Connections

I just e-mailed our regional WSA chairperson and offered to host an event in our state for WS families. Washington is just too far for us to travel for our region's annual family picnic, so this year I felt inspired (a complete surprise to me) and decided to do something about it.

Anybody interested?

As far as I know, Erik is the only child in town these days with WS. Hmmm. What if I threw a party and nobody came?

Ah, heck. You never know until you try. We'll see what happens. I'll just make some two-sided banners. If nobody shows up, I'll flip them over and instantly change the party's theme.

Spontaneous seems to be my middle name these days.

Party Cleanup

"Don't forget to laugh!"

-- Sue Vest (Mother of Jeremy of HYN)

So the most amazing thing happened.

I woke up in so much pain I wanted to chop my throbbing noggin off, but my headache completely subsided after its brutal reign of three and a half days. I was suddenly able to clean the house and cook some appetizers for the "How's Your News" party. After I was done, I slipped on my brand new blue and yellow HYN football jersey, which somehow made it all the way from the bowels of MTV in New York to my mailbox in just three days. I primped myself until I looked fairly lifelike, and most of the people I invited showed up at our door right on cue. We sipped bubbly champagne, feasted on delicious food, and gathered around the television to watch last week's season premiere of "How's Your News." I was quite pleased to be surrounded by friends, family members, a member of my moms' group, and Erik's therapist from early intervention who is now a permanent part of our family.

And the show? I loved every second of it.

I tend to analyze everything to death, but I was instantly entranced. I didn't analyze the content or the format while I watched it at all. I immediately fell head over heels in love with the HYN interviewers. I didn't think about Williams syndrome, Down syndrome, or any neurogenetic condition. I didn't even focus on the wonderful, rare opportunity I had to gaze into the strangely familiar faces of strangers marked with the elfin features I have learned to recognize as I have studied my son's syndrome over the years. I simply found myself immediately comfortable, and I laughed loudly along with the others in the room without a second thought. It was soon clear that the show seemed a heck of a lot less focused on disabilities and more on the experience of being human. About watching for the potential bizarreness that occurs when two very different people happen to collide and communicate. I did end up hungry for more sound from the HYN band and hope to see more music in the next few episodes. Jeremy's enthusiasm sparked by meeting the drummers from various bands and the unexpected gift of a guitar that Brendan, another young man with WS, received from pro skater Ryan Sheckler left me feeling very warm and fuzzy indeed. And that Susan! Well, she's just frickin' FUNNY. I loved them all.

After the show, it was suggested that I play the 60 Minutes video titled "A Very Different Brain" about Williams syndrome, so I popped it into the DVD player. I was anxious to see it again, knowing we would recognize some of the people we met at the convention. We all had a great discussion about WS, "How's Your News," disabilities, our culture, and how far our family has come. We pointed out people we had met or read about. We laughed a lot. Some of us even cried a little.

I remember feeling confused and a little sick to my stomach when I heard the term "Williams pride" for the first time at the convention last summer. I wondered if anything so damned devastating could ever spark a sense of happiness or pride in me. Sure, it sounded good, but I was skeptical. Packing for the convention felt a little like preparing for a funeral in a sense to me. It meant I had to accept something I didn't want to and officially let go of the old hopes and dreams I had forever. Attending the seminars on WS meant shedding the soft scraps of denial I clung to for comfort. In reality, it scared the hell out of me. However, as the convention progressed, I was transformed by the entire experience. Walking through the front door of the hotel for the first time and watching the young people with WS lovingly envelop my son in their arms brought tears to my eyes. It was the most amazing, unexpected sight to see. He held each of their hands and laughed along with them, like they shared some sort of secret joke and had known each other forever. As time went on, I took a really good look at the people around me and realized we were indeed celebrating WS. In a big way. There were T-shirts for sale to prove it. I witnessed gallons of grief-heavy tears shed around me by parents a lot like me over a few days, but when they dried, there were a lot of grins. In the end, I came back a different person. My own tears finally ceased, and I came home wearing a smile.

