Sin Coffee for the Morning

Forgive Me For I Have Sinned.

It is 9 pm New Years Eve and we do not have coffee for the morning. Sleep-in morning and no coffee. On the way home from the Iowa State football party -- Iowa won -- we stop at the nearest grocery store because it's open. Please don't tell God but I bought sin coffee. I paid money to sin.

Some people grew up believing that there's a devil under each chair at a dance. Some people grew up believing that beer and wine lead to sex and drugs. Some people grew up believing that birth control leads to the end of civilization. Some people grew up believing that the gay lifestyle is inherently immoral.

I grew up believing that if you don't buy fair trade coffee you are perpetuating the oppression of the poor which directly violates most all of the Ten Commandments, plus gets you an inferior grade of brew beans.

I have behaved badly and will go to extra church in 2010. Grace doesn't matter.

But the thought of waking up with no coffee seems worse.

Happy New Year!!

With love, T

Blame It on Little House

There's noway around it. Raising kids is a loose-loose situation. The ultimate goal of a parent is to not produce spoiled rotten brats. But these days it's really hard not to offer up to the universe just that -- spoiled rotten brats. It's not their fault. It's mine. And my question is this: how do you know whether or not your precious babies are actually, in reality, spoiled rotten brats?

So when your kids fight for who will sit in the front seat of the car -- fight like they're live on the Jerry Springer show with pushing and shoving and hitting and kicking and crying -- that's when you've confirmed the fact that you've raised a pair of spoiled rotten brats. And you're a total loser mother because it's your job to teach them basic automobile entry etiquette.

Parental expectations. I'm blaming it on all those Little House on the Prairie books that my teachers used to read to me. Where the kids were happy to receive a lump of candy for Christmas, where Pa played the fiddle for entertainment, where Ma sacrificed her calico fabric so that she could stay up all night and hand sew new calico dresses for good-girl daughters, Mary and Laura. How do you live up to that?

And then there's the poor mother of three who's cleavage just isn't what it used to be. And so for the inspirational makeover story of the year, this mother was awarded an experimental high tech pair of brand new silicon breasts. Not so good for nursing babies, but great for perkiness, firmness, and overall less jiggling. Seriously, I saw this on the local news broadcast while in California. They even showed the mother being wheeled into surgery, smiling and waving from her gurney.

So what exactly does it mean to avoid raising spoiled rotten brats? I dunno. But I can tell you that I did the unthinkable today with my own kids following the Jerry Springer event in the parking lot. I hope you don't judge me harshly when I tell you what I did . . .that I postponed our Burger King dinner that had been promised all week. Huge blow to the kids.

And then there's the "I'm sorry." Not my son, but my daughter responds by profusely apologizing. I don't want her apologizing. I don't want her to grow up thinking that she needs to apologize to anyone for anything. Unless she is the former president of the United States of America and has led the world into multiple unnecessary endless expensive pointless wars. Other than that -- no apologizing. So how do you teach that? My son has no urge to apologize. I'm trying not to generalize male and female tendencies, but I'm just saying, I don't like my daughter apologizing.

We end the night with television -- the good cheerleader/bad cheerleader movie. Fortunately the bad cheerleaders win. And now it's time to bake cookies.

Thanks so much for coming over to the Charmer Blog.

With love, T

The Supersonic Spa is Open

The Supersonic Spa is open day and night. Around the clock dressings for burning skin available here. We specialize in nursing wild bile that itches from the inside. No need for suicide. Treat from the outside. An oatmeal scrub. An oatmeal based lotion. An ice pack. Cover up and lie very, very still. Shhhh, no talking.

The Supersonic Spa treatment works for any part of the body that might be on fire at any given time. If by chance the whole body is ablaze, the Supersonic Spa operator will randomly choose a body part, say, an arm or leg, and apply the treatment with instructions to focus. It’s proven to work for at least an hour.

The Supersonic Spa operator can hear things like never before. Whispers, rhythms, and breathing from another room, out in the hall, inside a burning body. Like a sixth sense that came when the force of the poison was revealed.

‘Are you OK?’ All night long. She's talking to a vital organ. She can hear it.

