Sassafrass

We say goodbye to Kiddieland

I didn't realize how sad I am that Kiddieland is closing next week until we pulled into the parking lot and I saw the sign. The same sign that welcomed my brother and me for special birthday visits and summer excursions for years and years when we were kids.

Once upon a time, my brother and I clamored for the small Ferris wheel with cages to keep small children safely inside. We rode the carousel. We cranked away on the push-cars. We rode and rode and rode the roller coaster, even if it was (just a little) scary.

Now we were back at Kiddieland just days away from Lil E's birthday, riding many of the same rides I remembered and some new(ish) ones. The long line was not what I remembered but shelling out a small fortune for tickets and hot dogs in stale buns seemed very much the same.

It was all blue skies and sunshine and squeals and just a fabulous day. And because I am the mommy this time around, I did something my parents rarely agreed to -- I splurged on some deliciously warm and fresh cotton candy as we left the park. 

It saddens me that this place that brimming full of simple, memory-making, child-centered fun will soon vanish into thin air, and that the space (as we've heard) will rise up again as one more Costco in a long stretch of suburbia.

We had our day in the sun and now more than every, you will be missed, Kiddieland.

[Lots of photos after the jump.]

Dirty words. Yes, about Michael Jackson.

The night Michael Jackson died, Lil E was introduced to him. As the news was breaking on CNN, I was camped out on the couch with my son and my laptop, furiously trying to get up a post on his death. Lil E is quite used to the spontaneous ways I sometimes am called to work, and he invested himself in the story as much as I did. He watched, listened, peered over my shoulder at the images I was choosing.

And he asked questions. Lots and lots of questions. I tried to answer them all, but we all know there are many, many mysterious surrounding Michael Jackson that are probably left un-probed, particularly for a wide-eyed preschooler. I have this honesty policy with my child and so I answered as much and as best as I could for his age and for the time I had in between cutting and pasting links.

Once the conversation about him began, Michael Jackson seemed to move right into our home and daily life. Just the other day, weeks and weeks since the singer was memorialized but strikingly close to the day when he was finally (finally!) laid to rest, Lil E emerged from the bathroom with his hands up in the air surgical style.

I looked at him quizzically.

"I went potty but I cannot wash my hands" he explained in voice that would lead one to believe he had a very rational reason for letting those germs settle into his palms.

I couldn't ask.

"There is some kind of brownish-peachish powder on the sink." This time, his rationale was laced with the furrowed eyebrows of concern.

Still quiet, I went into the bathroom and investigated.

"It's make-up," I said, wiping it up with a sponge as I explained. "I must have spilled some powder on the counter. Big deal."

"I didn't want to touch it!" His response was too quick, perhaps slightly dramatized. But then his words eased back to that calm, cool, a-duh tone as he stared at me, rolled his eyes and left the room. "I don't want to end up looking like Michael Jackson!"

My make-up wasn't exactly jumping up to smother his little face and from what I could tell, his button nose was still attached to his dimpled cheeks. Still, he had a point.

I am not there

And I wish I was. I wish I was dancing at this reunion of the DJs at the clubs I frequented when I was in high school and college. I wish I was shaking it under a cloud of dry ice and sweat and matte red lipstick.

But I couldn't find a sitter (or to be more accurate, my sitter had a DJ gig of her own to rest up for, and I love that she does), and so I am at home trying not to read the Facebook and Twitter updates about the night.

There's an empty spot on top of a speaker at Lumen tonight, though. But I'm there in spirit. In all of my 17-year-old slicked back, amped up just to be in the room spirit.

40 is no joke yo

I am not 40 yet. But I am just a few clicky-heel steps away from it.

 In fact, I was just adding to the creeping lines around my eyes the other day by whining (over the phone so no one would see the wrinkles but me, because I was (duh) staring into the mirror while I was talking) about how I will be 37 in a couple of weeks. I have this whole thing about identifying myself as being in my mid-30s, and I was wingeing about how 37 is clearly no longer within those bounds. I did the same thing in my late-20s and early 30s, so it is a loop I like to play over and over to my thoroughly bored but resilient grrrlfriends.

