bald spot—a hole even—which rendered her more frightening than fun.

Somehow I don’t think I’ll be visiting the Doll Hospital anytime soon, though it might be entertaining. I wouldn’t want to go alone, though, especially at night.