Supergirl (and family) in St. Helena
On 680, Superdad remarked that when he was at Stanford, "going to Napa" meant "going nuts"--a reference to the mental hospital up in Napa at the time. When *I* was at Stanford, "going to Napa" meant driving Grandma's 1984 Chrysler LeBaron convertible with white-sided wheels and sparkling silver hubcaps over the Golden Gate Bridge and along Highway 29 to go winetasting with some friends. Ten years later, Supermom, Superdad, and I were motoring the Highlander along 680 (less traffic) and over the Benicia Bridge to cruise into St. Helena on the Saturday of Labor Day weekend. I've become my parents in more ways than one--two of them involve taking back roads to avoid traffic and going places on Saturday instead of Friday night (also to avoid traffic). Or maybe we're just people who shouldn't live in a densely populated metro area. At any rate, we made good time and arrived at the wacky Hotel St. Helena at the same time as Superbro and girlfriend and my parents' entire neighborhood. We were in town for a close family friend's wedding the next evening. We had some merlot in the hotel bar with statues of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, as well as a few gnomes, and went to dinner at Cindy's Backstreet Kitchen. It's a cute place with inventive cuisine and really great water glasses, but That Guy ended up at the table behind us, and he was so loud and annoying that we were sort of relieved to head back to the hotel.

When I went to look at the guestbook, I realized that the husband of one couple had signed his wife's name, and where others put their addresses, wrote, "House of Ill Repute." Their neighbors put their names down and wrote, "Neighbors of Ill Repute." We continued with Friends of Ill Repute, Children of Ill Repute, etc. They may regret having a guestbook now that we've been there.

The hotel is filled with old dolls and toys and antiques--the rooms feel like a guest room at someone's house. I slept comfortably and woke up the next morning to run around town. I actually ran down Highway 29--the traffic doesn't hit till late morning--and then through the back streets of the town, along a beautiful walking path that borders several acres of grapevines, with a view of the mountains that frame the Napa Valley. I admired the cute Victorians along the way and made friends with two black lab puppies who were supervising their owner's painting of a white picket fence. Aw.

I got back in time to have the "European-style breakfast" advertised in the hotel brochure--along with my parents and the whole neighborhood. It was great to catch up with everyone--my parents are fortunate to live in an area where most of the kids are in the same age range, and everyone is incredibly supportive of each other. I have gained a deep appreciation for long-term friendships and community support by watching my parents and our family friends from the neighborhood model kindness and caring.

Everyone peeled off for various outings--one couple went to see a cousin up in Calistoga, one group was going to see some tourist sites and taste some wine--and my family suited up, hopped in the 'lander, and drove off down the Silverado trail--well, after Supermom and Superbro, the most stubborn members of the family, spent a half hour digging the middle seatbelt holder out of a jam underneath the seat.

I was innapropriately dressed--when I think California summer activities, I immediately put on shorts and a tank top. I also had my trusty Chaco sandals on for good arch support. Most of the other ladies out tasting were wearing wedge sandals, Seven jeans, and much tinier tank tops, plus makeup and jewelry. I figured I would just pass for a high schooler and let it go. We tasted some great wine, admired some lovely gardens, stopped for lunch at Oakville Grocery, and headed back to rest and get ready for the wedding.

The wedding was spectacular. Beautiful outdoor ceremony, wonderful indoor dinner, amazing food and wine, great band. We headed home with the other neighbors when we had danced ourselves into the ground, and when we returned to the hotel, thought it would be a great idea to check out all the other rooms. My parents had the hugest bed anyone had ever seen, and Nancy and Tom from around the block (next door neighbors of the groom's family) had the smallest bathroom known to man. No one could stop giggling. I thought, wait till I tell all their kids about this!

I had enjoyed my run that day so much that I got up early Monday morning for a repeat. We had breakfast again and said goodbye--another way I am my parents is that we get an early start when driving home on a holiday weekend. We cruised home, enjoying the strains of Faith Hill and The Judds. September is probably the most beautiful time in the Napa Valley, and it was such a treat to get up there with my whole family and many of our oldest friends to celebrate love, marriage, family, and friendship.

I Didn't Go to Burning Man
There have been three times I considered it: when the Egreetings gang was going, but I couldn't get the time off work, when Spacegirl went and encouraged me to come along, but I was teaching and couldn't be out of my classroom the second week of school, and last month, when my dear friend Mark mentioned that he was going, and I thought, "Oh man, it's my last chance to go, probably, and there's no way I can make it happen." The only thing I did have was really something I didn't have: a full-time job requiring my presence during Labor Day week. However, I also had appointments, social plans, and packing to do for my impending move to Delaware (with detours to Kauai and my parents' for a week each). There was no way it was going to happen, but still...this pang. I know that if I went to Burning Man with good friends, planned out my outfits, brought all my camping stuff and dehydrated gourmet meals, and stayed in the Hush camp where Spacegirl stayed this year (everyone goes to bed and sleeps through the night), I'd enjoy it. The art would be fascinating on that desert tableau.