Today was a real celebration for me. I didn't realize it, but it ended up being another milestone. I was really excited and proud to be the mother of someone who just happens to have Williams syndrome, a devastating but amazing genetic twist of fate that has brought so many wonderful people into my life and reinforced the relationships with the people who were a part of my life before the diagnosis. These are the people who sit on my couch and drink champagne with me, helping me celebrate the beauty in something that racked my whole soul with grief three years ago. These are also the people who are always with me, even if they are miles away. I certainly wouldn't want to be on this roller coaster alone, and they have willingly strapped themselves in next to me, ready for the crazy ride. Once in a while I put my arms in the air and scream loudly, sounding halfway terrified but oddly triumphant. It's exhilarating. I felt like that today.

Three years ago I thought I would never laugh again.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

First Christmas Party

We attended the Christmas party at Erik's school last night. Erik has been a part of this place for quite some time now, but we have never been to one of these parties. I suppose I never felt like spending any of my free time there before. Earlier in the day I asked Erik if he was interested in seeing Santa, and I was amazed by his newfound enthusiasm. His reaction sparked excitement in me that I haven't felt in the past few years. I put on a fresh coat of lipstick and switched out his shirt for something with less food smeared down the front. I realized I was having yet another "normal mom moment" and enjoyed the feeling. It's nice no longer being trapped at home by a noisy world.

When we arrived at the school, the street was clogged with cars. The entrance was decorated with a bright green garland of lights, and people were filtering through the front door with their children. Erik was greeted by the staff, and we made our way to the little gym at the end of the hall.

The long, cramping line to see Santa was made up of people who looked mostly only vaguely familiar. I eventually spotted a couple mothers and their spouses I knew well and chatted with them as we stood in line. The sweltering temperature in the room almost took my breath away at first, and I stripped off my jacket. We stood next to twin girls whose mother introduced herself and reminded us that we were invited to their birthday party this weekend. I racked my brain for items 5-year-old girls might like to play with and tried not to panic about being immersed in yet another social situation. When we made it to the front of the line, Santa extended his arms to welcome Erik. It was a sweet sight to see. Erik didn't hesitate this year, even though he has only seen Santa once. He went quickly to him and was placed on his lap. I snapped a couple of photos and then was approached by another mother who introduced herself and shook my hand firmly. She explained that her daughter rode the school bus with Erik last year and that Erik was her own personal favorite. She admitted she had really fallen in love with him. She remembered out loud when Erik first arrived at the school. How he could barely walk and never said a word. How she was amazed by his progress over time. I felt unexpected emotion wash over me as memories of the first two dark years of Erik's life flooded my brain. I remembered the struggles we had in the very room we stood in. I smiled and successfully fought off tears, realizing I have packed many of those memories away now and have moved on but that they would always remain inside of me. I shook off the feeling and told her that I loved her daughter, a little girl with beautiful blond hair, a sweet smile, profound compassion for my anxious son, and an extra chromosome. She smiled back at me and disappeared back into the crowd. I am amazed at how easily people approach me these days and show our family such kindness. It was difficult but eye opening to have a view into our little world from the outside. It is nice to know that we are not invisible after all. I needed that.

On our way out, Erik did the cupcake walk with Brian and emerged with a goatee made of slimy chocolate frosting. His teacher greeted me and reported that this week he followed her instructions for the first time. She said it was no longer necesssary to lead my passive son through each and every thing and that he had improved a great deal. She described how he used to be, too.

Whew.

Brian purchased a snack-sized bag of cookies at the bake sale table, and I bought a star for the Christmas tree in the hall. I put Erik's name on the tag and hung it from a branch. I try to give back a little every year. The funds for the school are evaporating, but I have hope that things will change.

They sure have for us.

Halloween Photos

Manly Accessories

(Brian is the surly-looking dude in the middle)

I have been awake for hours, and it's only 5 a.m. My stomach feels like a thick plastic bag full of churning battery acid. There is a skunk below my office window somewhere in the darkness, and the pungent odor is making my tortured gut do flip-flops. I swallowed a half charred hot dog and three cheap, watery beers earlier, and I can feel them sloshing around, not even beginning to digest. Stress has been taking its toll on me. I have watched myself withdraw from the world around me and have become more antisocial than ever. I just don't feel like dealing with anything. My friends are even beginning to worry. I haven't been returning phone calls or e-mails. I can hardly even concentrate long enough to blog. My head is a mess, and I am finding it more and more difficult to perform tasks more complicated than locating my car keys. There is a lot going on here outside of Williams world for once, and I am not coping well. In fact, I cannot bring myself to talk about the feelings I have about life at the moment. They are too raw, painful, and personal. At least for now, anyway. For now, I am in survival mode. That's all I can do.