So...whining, wrinkles, late-30s. Not so funny. I will gleefully share way too many jokes about boob and hoo-hoo stuff. But gray hair and forehead scrunchies? Oh hell no.

The thing is, I feel happier, healthier, better  and (dare I say?) even hotter now -- even on the cusp of (shhht!) 37 -- than I have in years. Maybe even decades. I think it is because, like Oprah says (thanks, Oprah!), I know myself better now. I have been through enough stuff to really face who I am in trauma as well as in bliss, in partnerships and on my own, and in one year and out of another. Some of that comes with the head-shaking reality that I will probably never look anything but pregnant in an empire waist top and that I will always need to buy concealer in bulk. But just like I got OK with sleeping alone in my bed, not having a huge house filled with too many kids and not having bangs (alright, I am still trying to journal that one out), I know I can get OK with that stuff. Oh, and the number of years I've been on the planet, no matter how early, mid or late it is.

Here's what's helping me today: My friends CityMama and BadKitty have started a blog dedicated to the sass and sessiness and whatever-ness of turning 40. And, I kid you not, reading through their posts actually made me want to be in their turning-40 girl gang.

All in good time, I guess. For now, BadKitty's promised me I can get an embroidered jacket and hang with them. I promise in return to bring along all my concealer and hoo-hoo jokes, and leave the empire waist tops and whining at home.

You must check out 40 Whatever right now. I'm probably older and I insist.

Who knew we'd all be so into the circus? (And yes, I still want to be one of those fancy ladies.)

We can't stop talking about the circus

Even though Lil E had never seen the clowns, the elephants, the trapeze artists and all those classic circus thrills before, it was a toss up whether he or my parents were more excited to be there.

We did the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey thing around here. And that's how it should be, only days after Lil E's first visit to the circus., the four of us. Of course, my parents have been to the big top many times and they took us every other year when my brother and I were kids. We haven't been in a long, long time, though, and there is just nothing like watching that awe of seeing it all wash over a small child's face.

And awe, Lil E had. He was mesmerized the moment he saw the sequins (once again clarifying that he is my child) and acobats the moment we stepped on to the main floor for the All-Access Pre-show (why didn't they have this when we were kids?).

He tried on performer costumes, clapped enthusiastically for the clowns and got uncharacteristically shy around the pretty ladies (oh yes, I took notes on their whole fishnet-blinged out get-ups). 

When the lights went down and the live show started, Lil E's mouth dropped and I don't think he closed until the last tiger went through the closing curtain hours later.

BBecause the circus seems to have taken a Cirque vibe, we all were entranced by the men climbing, sliding and swinging from fabric and the women working the spinning rings in impossible contortionist maneuvers. I knew it would be fun, but I was surprised at what a great time we all had.

I'll admit, I was excited. But I was also prepared for the headaches and logistics and screaming masses of children that make even the best-intentioned outings with kids into a time of under-the-breath prayers and mathematic calculations to determine whether the wait in the concessions line and then the bathroom line are worth the sweet relief of a ten-dollar watered down beer. But this was not that. This was just so fun.

I didn't watch every single sequence and I saw my mom looking away as well. My dad did take his eyes off the Harley-inspired dancers with handlebars around their waists momentarily. When we did turn away it was to watch Lil E spontaneously throw his hands in the air or wave without realizing it, so caught up in the moment.

Even if it hadn't been so fun for all of us, I think I still would have been just as delighted seeing Lil E act out the motorcyclists in the big metal ball (do you think they make new ones or that it's the same one we watched back in the Evil Knievel days?) and pretend to be the horse riders doing stunts on my dad's legs. It would have been worth just to hear his uncontrollable little giggle remembering the "siwwwy clown" who put the cell phone down his pants and then yelled out, "Ooh! It's cold!"

Sitting in the dark and laughing with Lil E makes me remember how in love I was with the lady who twirled from her hair above me when I was a kid. And it makes me happy he gets a little of that cotton candy-laced dreaminess to take with him too.

