Entry #72

May 1, 2103

Our Texas Send-Off

Do you remember the famous (and hair-raising) line from the movie Amityville Horror, “Geeeet ooouuut. GET OOOOUUUT!”?  Well, it seems this is the message we’re getting as we prepare to leave the Lone Star State.

While the home we’re renting is far from old and haunted (it was built maybe 15 years ago), it seems to be imploding like a house of cards. The fact that much of it is made of compressed paper makes this metaphor all too apt.

Our neighbors next door are actually moving to a new (or newer) home for this very reason. “The house is already 11 years old and I’ve already replaced two water heaters,” said my neighbor. “I don’t want to deal with the upkeep with a home this old,” she said.

In the last week, our dishwasher broke, causing a major flood, ruining much of the floor and baseboards. Then pool heater broke, followed by the downstairs air conditioner. As a result, the water outside is too cold and the air inside is too hot. Rather ironic.

Some folks came by to see if the pool heater could be salvaged. “It was pretty darn old,” assessed the pool guy, "In 1998, it was the top-of-the-line model. Now, it's just too rusted out."

The landlord put in a new dishwasher a few months back, and apparently this Kenmore model, while well-reviewed, has only a slim plastic cord keeping the motor attached. Between the alternating heat and cold of the washing process, these dishwashers seem to be discombobulating after three months. When the motor flops off, a flash flood breaks loose. Why Sears hasn’t recalled this model remains a mystery.

I was talking to my sister Wendy on the phone when I noticed a pool of water coming from the base of the dishwasher. I quickly dried it off with some towels, but the wood floor seemed to be swelling. By morning, it had buckled like a church steeple. We discovered that the wood floors were not really solid wood, but “engineered” wood and plyboard, glued to the foundation. No nails whatsoever.

Holes were drilled into the baseboards (made not of wood but of compressed cardboard), and connected with massive green fans that make our house sound like a helicopter landing pad. We’re not allowed to turn them off for at least three days straight, including nights. I now understand how people go completely bonkers from auditory overstimulation. It’s like white noise, only blaring. These contraptions could suck water from a rock if they needed to—they’re that powerful.

The silver lining in all this is that we’re just renting.

The Whole Hog

While we’ve driven past Corkscrew BBQ many times, we’ve never actually patronized it until last weekend following Aidan’s first 7-on-7 (i.e., touch football) game. It’s not much more than a trailer connected to a metal awning with some picnic tables scattered beneath, but it does draw the crowds. Specialties include pulled pork, beef brisket, ribs, and combos like brisket tacos and pulled pork piled into a massive baked potato. I took a photo of the menu, which includes an entrée called the “Bob-bert,” which made me think of my dad, Bob (a.k.a., Robert), who definitely enjoys a good barbecued brisket.

Noah didn’t want to even venture outside while we waited for food, since being around so many meaty bits makes him queasy. He was happy that a single vegetarian option was offered—an immense baked potato fattened up with plenty of butter, cheese and the like. Not the healthiest option, but at least it was unfettered by piles o’ pork. Aidan’s potato had the whole hog, and then some. Izzie enjoyed the bounty of leftovers.

Grocery Store, Texas-Style

I haven’t taken photos of unusual grocery store findings in awhile, but when I happened upon Smokin’ Hot Mama sauce, I thought it was due time. As I made my way toward check-out, I passed a Texas-shaped hamburger press and jalapeño stand, as well as rhinestone-encrusted water bottles, scarves and hats. If you look hard enough, you can find just about anything with rhinestones.

Coming Home

There are two places I call home—one is Cleveland, where I grew up, and the other is San Francisco, where I lived (for the mostpart) since my early 20s. While we’re looking forward to being with friends and relatives once again, returning to the Bay Area is proving far more challenging than leaving it, at least financially speaking. The housing market, always referred to as “surreal-estate,” is now zanier than ever, with homes going 20-30% beyond already absurd asking prices. Seems we sold when it was a buyers’ market and will try to buy when it’s a sellers’ market. Timing is everything.