The infinitesimal bile ducts in the liver are starting to disentangle themselves. They’re starting to arrange themselves in a way that will let the bile process properly. The injury is in process of repair, yet the body has a long way to go. It’s shedding its entire old skin and completely new skin cells are producing rapidly. So rapidly that the burning remains. Like growing pains or birthing pains. Or a Phoenix rising. And so that is why the Supersonic Spa is open day and night. To comfort the afflicted.

The Supersonic Spa operator wears pajamas a lot and tries to take afternoon naps. The Supersonic Spa operator is afraid of the blood labs due tomorrow. The Supersonic Spa operator wants to take NyQuil and not hear everything anymore.

[January 3, 2007, Bob's Care Page]

*

In reading the book, Hunger: An Unnatural History, by Sharman Apt Russell who may be my MFA mentor, I was reminded of our own deterioration when Bob was diagnosed as severely anorexic courtesy of liver failure, in 2007. The book describes several hunger experiments and one finding--besides physical and mental breakdown--is enhanced hearing. Which is what happened to me to the point where I was convinced I could hear Bob's liver.

It's amazing how things pull together even after years. I am in the midst of glorious reading of books articles, poems, essays, and websites in preparation for my first day of school in December. Thanks for coming over to the Charmer Blog. xoxoxo

With love, T

New Moon Fever

If you haven't heard, the second Twilight movie -- New Moon -- premiers on Friday. And I have been assigned my roles which mainly involve driver and financier. Last year I was actually invited to attend the premier of the first Twilight but ended up getting stuck in the Detroit airport. The main bummer was that I really wanted to hear all the tween screams in live time. Don't worry, when I saw it later with Amanda, she recounted to me each scene where the audience squealed with delight during the premier, the first one being when the brooding Edward enters the school cafeteria. Admittedly, it's incredible even in slow motion.

Don't worry, we've had the tickets for a long time. We do know enough to get advance tickets for this one.

I could go into the crazy marketing of it all, but won't except to say that I am totally jealous of Stephanie Meyers and her book series which has my daughter and a gazillion others mesmerized. Why? That is for all of us to figure out. Or not. It's the romance, stupid.

Thanks for coming to the Charmer blog and I hope you all have a fanciful day.

With love, T

P.S. Amanda would like to clarify that she is mostly over the Twilight hoopla. Just a normal Edward fan these days as opposed to a totally obsessed one.

Eliminated and Terminated? Write that.

So last year I read some books by John Steinbeck and fell in love. Mr. Steinbeck is dead 40 years but when you write you live forever. Hence, the potential for mutual affection goes as far as do words and ideas.

Going to California, Mr. Steinbeck's homeland, seemed like the right thing to do. Then I saw an ad for a school out there. Filled out all the forms. Wrote my entrance essay. Paid the application fee. Sought advise and references. By the grace of God I got all that paperwork in, twice. Then my husband started asking reasonable questions. (Gotta love reason.)

Bob: What's the program like?

Me: It's in California.

Bob: How much does it cost?

Me: Five miles from the beach.

Bob: Do they give out scholarships?

Me: Yes, they have Beverly Hills, sunshine, and moving stars.

You get an idea for what Bob puts up with and I know what you're all thinking. You're thinking how can that lady learn in California when she lives in Iowa? When she has two children and a husband and a middle class, suburban, do-gooder lifestyle to live. Not to mention an income to earn. Two words: low residency.

Telecommution, baby! A thousand miles in the other direction. A 180 degree turn around. In Biblical terms, that's reconciliation, restoration, rehabilitation, transformation. CHANGE.

Now in plain English.

I'm pleased to announce that I have been accepted into the Masters of Fine Arts in Creative Writing program at Antioch University in Los Angeles, actually in Culver City. It is a low residency program which means I do my writing projects from home. Real classrooms are so last century. I go there twice a year. And yes, I did finally carefully look at the program and it looks AWESOME!

I am already planning my Iowa-based writing projects, as there is a lot to explore here, with the many amazing people that I keep meeting. And I am already dreaming about my outside-Iowa writing projects. My themes will be artists, farmers, theologians, parolees, musicians, plumbers, mothers, brothers, and others, dead or alive, including the terminated and eliminated. And as always, my dear family.

Thanks much for coming over to the Charmer Blog.

With love, T

photo: steeple shadow and tree, St. John's Lutheran Church, Des Moines

THE DRAMA KING IS ALIVE

Dear Charmer Friends,

If you are still here, you get the medal of honor. A gold star. A big batch of homemade mac-n-cheese. What the hey, I'll even throw in some Velveeta.