I have been having some fun lately, despite my desire to become a complete hermit. Yesterday was Brian's Kung Fu San Soo demonstration. I found myself sitting on a flimsy folding chair in a small Martial Arts studio in which the air was hot enough to fire pottery. Thankfully, my friend Shaena sat by my side, easing any anxiety I had about being immersed in a social situation with people I don't know. Our husbands have been friends since second grade, and they apparently got into a fight soon after they met. I found it more than humorous that we were about to watch them beat each other up again. When we were informed the bathroom downstairs had been used by one of the guys and overflowed its banks, Shaena and I scurried over to the biker bar next door to use their powder room. After a very brief discussion in which I'm unsure if any actual words were exchanged (we communicate telepathically at times), we ran up to the bar to swallow one fiery shot of Jack Daniels each followed by swigs of ice-cold Pepsi on the way out the door. The spiky sensation of the carbonation felt wonderful inside my dry throat. We then ran back across the softening, sunbaked asphalt to the studio housed in a cinder block building in the middle of the industrial part of town as our deodorant and hairspray threatened to fail in the heat. Shaena's slow cooker full of baked beans was plugged in near the bottom of the stairs, and the delicious scent of the food was just beginning to waft through the air, serving as a reminder that we would have a celebratory feast soon.

The demonstration began. We received a brief introduction regarding San Soo and the art of street fighting. The word "violence" was used quite casually several times and seemed to hang in the air. Being a survivor of a violent crime years ago, I detest violence but have developed a strange obsession with it and fully appreciate some of the methods used for self-defense. There were two groups of people there. Our region wore the traditional gi, a double-weave cotton uniform that is about as heavy as the lead bib they drape over your chest at the dentist right before they fire up the x-ray machine. Our group was soon dripping in sweat but looked sharp. The group of men from the valley wore red polo shirts and black pants, interrupted by thick belts in colors that indicated each man's classification or rank in San Soo.

Watching men's sweaty bodies collide like competing rams during mating season immediately took my mind off the temperature of the room. We clapped and yelled enthusiastically, and the atmosphere was surprisingly comfortable and supportive. Violent, yet warm and fuzzy. The action was slowed down for our benefit so we could witness the techniques used, and the grunts and groans were purposefully exaggerated. I was thankful I attended because I could see what a wonderful, healthy emotional outlet and escape this could be for my husband. I also pity the fool who tries to snatch my handbag at the mall. After the demonstration and the awards ceremony that followed, during which Brian received his yellow belt, we went to pick up Erik from his day care provider and drive to a nearby house with the other participants and their families for a barbecue. Erik was in constant motion except when he located a wheelbarrow on the side of the home. He spun the tire on it for extended periods of time, sometimes flipping onto his back in the wet grass to use his feet, creating a gnarly, wet stain on his clothing. When I went to check on him several times, the other children, who ranged greatly in age, were gathered around him talking to him or playing nearby. Surprised, I smiled and went back to my chair with the adults. Erik often gently grasped the hand of the beautiful older girl who played with the group, and she graciously let him trail her around, even coming back when her family was leaving to say goodbye to him. The only time I felt anxious was when Erik repeatedly encountered the one step from the deck to the walkway in the center of the party. I would yell, "Step down!" in the middle of my conversation with another partygoer, and he would careen off the thing at mock speed, miraculously landing on his feet and continuing his path of motion without skipping a beat. He is simply horrible with steps. Several people laughed and commented on how active he was. It was hard to tell if anybody picked up on the fact he was different, although I thought it was pretty darn obvious. One man labeled him a "real character," and I cheerfully agreed. He refused to stop long enough to enjoy much dinner, and we let him run and play. He chased the dog around, asking the poor animal a relentless string of questions a la Geraldo Rivera.

When cardboard boxes full of colorful, largely unfamiliar bottles of wine and liquor were produced and our grilled meat sandwiches and salads had been consumed, I finally made the motion to leave. I was afraid that if I stayed another few minutes, I would join the friendly, testosterone-soaked mob in the festivities and end up asleep on the attractive landscaping behind me.

(Next in this strange, reality-dodging series of posts: I finally water the Chia Pet I received for Christmas. Stay tuned.)