I’ve been pouring over Craigslist for potential rentals on a daily basis, only to encounter college flop pads for $4500/month, and even a house in the Marina area of San Francisco asking $45,000—yes, nearly $50,000 for just one month. Many typical rentals are now about $6000/month there or more. It’s hard to wrap my mind around this after living in Texas, where you can buy a large (albeit mass-constructed) home for $350,000.

Hopefully we’ll find something. David suggested living in my parents’ RV for awhile. I told Noah this and said, “Well, you’ll get to sleep at the table (that converts to a bed), while Aidan can sleep on the couch, or maybe the built-in rocking chair." Seems we’re definitely working backwards from our spacious abode on Queens Road. But at least we're heading home.

Entry #71

Entry #71

 Monday, May 21

11:00 a.m. Some people have no idea how loudly they’re speaking, nor do they contemplate the fact that others will hear them, especially in an enclosed area. Today I overheard a woman yelling into her cell phone, “Yes, we managed to get those security tags off. Finally! I told the lady that I didn’t steal them. If I was going to steal something, it sure wouldn’t be a $5 dress!”

5:00 p.m. After school today, we met up with Sam and his mom for ice cream to celebrate the completion of his comic book. Before leaving, Sam’s mom said, “You really need to see the movie Bernie. It’s got all that stereotypical Texas stuff in it...You'd love the accents!” She told me that she knows someone who’s in the movie, the mother of a sorority sister. “I saw the name Kay Baby and thought there couldn’t be too many people by that name.”

Turns out this woman was a hair stylist, and her claim to fame was cutting Elvis’ hair (as well as the hair of his band members). Sam’s mom is apparently a big Elvis fan, and was lucky enough to receive some photos from Mrs. Baby (now Baby Epperson). The filmmakers welcomed locals to audition for the movie, a mock documentary, and Kay Baby was among those selected. I can certainly see why.

Tuesday, May 22

1:00 p.m. An email from Etsy just popped into my inbox with the subject line, “Faux Real.” I did a double take. How did Etsy know about Faux Real (in Texas)? Turns out they don't. They're simply featuring an assortment of faux real items, all listed beneath the header, “Say It Ain’t Faux!” Offerings include faux diamonds, leather, wood, guns and food (both made of soap), rocks, and even faux taxidermy, including “a mighty grizzly bear’s behind!”

8:30 p.m. The long-awaited school play was this evening, and while the practices were extensive, to say the least, the play itself was surprisingly fun. It went by in a blink—it was only 45 minutes long—but was chock-filled with colorful costumes, scenery, and kids of all ages. Aidan made the most of his one-liner and hammed it up in some pre-show photos. 

After the play, the kids changed out of their costumes and gathered outside for a spontaneous game of kickball. “It’s great that the kids all play together,” said a mom standing next to me. It’s true—little kids and big kids all lined up to take turns kicking the ball. That's one advantage of attending a school small enough that everyone interacts—preschoolers with high schoolers, and everyone in-between.

Wednesday, May 22

11:00 a.m. After walking Izzie twice around the reserve today, letting her swim in the pond, then romp with dogs along the way, she was completely encrusted with wet, grayish sand. I planned to take her home and shower her off, but got waylaid by my friend, René, who convinced me last-minute to follow her to Rudy’s Peach Orchard. 

“Have you ever heard of Rudy’s Peaches? It’s been there forever, but it’s closing!" said René. "Today’s the last day Rudy’s selling peaches, starting at ten o’clock.” I told her I really had to wash Izzie. “But it’s a piece of history. You’ve gotta go!” said René. So I went. And I’m sure glad I did, dirty dog and all.

We arrived before ten, and there was already a long line, mostly of seniors who I imagine were longtime customers. Rudy kept going out back to pick another dozen peaches. He came out drenched with sweat. “I’ve done this for 22 years and it’s enough,” he said when I asked him why he was closing.