Why?

Because last Sunday at church a friend asked me what I was reading. I mentioned the John Steinbeck book that I happily reviewed last dispatch. That's grim, he said. Evidently he knew the book, The Moon is Down. Still awesome, I think. I'm trying to talk Amanda into writing it into a screenplay, but she's not going for it.

Anyway, the thing is, he's right. It is grim. I was on the verge of Grapes of Wrath or The Iliad. Depression, despair, war. Why am I reading this kind of stuff??

Thank goodness for Kathy Lee Gifford (photo). You see, Aidan now impersonates her.

Shhhhhhhhhh. Tonight I was reading bedtime stories to Aidan and my ten-year-old secretly molded himself into his childhood position of cuddling inside me as I read to him in bed. But I realized that I could not see his face and these days that's a big deal. These days when I read to him, he listens with his Kathy Lee Gifford facial position. No, he doesn't know Kathy Lee Gifford, but he does know the Saturday Night Live comedienne who impersonates her and SNL is his new favorite show. (Gotta go to NYC soon and get tickets.) Anyway, it's all very funny.

Kathy Lee Gifford actually has a place in our family. Back in the good 'ol days when Bob was a full time stay at home father I would come home from work and he would tell me about the attempts to replace Kathy Lee on the morning talk show "Live with Regis and Kathy Lee." They were doing this contest thing and trying out a whole bunch of potential replacements for Kathy Lee when she resigned from the show. Every night I came home from work and my husband, Bob, would give me a review. Today's audition was pretty good, but not quite right, he would say. When I realized he was not kidding, I knew we were in trouble. This stay-at-home father thing was not working. In a big way.

That's when we decided once and for all, Bob would become a full time seminary student. The rest is history.

Don't get me wrong, Bob was a great stay at home father. It's just that full-time parenting of young children is really hard work. Best pastoral preparation anyone could ever have.

Anywho, it's late and I'm blogging on Kathy Lee Gifford. Actually, I found her strangely comforting when I happened across her back on morning TV recently. I think it's because I always contrasted her commute to Manhattan with mine. She in a chauffeured car from Connecticut. Me in a stinky humanoid subway from Brooklyn. Whatever. She was smarter than me. I saw her on TV in July while at the golf clubhouse place where Aidan was taking summer classes and I was waiting like a good mother.

If you ever wondered if the King of Drama is alive -- he is and he lives in my house. I read to him and tuck him into bed every night.

Thanks for coming over. More war-themed book reviews coming soon.

With love, T

The Moon is Down

Just when you think this little coastal village would be a nice place to live, the woman you try to date or rape or whatever you want to call it ends up killing you with her knitting scissors.

This short book is a real page turner. A political thriller. Author John Steinbeck is a master at keeping you interested. He says so much with so little words, in less than 150 pages.

On one quiet morning a small town is easily occupied by a foreign miliatary force, whose soldiers were told that they would be welcomed as liberators to a better life. Indeed, at first the soldiers like their mission. Some even fantasize about settling here after the war. The people are pleasant, they offer no resistance. The landscape is beautiful. And really, it's an engineering operation, not military, as they are just seeking to make more efficient means of extracting the local natural resource: coal.

Published in 1942, the unnamed town is presumably in Norway. The unnamed occupier is presumably the Nazi's. The truths are universal. The characters are rich, as individuals on both sides are portrayed as humans with foibles, strengths and weaknesses. The town mayor. The occupying general. The townspeople. The soldiers. The servants. The officers.

It's absolutely classic. We all know this story. At first there seems to be no resistence. But it changes. What do you want to call it? Resistence. Passive resistence. Guerilla warfare. Terrorism. You decide. Steinbeck uses the word resistence.

What can the townspeople do? They must do anything and everything they are told to do. Slave in the coal mine. Give sex to soldiers. Say nothing extraordinary. Be publically executed otherwise.

What they do is work slowly in the mines. They badly cook meals. They don't talk or make eye contact. They blow up bridges and roads. They pretend to date and then kill their companions. And the mayor is in on all of it; although the occupying general believes he's cooperating.