Of Course

You know you're old when the teenagers next door are having a rip-roaring party and you look at your husband and say, "How can they possibly have a decent conversation in that house with all of that racket?" Brian just walked up the lane to investigate. I told him to let them know I would either like them to turn the music up to a level where I can hear more than just bone-rattling bass or down to where I can't hear it at all. We were cool enough to wait until 10 o'clock to put in our request. I would go over and join them around their bonfire but fear some of the kids' litigation-happy parents or the fact I will look like the father who used to hang out with us in the dorms drinking beer and inevitably ended up sobbing, telling us that college would be the best years of our lives. Shudder.

I am a bit of a head case. I stood on the back porch today and screamed at the landscaping trucks from the business next door going light speed and sending up clouds of desert dust to drift through my open doors and windows. When they ignored me and my giant gestures, I only yelled louder, wishing I had taken a Spanish class instead of four years of French so I could curse accordingly.

Things have been going well this week. I have upped my workout regimen a notch and am feeling good. I am actually finally getting smaller with a major tweak in my diet and find myself fairly content emotionally with a new reserve of energy in the evenings. I was in the middle of my workout this morning when I realized Erik and I needed to be at the stables. After a light myocardial infarction, a quick shower, and a fresh coat of pink lipstick, we arrived just one minute late for our appointment. Erik insisted he would rather ride an ATV instead of Foxy-Horse, but he didn't have much of a choice today. As I pulled into the parking lot by the barn, I saw Ms. S, my "Earth Angel," and her little girl with Rett syndrome. Of course. God works in mysterious but less than subtle ways. We waved to each other, and I went to meet her inside the barn to chat. She informed me that the young woman helping lead Erik's horse today was actually the first cousin of Mary, the girl with WS that was mentioned in the editorial I recently posted. Of course. Apparently she saw WS in Erik's face the moment she saw him and asked questions about him. She thinks he looks just like Mary did when she was younger. As it turns out, Mary will be heading off to school back east in the fall. Ms. S informed me that Mary's mother knows about me and would like to speak with me, so I swallowed the lump in my throat and gave her my last name and phone number. Now I just wait for the call.

I'm very happy I am making connections here, and I have heard a lot about this woman lately that has alleviated my fears. I was reluctant to meet her at the beginning of this, but now I wonder if it's because she seems to be a lot like me. She is a shoot-straight-from-the-hip, tell-it-like-it-is sort of gal. Today was positive but still made me feel raw and vulnerable. That's not necessarily a bad thing, but I am glad that feeling is passing now that the sun has set. After all, it's a pretty intense way to feel for any extended period of time. My mother and I are headed to a fundraiser tomorrow for the little girl in town with 22Q13 syndrome. The party is exclusively for women, and flip-flops are mandatory to fit the "Flip Flops and Lemon Drops" theme. There will be a jazz trio, bartenders mixing up vodka lemon drops, five different fancy restaurants catering the event, mini-pedicures, and chair massages. I have to run to Macy's tomorrow to find some pretty but summer-casual attire, as I usually dress like a bit like an Amish woman, even during the summer.

Brian is now back from his mission next door. In a likely very half-hearted gesture of goodwill, I was apparently invited to drink beer around the bonfire with a small group of pubescent girls while 30 people do God-knows-what inside the house. I imagine that they would be more comfortable keeping an eye on at least one of us at all times so we don't ruin their little games. I noticed the scent of pungent but sweet smoke floating through my office window earlier, but that seems to have ceased now. At first, I told Brian that someone was burning garbage and voiced my concerns about the wind and dry grass. I finally identified the vaguely familiar scent and smacked my forehead with my palm. Of course.

Boy, I really am getting old.

Superstar!

I'm sorry to say that the majority of my photos of the party did not turn out very well. Disposable cameras are not what they used to be. The top photo is Rob, my neighbor, and Calvin, the gentleman who was kind enough to let us stay in his home (very brave!). The look on Calvin's face says it all. The second photo, of course, is of Lisa and yours truly.

Erik and I went to pool therapy this morning. After I got Erik settled with his therapist in the 94-degree water, I ran to the grocery store to purchase a few things I need to bake goodies for Easter at my parents' house and then enjoyed some quiet time in the waiting room. Erik's therapist is working with a fresh-faced, wide-eyed intern for the next six weeks. When the four of us walked down the hallway to the pool, Erik said, "Tubby!" The intern laughed and said, "Oh, HE'S the one who says tubby!" Erik has a real reputation there. When we walk in to this facility, the reaction we get reminds me a lot of the one Norm got on Cheers when he came through the door.