However, since I stayed home, instead, I lived vicariously through the pictures the NY Times had on their website every day, and helped Mark prepare his outfits. They were fabulous: red cowboy outfit, white space captain outfit, Speedos of every color with accessories. I'll admit to a minor pang, but I also have a pang that Superdad and I didn't make it to the Oregon Shakespeare Festival this year to see Richard Newcombe in Jekyll and Hyde. As Superdad always says, you can't have all your life experiences before you're 50. Sometimes you have to pick and choose. I've spent quality time with friends and family this summer and fall, got some closure on teaching, returned to freelance writing, and packed. I am ready for the East Coast and all the adventures it will provide. I may never make it to Burning Man, but Spacegirl and Mark will indulge me with photos and fashion shows, and maybe I can convince them to celebrate New Year's Eve in Gettysburg.

I Was a Substitute Teacher
When my former colleagues heard I wasn't moving away until October, they all wanted to know if I was going to sub. Of course, I replied. Great way to make money, and no meetings! As it turned out, I only ended up with about six days in which I had nothing previously planned, so I gave the dates to The Sub Guy who hires the subs for our district, and was immediately booked for my first date. It was probaby the easiest sub job ever. Seventh grade honors math and 7th/8th grade Leadership--four class periods. A great way to get my feet wet. The kids were all nice, because it was only the first week of school (still in shock), and many of them knew me because their siblings had taken my English and Newspaper classes.

The next gig didn't start out as smoothly. My second free day had passed without a morning phone call. However, on day three of availability, the phone rang at 7:30 A.M. Because most sub request calls come between 6:30 A.M. and 7:00 A.M., I had a moment where I thought, "That's not a sub call--it's something else." Then I thought, "but what else would it be?". Sure enough--a sub request. Someone who'd been ill all weekend thought maybe she'd be OK that week, but nope--still sick. So she called in, I was on the list, and I got the call. Fortunately, first period was covered already. I walked in second period, ready to teach eighth grade algebra for the rest of the day. OK, not ready to teach algebra. I didn't remember algebra. Nor could I find the lesson, the math book, the overheads, or the homework. However, the second-period yearbook kids (thank goodness I started with that!) who had math later that day told me where we were in the book and how the class was typically structured. I spent a few minutes digging around in the classroom and unearthed the book, the lesson, and the overheads--triumphant! By third period, I was ready. I taught the lesson (I remembered algebra), unearthed the homework assignment, and let the kids start their homework. I helped them out, had some fun, and was so comfortable by sixth period that when one young man started acting out, I sent him to the office without missing a beat, and then busted his friend for copying the correct homework answers right in front of me, while everyone else was correcting their neighbors' homework. I said to him, "It's time to start giving adults a little more credit, hon." Needless to say, he went to the office, too.

I canceled substitute availability date #4 for reasons I can't remember, but did get the call for date #5--a day ahead of time, which was nice. I subbed for my former teaching partner, so I basically taught my old curriculum to a very sweet, well-behaved group of kids. Once again, I knew many of them, and it was a completely positive and fun day. The icing on the cake was getting to see my old colleagues and feel like I was able to say a fond goodbye and know that I could return to school to sub or visit anytime.

I would have gladly subbed day #6, but didn't get a call. I contentedly slept in, and have been back to visit school one or two times since. I'll go back one last time before I move away, and then will probably return to visit during my trips back to CA. I have made peace with leaving teaching, because our move schedule for the next couple of years will not coincide with a teaching schedule at all, so it's time for work that doesn't need to adhere to a rigid schedule. I am enjoying my return to writing as a profession, and it's a delight to watch my first students become high school seniors and apply to college, and to appreciate education with a new perspective. I had considered subbing in my new location, but because I don't know that I'd be able to return to teaching for a few years, I don't think I will. I'd rather devote myself to writing part-time or full-time, and feel that I'm moving forward, than be "the sub" for multiple years. Plenty of people sub for awhile, for various reasons, and I admire them, but I'm not cut out for it. It's been one thing to sub at the place I taught for four years, working with kids and faculty I know well. It's a whole new beast to be at an unfamiliar school, with new kids and faculty. I'll enjoy my returns to the school that will always feel like home to me (I went there, after all!), and enjoy returning to writing.