An occupying force follows one leader. The townspeople are all full of leadership. If their leader gets killed, ten more pop up. If a hundred get killed, a thousand more emerge. You can kill a lot of people, but you can never fully eliminate their human capacity.

LOVE John Steinbeck!

Thanks so much for coming over to the Charmer Blog.

In peace, joy, prosperity, and truth, T

Sisterhood of the Fresh Meat

Time travel is possible because the kids and I went to Africa last night.

A late night e-mail about Robert's heart inspired us into an impromptu trip to St. Paul. Apparently, Robert, 19, was at his Friday night soccer game and his heart stopped for no good reason. CPR. Ambulance. Induced coma. Scary.

Robert's mother is our dear sister friend, Margaret, who saved us when Bob's liver failed. We lived down the hall from each other at seminary. The 11 pm idea of going to St. Paul made the kids giddy. Aidan's been google-earthing the seminary for 2 years now. Begging to go, just to play on the playground with whoever might be there. And that's exactly what he did. Aidan's glory.

Not knowing if we would even see Margaret and Robert (who's father is now studying in Germany), we just got in the car and drove 4 hours due north to the hospital. The information desk guy didn't have to look up Robert's room when we asked for it because he knew it by heart. So many visitors. The East African stereotype of rich community is true in the Twin Cities. They are tight. When something happens, they all come. No one is ever left alone. And so Robert had "droves" of visitors as the nurse put it.

We didn't plan it this way, but the kids and I ended up crashing at Margaret's place. In a way we took our turn in the vigil of accompaniment. Again, total heaven as the apartment is very familiar. Happy. Playground. Lots-o-kids. I'm doing the dishes. There's a big blob of red meat in the refrigerator and Margaret is worried about it going bad. It's her share of the annual goat kill and with the heart-stopping thing, she just couldn't get to it.

Faith and Eve are there, also Kenyan PhD students. (Faith is Tanzanian, but from the border so it counts.) Margaret needs to eat and sleep badly. But she won't eat alone. And she won't eat leftovers. She instructs us on how to prepare fresh tilapia masala stir fry, which tastes out of this world. I sit silent as the African women coax my white-food eating kids to eat the fish. I can't believe it that Aidan actually likes it. Clean up the cooking. Get out the huge bag-o-red meat which covers a large garbage bag spread upon the table. We are trimming the fat and cutting into small pieces so it can be frozen in zip lock bags. Meat for the winter. Grissel under my fingernails; sinew entwined in my rings.

I am useless, mostly, as I cannot seem to cut through the fat. Eve and Faith have ten bags-o-meat and I am still hacking away at my second small piece.

"Give it to me," Eve says very kindly. I am in Africa, but I am definitely not African.

As we cut up the freshly butchered goat, we talk about women's rights and lack-thereof. My kids are totally content as they read their books nearby. Faith and Eve are both pastors and recount incidents how their position as religious leader have been discounted in their own countries. They imagined it would be so much more progressive in the U.S. of A., but no. What's happening to the women's movement here in the U.S., they ask? No one is speaking up for women here, and this is America, they say.

I think women here are just too tired, I offer as explanation.

I am curious about how they would restart the women's movement in the U.S.A. What would they recommend? I want to ask this question, but I am too tired. It is almost midnight and we are still cleaning up blood that dripped inside the refrigerator. We are all pleased that Margaret is sleeping. The East African community takes turns staying with her and it looks like me and the kids are taking this shift. Faith and Eve go back to their apartments, kids, and husbands.

Me and the kids could have easily time warped back to the seminary life. We could want to go to Africa. But no, we need to return to Iowa because our life it there, it is full, and we've got things to do here. I wish I could live in a way so that I am just present where I am, instead of thinking about what could be. Seminary was not *that* great when we were there -- and yet by now it has reached rockstar status.

We walk into the hospital family room and the circle of African's are so happy to see us. Hugs, kisses, and hand shakes for the ones we've never met before. How are you?! How's Bob?! How's Iowa?! How's your church?! We will come to visit. We hear stories of growing up with one father and 11 mothers who all speak different languages. Whenever someone new enters the room, they walk around the entire circle to greet each person individually. Even Aidan and Amanda have learned this; in this crowd anyway. I'll tell you about the bowl of grasshoppers later. No, it's not popcorn; and it's not funny.