Erik shared the pool with another patient, whom I ran into briefly as I went to scoop Erik out of the water at the end of the session. When I asked how Erik did, this stranger immediately commented, "Oh, he's a star. We love him." I don't see many children at this facility. There are many middle-aged people with bad backs in excruciating pain and a foul humor, but Erik has yet to fail to fetch a smile from any of them.

I am becoming extremely efficient at packing for therapy away from home. I keep Erik's therapy bag (my old high school duffel bag) stocked with a tiny bottle of shampoo, froggie wash mitt with plastic bag to carry it in, fresh towels, swim diapers, books for the waiting room, regular diapers, snack foods, and warm clothing. Since the tiny shower area is not equipped for children, I have to make do and usually end up with a backache myself from hauling Erik around. I flip the shower seat down, plop Erik on his bottom, shower and shampoo him (if I remember, I start the shower before I get him out of the pool), get his diaper on without any place to lie him down, and struggle to get him dressed. The first few times I showered him, I came out in soaking wet clothing, but today I was completely dry. I think I am getting the hang of this.

Funny Erik Story: For some reason, Brian taught Erik how to say "Hello, Clarice" a la Dr. Hannibal Lecter from Silence of the Lambs. It all started when Erik started talking into the little hard hat that came with the big excavator Lisa R. gave him for his birthday. I suppose he did look and sound a little like Anthony Hopkins wearing that creepy prison mask in that movie. Now he just puts the yellow helmet on and says, "Hello, Clarissssse" over and over.

Poor Erik. He was destined to be weird from the very beginning in this family!

Groove is in the Heart

I returned home safe and sound yesterday afternoon from my little weekend trip back in time.

Friday I called my coworker and told her I wanted to give myself the day off so I could leave in the afternoon with Lisa, my neighbor, and her husband Rob for the weekend. After receiving her blessing, I began to search for something to wear to the 1970s theme party. I found a pale pink, silk peasant blouse in my closet. I have never once worn the dang thing because it has some little sequins on it and some flowing sleeves. It just never seemed appropriate. Next, I tried on a pre-Erik black skirt that laced up the back, and it actually fit comfortably! If that's not a good way to begin the weekend, I don't know what is. Lisa then arrived to take me on my very first trip to the little purple house on the main drag that serves as our friendly neighborhood adult bookshop selling costumes and novelties, where a pair of black knee-high go-go boots in my size waited for me. Lisa's feet are smaller (quel surprise), and she was able to buy a rather fetching, faux patent leather pair. This particular store is another entry in itself, but I'll save that for later. I will mention, though, that I found it impossible to ignore the jaunty six-foot high inflatable phallus smiling at me from the corner of the room while I sifted through cheap 1970s-style clothing on a nearby rack. The two very sweet young girls working the counter encouraged me to try on some of their costumes, but being Amazonian in stature, nothing fit very well. After leaving with my new footwear, we stopped at the tavern on the way home for a small plate of nachos and something to wet our whistles while we waited for Rob to get off work. The three of us then left town, stopping briefly at a small costume shop in the next town to pick up Rob's Starsky and Hutch-type attire.

Calvin, Rob's coworker from two decades ago, lives in the city where the party was to be held, and he invited us to stay at his house. Lisa and Rob have known Calvin for years. He is a man in his early 60s who lives alone in a neat two-story house that is a trip back in time in itself. The home is extremely inviting and clean for a bachelor pad, filled with vases of fresh flowers, dated but cared for furniture, and shag carpet. There were two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs, where we unpacked our belongings. Calvin barbecued juicy chicken breasts and served them with a cool shrimp pasta salad, steamed vegetables, and fresh grapes. We enjoyed dinner and some time on the back patio next to an ancient, slightly leaky hot tub adorned with green patio lights shaped like jumping trout. The smell of plant life and rich dirt, which is less than detectable at home during a high desert winter, filled my nose. The grass was almost fluorescent green, and giant, fluffy primroses lined neatly-tended flowerbeds around us. Lisa and I took it easy after dinner. I enjoyed one Crown Royal and Diet Pepsi before I retired but heard Rob and Calvin visit late into the night. I slept fitfully off and on. When I got out of bed, everyone was up in their pajamas enjoying coffee in the living room watching the morning news. Calvin and Rob looked a little rough around the edges. In fact, Calvin looked a little green around the gills all day long. Rob shook off his hangover long enough to beg me to accompany him to the yard sale being set up a couple houses down. Lisa, Rob, and I wandered down to check it out, and I bought a slightly rusty Tonka articulated front loader for Erik to play with outside (my husband taught me that term; I am really getting to know my heavy equipment these days).