Rudy and his wife weren’t looking all that chipper. Seems they’re just plumb-tuckered. But they grow some wonderfully fragrant peaches. Delicious cucumbers and “tomato,” too. I’m told we can come back and go blackberry picking there, so that might be fun.

The closing of Rudy’s Peach Orchard marks the end of an era in The Woodlands. I think it’s the last family-owned farm left in the area. I’m going to savor my prized box of peaches. “One box per customer,” said Rudy’s wife firmly. She was a no-nonsense kinda gal who seemed miffed that she was working the register altogether. By the time we left, there was a long line of people, all hoping there were enough peaches to go around. Seems we got there just in time.

2:00 p.m. I just went downstairs because I heard an odd banging sound and couldn’t figure out what it was. Turns out a young bird got inside as well as a butterfly (I’d left the door ajar for Izzie, who likes to go in and out a lot). The poor bird kept banging against the window, trying to get out. I went to get something to see if I could catch the bird and release it, but figured I’d free the butterfly first. I cupped my hands around the butterfly and it held perfectly still. Upon opening my hands, it flew away.

When I got back inside, the bird was gone, too. Maybe the bird followed me out. Or maybe it's still somewhere in the house. I’ll find out soon enough.

4:30 p.m. Turns out the bird was still inside the house. I found out right as I was backing out of the driveway. Noah opened the front door and yelled, “Mom! The bird’s in my room!” “Close the door,” I said, as I got out of the car and ran upstairs.

I brought up a badminton racket and a kids’ butterfly net and found the bird fluttering in-between the blinds. It went to hide in the corner behind Noah’s desk, where I managed to catch it—with the aid of Aidan’s handy toys. When I lifted up the racket outside, the bird flew away into the trees. “I’m so glad you rescued the bird, Mom,” said Aidan.

Thursday, May 24

10:30 a.m. This is the kids’ last full day of school, and it’s literally ending with a "splash!" There’s a public pool near the school, complete with a giant swan in the ankle-deep wading area. (Perhaps a sign, "No Swan Dives" might be a good idea.)

Noah, however, seemed reluctant about Splash Day this morning. First he couldn’t find his swimsuit, then he happened to forget it. He thinks his above-the-knee swim trunks are too short, since most of his shorts come down below the knees. Maybe I should show him some photos of men in teeny Speedos so he can see what truly short bathing suits look like.

On the way to school we listened to a book on tape, one of the Rick Riordan series, which involves a variety of Greek and Roman gods. The narrator was reading the part of Ares with a low, Southern accent. “It figures that the God of War would be a Texan,” muttered Aidan.

Saturday, May 26

2:30 p.m. Aidan's first foray into playing Texas football (touch, not tackle) has been sorely lacking until today, specifically the last quarter of the last game. In previous games, the kids would simply pass to their close buddies, but today Aidan finally got his chance. Not only did he catch a pass, he also scored an amazing touchdown. I cheered like a lunatic. There's a lot to be said about ending on a good note, and a touchdown in the final minutes of the final game was a veritable symphony.

Noah was watching the game from the shaded periphery, along with other parents who were trying (in vain) to stay cool. We overheard a man and woman chatting about food and sports, and they encapsulated Texas in a nutshell:

Food (man to woman): "I was raised in a household where if it wasn't fried, it wasn't worth eating."

Sports (woman to man): "You can't be a two-sport person anymore. You have to decide when your kid's a toddler what he's gonna do. If you don't have experience by seventh grade, it's too late."

Weather: My cousin, Micki, drove in from Dallas today to visit us for the weekend. The last time we saw her she couldn't believe how humid it was here. "While I was sitting in the sauna with my friend last week, I told her, 'This is how hot Houston is.'" 

Monday, May 28
Memorial Day

In just two days (May 30), Aidan will be 12. He’s no longer the comfortable chin rest he was just a year ago. With shoes on, he is nearly as tall as I am. Pretty soon I’ll be the shortest person in the house, which is bizarre considering I’m 5’7”. Where'd my two little boys go? Time has flown.