One day, when we have moved away from Des Moines we will say how fabulous it was when we lived in Des Moines. And we'll wish we were there. We'll list all the sights that we want to revisit. We'll think of all the people we want to see again. We'll drive all over the city to find food at our favorite eateries.

Looks like Robert will be OK. Thank God. Somebody else will sleep with Margaret tonight. We're back in Iowa and I've got a ton-o-things to do tomorrow.

Thanks so much for coming over to the Charmer Blog. So nice to have you here, now, in the real.

With love, T

Blood. Rival. Sister. Brother

Aidan's nickname for Amanda is "Adie." Only he can call her that. Last night I asked him how to spell it. ED, he said. But I am not allowed to use it which is fine because I can't pronounce it anyway.

In a flurry of brother sissy love, they decided to switch bedrooms last night. Good idea to me because as you can see in these official "before" pictures, the spaces needed a bit bit of renovation. Bob tried to micromanage the process. I tried to tell him this process could not be micromanaged, just let it be. Mother nature's motivation.

The love fest continued into the evening as it became apparent that there would be no beds fit enough for sleep. We're camping out in the family room, they announced. All cozied up on pull out sofa and recliner. Awwww.

Amanda gets gold stars in this process. She is moving mattresses, disassembling old beds, organizing shelves and closets, lugging stuff to and from the garage, and cleaning up things that I must never describe in this blog. Aidan is, well, let's just say he's not exactly multi-tasking. He's doing laundry. Which means there's about a 40 minute break in between work cycles. In other words, while Amanda is toiling away, Aidan is lounging in front of the TV and when asked why he's not helping his rationale is, I'm doing the laundry.

Having a son and daughter could easily make you want to generalize about the nature of men and women, but I shall not.

And so I am pleased to present to you these two "before" pictures with sincere hopes that one day I will be able to provide "after" pictures. These are brought to you in gratitude for Amanda's work ethic and ingenuity. Along with Aidan's consent. (But you should see him hit a golf ball - over 150 yards. Golf camp this week. For another dispatch.)

Aidan: ED, can you help me with my room?

Amanda: Sure, we'll get this all into shape.

Thanks for coming over friends. Come back soon.

With love, T

Maim, Destroy, Do Popcorn Balls

With a laid up mother, Aidan was set free to smash cities and maim skate boarders today. We are surely the epicenter of all the horrible statistics on big time screen time and dead brain cells. Lord help us. With a zingy back, I pretty much let video games rule Aidan's entire day.

ATACHEWA! I don't know if that's really Japanese but that's what Aidan says to the cats. It's the Manga game.

Listen, I may be flat down but I will not allow my son to destroy for 12 hours straight. I have standards. My solution: create popcorn balls.

I, mother of the year, enticed him to take 15 minutes out from his free video spree to make a batch of popcorn balls.

He did great! A natural candy man. Ate almost all of them as soon as he made them. Hint: substitute honey for corn syrup. It's tasty and

healthy.

Thanks for your expressions of empathy on the occasion of my out-of-whack back. Chiropractor appointment tomorrow.

Thanks to my husband for taking over my volunteer gig today; sorry to our youth director that I did not come through for today. [Presently, I am listening to nursing home

stories from Amanda who went there today to play bingo, which evidently was rather competitive. Nursing home service project seemed to make a positive impression.]

Take care and thanks for coming over to the Charmer Blog.

With love, T

P.S. Aidan would be proud to inform you that he is on day four of his present clothing selection which doubles as his pajamas. Not that we're endorsing this, instead just too distracted to monitor daily dressing. But don't worry, I did make him wash his hands before making the balls. As I said before, I do have standards.

Valley of Fire

Imagine if you will, a bluer sky and redder rocks, and you will then be envisioning the Valley of Fire. It was our detour upon return from Zion to Vegas. A detour to Mars. After this, we did not get out of the vehicle because it was just too dog gone hot. Packin' heat for sure.

The two lady detectives and me. Can you pick out the oddball who could not shoot a gun or open a refreshment with handcuffs even if there is no bottle opener?

I don't know if this means anything, but I just wanted to convey an unusual series of events that includes this picture.

Monday -- Hike Angel's Landing. I get vertigo.

Tuesday -- Return to Vegas via Valley of Fire.

Friday -- Des Moines. Lightning strikes front yard tree. Orange fireball. Loud like a bomb.