Lisa and I ran errands all afternoon. We hit the Goodwill store with her mother and niece before going out on our own to the department store for white eyeshadow and pantyhose. I bought silk daisies on bobby pins to put in my hair and some pastel beads. We joined Lisa's friend Holly for lunch at a teriyaki joint for Love Love salads, something Lisa said I was required to try -- hot strips of teriyaki chicken on a bed of greens slathered in some warm, sweet peanut dressing. Holly was a bit aloof when I met her. She was dressed in an expensive jogging suit and had unnaturally white teeth, peach-colored, acrylic nails, and gorgeous, dark hair. I hid my hands under the table, feeling instantly frumpy in my sweatshirt and jeans. I silently cursed myself for forgetting to dye the gray roots showing in my own hair before I left. She asked us if we could help decorate the country club for her husband's party. Lisa and I agreed. We picked up giant, sparkly Mylar balloons at the party store and drove through pouring rain to the country club, a gorgeous expanse of emerald green with restaurant and lounge overlooking it all. To my surprise, I was told that Holly had rented the entire club, including the restaurant and lounge, for her husband's 50th birthday party. Holly offered to get us something to drink. I ordered a Lynchburg lemonade and let Holly instruct me on what she wanted me to do. Slowly but surely, she began to warm up to me. I threw myself into tacking old record covers on the walls and decorating the tables with vinyl LPs, tiny, battery-powered lava lamps that changed colors every few seconds, and shiny confetti. Lisa prepared each table with red, yellow, and purple linens. The staff swirled around us, working just as hard and joking with us. Rob and Jeff, Holly's husband/birthday boy, came to snap the dance floor together. The DJ arrived and began setting up lights and his table. We installed battery-powered mirrored balls everywhere, including the ladies' loo. Everything looked quite groovy by the time we were finished. Holly looked relieved, and I flashed the most reassuring smile I could muster as we left the building. She smiled back.

After running back to Calvin's to slip into our costumes and coat ourselves with eyeliner and Aqua Net hairspray (I LOVE that stuff), we returned to the club and began to mingle with the guests. Trays of meatballs, spring rolls, won tons, vegetables, cheese, and crackers were served in the lobby. Many of the older guests, including Calvin, left after an hour or two, when the lights dimmed and the music started pumping loudly from the stereo. Girls dressed in 1970s attire cruised the party room and adjacent bar with silver trays of tiny plastic cups containing shots of Jell-O in every color infused with tasteless alcohol. I declined the first round but accepted one that was given to me the next time they passed by. It was blue and tasted like raspberries. Not bad.

Almost every one of the approximately 200 partygoers was dressed to the hilt for the occasion. There were short, pleated skirts, gold chains, bell bottom pants, and feathered hair. I saw many pairs of boots just like mine. I told one girl she looked like Sharon Stone in the movie Casino when we were introduced, and she giggled and blushed. Holly looked remarkably like Marlo Thomas. I was accepted into this group as if they had known me for years. I mostly very quietly watched the festivities and sipped water, but when a very bored Rob offered me a shot of Jagermeister, I accepted that, too. It was disgustingly tepid but still tasty. After another, it was back to water and a couple dances out on the floor. Finally, Lisa and I decided to call a taxi and head back into town for our beds around 11 o'clock. We shared a cab with a couple of older partygoers that knew Lisa for a very interesting jaunt home. After some confusion over Calvin's address, our cab driver informed us he was deaf and argued with Lisa as the older passenger went on and on in a loud, obnoxious rant. I decided the ride could go either way. At first, I expected the cab driver to drop us off in the country and tell us to find our own way home, but his crotchedy demeanor lifted, and he laughed at the older man's lame jokes. I still couldn't wait to get out of that car. When we snuck back into the unlocked door of Calvin's house and up the stairs, I felt like I was 16 all over again.