Tons of photos after the jump.

Single Moms Playlist: Songs for moving on, mamas

In this scene of my life, there is music. Good music. Music I dance to, sing along with and listen to while I work and make pancakes and drink my seventh cup of coffee and drive to preschool and wiggle into lacy new bras and take long bubble baths.

As a part of reclaiming nearly the whole CD collection (except for some key guitar riff-driven reminders I do not need coming through the speakers....yes, that's a big, smiling buh-bye to you, Rusted Root!), I also listen to music while I do all the things I haven't done in years or ever -- while I am dutifully paying bills on time, strategizing how to get a month's worth of grocery shopping done in the twenty minutes I have left before the boy is dropped off and talking to my grrrlfriends late into the night. 

I've dug back into boxes and pulled out CDs and mix tapes I haven't heard since long before I met the Almost-Ex. Those songs seem to call to me as I remember who I was before that love scene became several long acts.

Now, words and direction are appearing on pages that were once blank. Now, there is also new music playing in the background. For months, I've wanted to write down what plays at certain times, to create some kind of soundtrack for all of this. And now, it is time.

This first playlist is an easy pick: Songs for moving on. It's where we're starting because it's where it all starts. Simple (and complicated) as that.

Whether you are a single parent entering or exiting stage left or are leaving a job or need some new music in your own speakers, I hope you enjoy.

And for the record, my iPod is about as functional as the oversized, soy butter and fishy cracker caked extra remote control we have floating around here for some reason. For that reason, we're kicking it YouTube style this set, my friends.

If this music isn't your style or I've left out a critical song, make some suggestions. Some days I'm just happy not to hear the theme song to Caillou or Lazy Town again, for God's sake, so I won't be offended if I'm not exactly on top of things over here. And not to worry, we are so going to get to the songs of bitterness, raunchiness, cussing and Justin Timberlake. All in good time, mamas. All in good time.

Click and cook or coffee or clear your mind or pack your own CDs up (after the jump, of course). Cheers to you and whatever plays out in your next scene.

Once upon a time I was an intern

Many years ago, before I spent my days and wee hours in front of a laptop, I spent my days and wee hours in front of a line editing machine at my college television station, all around campus and town interviewing people for the college newspaper, huddled over a light table for the college yearbook and tucked into a tiny booth for the college radio station. I was a journalism major to the geekiest degree.

My senior year, I was simultaneously the producer of the news (have I mentioned once or four-thousand times that I hired the lovely Jenna Fischer, now Pam from The Office, to be one of the anchors of the program I wrote, directed, edited and produced? I even have the scripts to prove it), had a weekly radio show, was Sports Editor of the yearbook (I know, I know) and was a contributing reporter for the paper. I loved it all so much and was so immersed in every aspect of on-campus media that it never occurred to me to be less involved.

At the time, my ambition was to be a columnist for Details magazine.

We interrupt this weekend for the funniest freaking thing you have ever seen

No, really.

Funnier than the time your college roommate fell off her supposed award-winning keg stand. More hilarious than that outfit you insisted was the bomb (I shudder just to say that) to the cluuuuubs the year you graduated from college. And yes, this bit of brilliance will have you pulling out your Black Sheep tapes and throwing your hands up in the name of Bonita Applebaum. Awwww yeah.

Probably the best part of this hilarity is that my grrrl Leotard Kelly flipped it my way and was all, "Ummm, yeah, you've probably already seen this, right?" She was all casual-like about it, as if she wasn't rolling on the rubberized gym floor over that It's Like This/It's Like That Pie Chart.

Now aren't you curious? Don't you want to click over? Don't you? You haven't yet? Maybe this will persuade you:

Oh. Mah. Gaw. I'm still laughing so hard, I can barely eat my M&Ms and a rice crackers, guzzle my glass of wine that's been living in an open bottle for three weeks and watch Friday Night Lights On Demand like I should be on a typical launch into the weekend. And that's such serious shiz yo, I am ordering this for myself. Or maybe this. I mean, as soon as I pull myself off the floor and push play on Friday Night Lights again.