Saturday -- Mama taxi driver gets dizzy on the freeway. Probably shouldn't be driving, but we won't go into that.

Sunday -- Go to a spirituality class and pick this Bible verse out of the hat: For love is strong as death, passion fierce as the grave. Its flashes are flashes of fire, a raging flame. Song of Solomon 8:6

Monday -- Mama taxi driver still dizzy. Drat, thinking on calling a doc. Drive slowly and hold head. Hear a report on how to treat vertigo on the radio. Treat my own vertigo with the Epley Maneauver, a 90 second head turning exersize. It works. For what it's worth, I think my ear rocks moved during the lightning strike, not the cliffside hike.

Tuesday: Still cured.

I don't know what that all means but you will be relieved to know that I am now back to ethical mama taxi driving.

Thanks so much for coming over!

Cheers, T

Washing in Virgin Waters

Thanks to the Mormon's, most of the natural wonders at Zion National Park are named for religious themes. Virgin River. Angel's Landing. The Three Patriarchs. Temple of Sinawa. Cathedral Mountain. Great White Throne. And such.

The most omnipresent is the Virgin River because it runs all the way through. You see it on top of mountains as well as in the valley. You see it even in the car drive back to Vegas. Virgin River. Virgin River. Virgin River. You sit by it and rest your feet in its icy waters. But you will not chat with your travel companions because you cannot. The Virgin River is too loud. Transfixed by the Virgin River, your mind, body, and soul go somewhere else for about a half an hour.

Personal brain cleanse courtesy of the Virgin River rapids.

The cool thing about the Virgin River is that it evolved from a prehistoric stream, according to the visitor center film. Have you ever heard of something prehistoric that transformed into something virgin? Indeed, that is religious.

I hope you think this picture is awesome. As awesome as it is, sadly it doesn't even come close to the vivid color and depth of the real thing. This photo is taken from the point in which I backed out of the Angel's Landing hike. Keeping with the religious themes, I think they should call it the You-Might-Go-to-Hell hike. Call me vertigo lady. I thought it was scary beautiful. If I got my facts and figures right those mountain sides are about a mile high, from Virgin River up.

Laters. Thanks for coming over.

With love, T

#1 Lady's Hiking Agency

Hello, is anybody out there?

You may or may not have noticed that I was gone. I tricked my kids and told them I was gambling in Vegas. The truth is much more interesting and my sore muscles are here to prove it. I hiked canyons with two NYPD Lady Detectives who really know how to put up with a softy gringo gal. I got vertigo. They didn't. The mountain did not actually cave in from under me and yet it was awesome. What ever you do, don't look over the cliff edges and hang onto the chains. Could someone please tell those Japanese tourists to get away from the edge? I'm getting dizzy.

Ok, I didn't really tell the children that I was gambling. They were just hoping that I was. Instead we hit the trails. I'll post some pictures later.

Red Rock Canyon, Nevada
Zion Canyon, Utah
Valley of Fire, Nevada
Batista's Hole in the Wall, Las Vegas

Of course, as always, I really really missed my three rascals and now it's off to total taxi mom duties.

Thanks for coming over to the Charmer Blog!

With love, T

Get Ready for New York City!

The Charmer Blog is doing spring break in NYC and you’re all coming! So pack your pretend bags and get ready for your virtual vacation to the Big Apple. March 16-23 or so.

As pre-trip orientation the Charmer Blog is requiring the reading assignment below to familiarize with your local hosts, the inlaws, the Speirs-O-Brooklyn. To quote Bob, "We may be crazy, but we’re not dangerous."
THE FEEDING OF THE IN LAWSTrue story. New York City blackout. 2003.

Put my brother-in-law, Ragaey, an appliance, and edible raw materials together and you get a miracle in your mouth. Great tasting food. No electricity needed. Even when a power grid outage in Ohio shuts down the entire eastern seaboard.

The in laws who Ragaey and I share, the Speirs-O-Brooklyn, realized the gravity of this emergency when their favorite neighborhood eateries could not serve. How would they get dinner? Even fast food had no power. The Speirs-O-Brooklyn knew they had one and only one chance at a good meal. Ragaey. And so the in laws, their friends, and their neighbors all made way to the homestead on 45th Street (photo). Hitching rides or walking. Everyone wondering if this was another 911 event. Picking up others along the way. In the dark. They just came.