Rob ended up staying at his friend Tim's house. I was happy when I woke up feeling fairly refreshed, although I probably got about six hours of sleep between Friday and Saturday night combined. I waited for Lisa to get out of bed while I chatted with Calvin over coffee about his life, which I enjoyed immensely. He told me about his time as an MP in the army and his time working at a sugar beet plant. When Lisa came downstairs, we ate the delicious breakfast Calvin cooked for us and then went to pick up Rob. We pulled up in front of a gigantic mini-mansion on the golf course. Lisa pulled the dinner plate-sized knocker away from the giant door and tapped it several times, giggling. A very sleepy-looking Tish (Sharon Stone from the party) answered the door in a teal-colored jogging suit. She led us through a cavernous foyer with a gigantic round table and monstrous glass centerpiece on it into a massive kitchen with at least 10-foot high ceilings where they weren't vaulted even higher. I tried not to look like a hick from the sticks, but my mouth was slightly agape as I took a seat at the breakfast bar next to a very sick-looking Rob drinking beer and tomato juice. Two pairs of high heels were parked neatly atop the bar amongst a collection of cell phones and 1970s accessories accidentally abandoned by their intoxicated owners. The party had apparently ended at 4 a.m. there. Lisa handed Rob a fresh shirt and Levis, and I looked down to see he was still wearing brown bell bottoms. Tish took us on a tour of their home with their fluffy, perfectly groomed bichon frise quietly following us from room to room. We followed Tish through the main floor and then up and down three separate staircases to peek into a cardio room, a mirrored gym/putting room featuring a floor of AstroTurf with recessed cups to capture rolling golf balls, a temperature-controlled wine cellar with a bistro table and walls of expensive wine, a laundry room as large as my dining room with granite countertops, an entertainment room featuring an air hockey table, big screen television, and pillowy sectional, and many other sitting rooms and bedrooms. A painting of the bichon frise at our heels hung in one sitting room, white head slightly tilted quizzically to the side. I lost count at five bathrooms and ten televisions. The back yard had miniature hedges clipped into neat shapes snaking through the grass and an exercise pool. What was most incredible of all, however, was that the people living there were some of the nicest people I ever had the pleasure of meeting. Tim, well over six feet tall and painfully handsome with a perfect blond mustache and a head of thick, blond hair, reluctantly left with his hangover to meet his friends for an early tee time. He hugged me goodbye and as he walked down the massive hallway, we all laughed because his perfectly pressed, chino coated backside sported a mysterious wet spot. Tish shrugged and said, "Oh well. It'll dry."

We said our goodbyes and loaded into the car, stopping to retrieve our luggage at Calvin's house. I guessed he enjoyed our company immensely but would be happy to have his old peace and quiet back. As we pulled away, he stooped to pull some weeds in his shady flower garden. Rob burped and I rolled down the window as the wave of beer-scented air rolled forward. Lisa and I laughed. He groaned and laid down in the back seat while we chatted on the way home, stopping once to use the facilities and once to buy ice cream sandwiches and Kettle Chips. Rob didn't move.

It's good to be home, although this place looks much smaller to me now. The cat screamed the whole time I was gone, and Erik has gotten taller in two days. His vocabulary seems to have doubled. Brian thanked him for doing something last night and we heard him say, "Welcome," as he wandered away.

I wouldn't give up this life for all of the money in the world.

Photos are forthcoming. I was without my digital camera, so I need to run to Costco with the disposable I used.

Can You Dig It?

I'm thankful it's Friday.

This week I was invited to attend a party out of town by my neighbor friend and her husband. Not just any party -- a 1970s theme party complete with disc jockey and fourteen hundred dollars' worth of catering at some country club. To me, it sounds like the soiree of the century. If I go, I will spend two nights away from home. My first instinct was to bury myself in work and let my waning headache serve as an excuse not to go. After all, social events induce instant hives in me. However, now that my husband and my parents have reminded me it's perfectly acceptable for me to go and that I'm due to have some fun, I'm giving it some thought. It DOES sound like fun. What should I do? Maybe this is a good time for me to demonstrate my comfort zone has expanded like never before.

Okay, okay! I'll go.

Now I have to find something to wear. Something in a nice velour, perhaps.