Seems this past year hasn’t so much whizzed by as meandered, but the kids made it through, and are excited that the summer’s nearly here. In less than two weeks, Noah will be leaving for San Francisco, his first solo trip away from family, to attend the graduation ceremony of eighth graders at Prospect Sierra School, the school he attended from kindergarten until just last year. He’ll be staying with friends and can’t wait to be back “home.”

Aidan, Izzie and I will be arriving the following week, and David will be coming shortly thereafter. Between our journeys to California, Ohio and D.C., we’ll be gone for a whopping eight weeks. We’ll return just in time to catch the tail end of the sizzling Texas summer and prepare for school.

Noah will be entering high school this fall, and I’m just flummoxed by this. I still think about the day I stood outside his kindergarten classroom talking with parents of fellow kindergartners about high school and how far away that seemed. “It’ll be here before you know it,” said one parent. And so it is.

In the words of Dale Evans Rogers, “Happy trails to you...” I’ll look forward to sharing more adventures in the Faux Real heartland of Texas when we meet again.

Entry #70

Entry #70

Saturday, May 19

1:00 p.m. Today’s the big Ironman competition in The Woodlands, a 2.4 mile swim, 112 mile bike ride and 26.2 mile run. It's hard to fathom someone completing a single part of this ultramarathon, let alone all three over the span of one day (or, in the case of winner Jordan Rapp, a mere eight hours, ten minutes, and 43 seconds).

I was presented with a different sort of challenge today—finding my way home. I’m glad I know The Woodlands a bit better than when I first arrived here or I would’ve just given up, since the main streets were all blocked off. After driving in circles, I finally asked a policeman who was directing traffic how I could get to Flintridge, the street that leads to our neighborhood. “Just turn right,” he said. “But there’s a no-turn sign here,” I noted. “Just turn right,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’m going to remember you said that,” I remarked, noticing two more cops looking my way as I made an illegal right turn.

4:00 p.m. We needed to pick up some groceries, but didn't want to get back in the car, so David and I decided to walk to the nearby HEB. There's a PetCo along the way, so we stopped in to get Izzie some water. While we were there, a clerk offered Izzie a cookie. She gave her something that looked like a chocolate chip waffle. The clerk then asked if Izzie could have another as she reached into the vanilla creme Oreo bin. I politely declined.

When the folks at PetCo offer to give my dog a cookie, it's really a cookie (as opposed to a dog biscuit or liver treat). Izzie loves going to PetCo.

Since I'm more familiar with our local grocery store than David is, I offered to do a quick shopper while he waited in the shade with Izzie. David wanted to grill a flank steak, so I went to the butcher and said something like, “I’m a vegetarian, so I have no idea what to get. Can I have a flank steak please?” The butcher responded, “A vegetarian?” as though saying, “So what the hell are you doing living in Texas?” 

To my surprise, he told me, “My daughter’s a vegetarian. We thought something was wrong with her when she was a baby. She kept spitting out meat, so we took her to a doctor. We were worried she wasn’t getting enough iron.” He went on to explain that she’s just never liked meat, "but my two boys sure do!"

How ironic is it that a butcher’s child would be a vegetarian? Then again, my dad is a major carnivore, and here I am. Still, he didn’t spend his days chopping up cows, lambs and pigs, only to come home to a daughter who preferred vegetables.

Sunday, May 20

11: 30 a.m. While reading the news on my Google home page, I happened upon an image of a “micro piglet,” from England’s Pennywell Farm, where they’re bred to be extra small (8 oz. at birth) and extra-friendly. They grow to be about the size of a Springer Spaniel and are supposed to be very smart. “Can we get one?” asked Noah.

“If I wasn’t here,” said David, “You’d be in the poor house with all kinds of animals wandering around the house.” He’s right, too. We’d probably have at least two dogs, several cats, rabbits, and Lord knows what else. Good thing David’s around to keep us in line.