Poppette the Rockette

Matt was the one who wanted the cat. I wasn't ready. I wanted to be able to spend the weekend in the city whenever I felt like it, and not have some furry thing waiting to be fed back at home. But I love animals, and of course then he started showing me pictures of kittens on the Palo Alto Humane Society web site, and once I see a kitten, I want it. So, we agreed to go to a cat fair that Saturday. We knew if we went to the cat fair, we'd come home with a cat. When we walked into the fair, a little girl was sitting near the entrance with a cute orange cat on her lap. I breathed, "Ohhh, what a cute kitty." As Matt steered me inside to see more cats, I heard the volunteer asking the little girl, "Now, sweetie, how did you say your hamster died, again?" I turned to Matt and said, "If anyone asks me how my pets died to deem whether I'm fit to have a new one or not, I'm going to fall apart. It's a sensitive day today." We met George, the sweet-eyed brown tabby, Mona, a dainly little black cat, Grigio, a huge Russian Blue, whose poor owner had to give him up when he entered assisted living (sensitive day, indeed; I teared up when I heard that), and Dunkin, Donuts, and Latte, tabbies of the orange variety who had only just left feral cat-dom and, according to the placard by their cage, were "still getting used to this being-someone's-pet idea." Tabbies and Calicos and everything in between. Old and young, recent strays and fully domesticated--we had many options.

I longingly walked over to the orange cat's cage. "Poppy," her placard read, "is a rare female orange tabby, deep orange in color, with a long, feathery tail--a real glamour girl! She loves to sit in your lap and to chat." I have a weakness for orange tabbies, because my confessed favorite of my parents' three cats is Simba, a 14-pound orange tabby who runs out to greet me when I arrive, sneaks into my car and refuses to get out when I try to leave, accompanies me everywhere, and is so mellow that he'll ride around in my shoulder bag if I put him in. I wanted Poppy, but the little girl we had walked past had already applied to adopt her. I pouted and moved on to three calico kittens. Sweetpea, Zinnia, and Pansy, they were called. We had to apply to adopt them to hold them. That's how they get you--pretty good strategy. Separate the wheat from the chaffe, as it were. We filled out the form (which did, in fact, ask if we had ever lost a pet, and how. One dog each to cars, and several cats and dogs to old age.) I held Sweetpea, who promptly curled up in my lap and went to sleep ("Sometimes cats choose you," said a volunteer.). Matt held Zinnia, who was a feisty little devil. They were to be adopted together. We said we'd have to check with our homeowners' association, but still went and bought cat litter and kitten food, in our excitement.

Unfortunately, when I called the HOA, I learned that the rule is one pet per household. I don't break the rules, unless the rules are discriminatory, and I didn't think this qualified. Matt didn't want to separate the kittens, so after a teary discussion, we called the cat lady and rescinded our adoption application.

Thanksgiving passed, and we recovered. We were now looking at the PAHS web site at a rate of about five times a day, and Poppy, the orange tabby, was still pictured. I said, "I wish we could have gotten her; there aren't any requirements about her being adopted with another cat. I guess they're not updating their website." Matt said, "Ask." This is a typical conversation in our household: Me, drama. Matt, ask. He usually gives good advice, so I emailed the cat lady to ask about Poppy. She responded, "Poppy is still looking for that perfect home. If you'll apply to adopt her, you can come see her at this weekend's cat fair and pick her up then." I danced for joy. We applied, we went to the cat fair. We picked her up and walked around the pet store with her. Three little girls ran up, and the dad with them asked, "Carly, is this the kitten that's your favorite?" I turned to her. "Sweetie, did you have another kitty you liked? We already applied to adopt this one." Matt hissed, "You're mean!", but I just thought she should know before she set her expectations. We held Poppy, who was quite mellow, and the pet store owner put on some cat Christmas carols--you know, where the cat meows are set to the tune of "Silent Night." "Meow, meow, meow, meow," went the recording. And Poppy added, "Mew!" "Meow, meow, meow, meow," "Mew!" That clinched it. She was coming home with us. We touched base with the cat lady, made arrangements for her to drop Poppy off later that afternoon, and went home.

They weren't kidding when they wrote that she liked to chat. Lap sitting, not so much. She prefers to be right next to you. But she does talk. She carries on when we get home from being gone for a while, when she wants to be fed, when she's playing. It's hilarious. She chirps to greet us and coos when we pet her. She chatters at birds and at her kitty buddies in the windows of their condos. The funniest thing is that she plays fetch. When she was younger, we'd throw her little rattling mice all over the house, and she would run after them and bring them back to us. Now, she's more picky. She'll fetch twist ties and return them, but mice are to be thrown onto a chair, or, preferably, onto the red chair, where she goalie-blocks them and then chirps at us to throw another. She loves to bat around twist ties, but loses them rapidly, so she will pretend she's hidden the twist tie under the area rug and attack the edges of it. For a while, she would only chase the shadow of her cat dancer, and ran in circles until she wore herself out. She sits on a chair at the table with me when I work, sits next to us on the couch, and even, sometimes, snuggles on the bed all night. In the morning, she brings a toy into bed and attacks our feet until we play with her. She loves playing fetch from the bed. Having a pet is delightful. I had no idea how much fun it would be to have my own. And now, if you'll excuse me, someone wants to play!