Meanwhile, Ragaey returned from a day's work as general manager of Newark airport. On this day, generally managing the most congested airspace in the world during a blackout. But he knew that his most important mission was yet to come. He had to feed the in laws, and their friends and neighbors.

And feed he did. Ragaey neither cared nor counted how many people were there. He just fired up the grill and started cooking. Beef, lamb, chicken, fish, peppers, zucchini, carrots. He even whipped up a big pot of fluffy, buttery rice in the backyard night. Yes, fluffy rice cooked on a grill. Topping off with home-brewed Egyptian tea. (Sister-in-law Carol gets the credit for that.) It was a feast. And Bob was right in there, eating as much and as fast as Ragaey could cook. And all the Speirs survived the blackout. As did their friends and neighbors.

When the Charmer Blog goes to NYC, we will eat our way through Brooklyn. And so will you.

Get ready!

Take care, Terri

Note: This archived story was written when Bob had lost 50 pounds to anorexia, courtesy of the liver black out of 2006-07.

My Little Paris

This is what I call Des Moines because of all the artists, musicians and writers.

I was trying to explain this to the guy next to me at the wifi wine bar yesterday in St. Paul. He didn't believe me.

No really I say. People in Des Moines are not just musicians, they're in 2-3 bands. They're not just artists, they have studios. They're not just writers, they earn a living.

The guy wasn't buying it. Gave me a huge crumpled face look as though I was crazy.

Seriously, I further explain. And all the grocery stores have full liquor sections inside. It's very cultured and civilized.

And then there's the Iowa caucuses system.

I don't think he knew what those were. That's OK, I didn't either before I went to one.

Why is it that where ever you live you believe it's superior to other places? And why do I always want to be somewhere else even when I like where I am? I'm thinking about my frequent flier miles even as I happily return home to get all my ears full of simultaneous updates in stereo from Amanda and Aidan.

dress up day at school
who wore what
the best dress ups
lets go to the vintage store
new piano teacher
finger exercises
rollerskating
play date
what did I buy them
the basketball game
the youth group meeting
can we go to the movie
the Indian buffet

It's great to be home! And it's fantastic to open up your life.

photo: Cafe di Scala, This is where the St. John's call committee suggested for me and Bob when we came down for his final interview. The night we went there was a woman crooning torchy songs over the piano. Have you ever met a church who would send their prospective new pastor to a place like this? Only in Des Moines. My little Paris. (Ed and Mari, If you're out there, thanks again for this.)

Take care everyone!

With love, T

Too Much Information

Friends, I'm telling you right now. Don't read this blog dispatch. You will regret it. I know I should not even write it except for that I have to. There are some stories that must be told. Dignity be damned.

There is an imaginary family who live in a midwestern suburb. An ordinary family. Mom, Dad, Sister, and Brother. And two kittens who are living on the edge. 

One member of the ordinary family who will not be named. . .well, Ok, let's just say that member of the family needed some immediate emergency attention by both Mom and Dad. In the bathroom. With the assistance of head lice shampoo and fine toothed combs. They say it takes up to three hours for this process. Especially if that un-mentioned family member has long and thick hair. 

Anywho, so it's a real family affair. The three of us in a small bathroom combing and picking and disguarding tiny little nasties. Search and destroy over the vanity sink.

Wait. 

Not three of us. Four. 

Because the more agresssive of the two cats has decided to do its yoga routine at the feet of the unmentionable lice victim. Languidly sprawling out on his furry little back on her feet, on the tiles in front of the heat vent. 

O no, not four. There are five of us. 

Because now the lice victim's brother has to pee and he's too scared to use the bathroom downstairs because his entire family and pets are in this bathroom. What can they do? He crawls past everyone and. . .you know. Make your own sound effect.

CRASH.

Darn. The ordinary suburban mother's wine glass just shattered all over the bathroom floor. That's right folks. This was the perfect setting for a smooth Friday night merlot. Wash the week away. Down the drain. Flush the toilet. Brush the comb. Disinfest the scalp. Sweep the floor. 

Human bonding, people. 

And if you actually did read this dispatch, I am very sorry for the truths you have just learned about this imaginary ordinary midwestern suburban family. And yet I'm so grateful that you came over because as you can imagine these people need all the friends they can muster.

Take care, T