7:00 p.m. We finally went blueberry picking today at Moorhead Farms, about a half hour away. The kids did a beeline for the “shave ice” stand, which beckoned them in the sweltering heat. Seems “tiger’s blood” is the most popular flavor these days, a combination of cherry and berries—dark red and sickly sweet. "That's the flavor that always runs out first," said the woman helping us. All I can think of with regards to tiger's blood is its infamous association with Charlie Sheen. The kids loved it though.

Just outside the blueberry picking area, a woman and her daughter were selling canned jams, pickles and pie filling. “My daughter grows it all, and I can it,” said the mom. We promised to patronize her outdoor stand on our way out. (Her dill pickles were so good, they were gone before we got home.)

After picking ten pounds of blueberries among the four of us, I gained a newfound appreciation of how long it takes to fill up just one bucket of blueberries. The kids aren’t big fans of blueberries from the grocery store, but they really enjoyed them freshly picked. I think it’s a texture thing. Mushy blueberries aren’t all that enticing.

Izzie enjoyed romping around the 20-acre blueberry farm, especially after we hosed her down with cold water. Still, she was happiest when she discovered the bathroom’s cement floor and later, the cool fans at the checkout area. I’ve never seen her tongue hang down so far. The hotter she is, the longer her tongue seems to get. I’d say she’d definitely reached her maximum overhang at the blueberry farm. The temperature gauge read 94 degrees.

On the way home, we passed a roadside stand with the advertisement, “Knives and Sunglasses, $3 each!” They also sold giant beach towels illustrated with fierce-looking pit bulls. After all, what more do you need for the beach than some sunglasses, a knife and a guard dog towel? 

Down the road we passed a billboard that read, “Fresh fingers cooked just for you!” It was an advertisement for chicken strips, but didn't bother to mention the word "chicken." The thought of eating "fresh fingers" just doesn't sit well with me. Then again, I still recollect the infamous "Wendy's Chili" incident and don't really care whether or not the found-finger was an urban legend. 

Upon coming home, I froze several bags o’ blueberries, then baked a lemon custard pie (per David’s request) with blueberries on top. Seems I didn’t quite cook the custard long enough, or didn’t let it cool sufficiently, because the “slices” were more like pudding troughs. By the look of the scraped-clean plates, no one seemed to mind all that much.

While my normal inclination would be to deliver some freshly picked fruit to neighbors and friends, I just don't know anyone well enough around here to ring the doorbell and say, "Hi! I brought you some blueberries!" It's too bad, because sharing the wealth seems like an integral part of the fruit-picking adventure.

So, if you’d like to come over and have some blueberries, feel free. We have plenty to go around.

Entry #69

Entry #69

Monday, May 14

8:00 p.m. I took Izzie for a walk this morning along the waterway, just for a change of scenery. On the way, we happened upon an area with several fountains, some of which light up and “dance.” Izzie approached the ground-level fountains to get a quick drink, which were erupting and retreating at varying rates. Izzie kept sticking her nose in a fountain hole, only to have a spray of water shoot up and squirt her in the face. She was initially scared, then seemed to learn which hole wasn’t squirting. This would've made a great video. 

Noah was home sick from school today, and Izzie nurtured Noah by resting beside him. “Why is Izzie making weird chewing sounds?” asked Noah from across the hall. I figured that she was probably drinking water in her sleep like she sometimes does.

Later that afternoon, Noah hollered to me from across the hall, “Mom! I found out what it was!” Turns out Aidan had seen this odd chewing action going on, too, so he opened up her mouth to find a tiny gray Playmobil cat stuck behind her front teeth. 

Aidan couldn’t get it out, so Noah gave it a try and managed to extract the wee kitty from between Izzie’s teeth. Seems instead of getting her tongue, “the cat got her teeth.” This indeed proves that cat food is bad for dogs.

Friday, May 17

10:00 a.m. On Wednesday evening, just before dinner, Noah went for a quick longboard ride around the block and returned with a scraped up elbow. Scrapes and bruises are an everyday occurrence around here, so I wasn't all that fazed until Noah told me he’d wiped out and might’ve broken his arm. Since Noah could still bend his arm (and nothing was protruding from odd angles), we figured we'd just ice the area and get an X-ray the next morning when the offices reopened.


Izzie came to the rescue by licking the entirety of Noah’s scrapes, gently stepped over him, licked his face and chin, then lay next to him. Very Nana-like.

I’m in a haze from yesterday, not so much because it was stressful, but moreso because it was insanely boring. Waiting was the theme of the day: waiting for appointments, waiting in the waiting room, waiting to be seen, waiting for X-ray results...Noah and I are both wasted today with what I can only describe as a "waiting hangover." We literally waited for one person or another from 8 a.m. until 4:00 p.m.

I’ve been remiss in finding the kids a pediatrician, partly because we haven’t needed one, and partly because the kids already have appointments for their annual appointments this summer back in Berkeley. Besides, our next-door-neighbor is a pediatrician, as is a neighbor down the street, so we have two emergency back-ups.

In order to get an X-ray, Noah needed a pediatrician’s order. I found out about a pediatrician located just across the hall from an X-ray office, so we walked in first thing after dropping off Aidan, only we couldn’t be seen for another two hours. The receptionist looked at Noah, then looked at me as though I was in the wrong place. “He’s only 14,” I told her. She smiled and said, “Oh. I thought he was much older!” Despite the fact that Noah is within the normal age range to see a pediatrician, his 6'2" frame did look out of place among the infants and toddlers in the waiting room.


I filled out forms with a new gizmo called a Phreesia. It looks like a cross between an iPad and a Romper Room toy in bright orange plastic.

When it was finally our turn to be seen, we were placed in “The Sports Room.” Apparently each room in this doctor’s office has a theme. Photographs of kids playing tackle football, participating in triathlons, shooting rifles and dancing were clipped along a clothesline-style display.

We were sent, as I predicted, to the office across the hall for an X-ray. So we walked across the hall and waited. After the X-rays were taken, we returned to the pediatrican’s office and waited some more. “I don’t think it’s broken," said the doctor, "But it could be dislocated and it might need a splint. We’re making you an orthopedic appointment now.” We waited for awhile to find out about our next appointment, but since we didn’t hear anything, I thought we’d better just go. Had there been any decent magazines, I might be inclined to wait a little while longer...

Turns out our orthopedic appointment wasn’t until 1:10, so I was relieved we’d gone home. The orthopedist’s office was at least somewhat interesting, with sports paraphernalia from former clients. I got a kick out of a signed photo from a rodeo dude with the message, "Thanks for your help." I imagine that a guy who gets thrown off angry bulls for a living would need all the help he could get.

The doctor, who looked a bit like a middle-eastern George Clooney, only less charming, told us that Noah definitely bruised the bone, that “there was blood inside” (the most dramatic news du jour), but that all Noah could do was wear a sling and try to bend his arm every hour.

So, after going to three places over the course of seven hours and being charged who knows how much, Noah came out with a $5 sling and advice to stretch his arm.

12:00 noon: I met up with Sam this morning to to see his completed comic book. He presented me with my very own color copy, a thank you note, and a gift card for Godiva chocolate, too. All most unexpected surprises.

What I found most ironic—and also very sweet—was the acknowledgements page: “This comic would not have been capable without the help from Mrs. Gabriel who saw it through and helped tremendously by showing her perspectives...” In all honesty, I didn't really do much more than listen. Sharing my perspective on the concept of original sin (the main theme of this student's comic book) would not have been the best idea.

There’s a page in the final draft that reads, “We refer to ourselves as the ‘Unblessed.’” “Why?” “Let’s just say, back in the day, God didn’t really like a certain group of people...So when Jesus died on the cross to teach those few people he was almighty, he did not forgive their sins...We are their descendants.” After my initial shock about the "Unblessed," I decided it was best to simply sit back, inhale deeply, and let Sam tell his story.


Still, it's a far cry from the comic books of my youth...