Not an atypical week.

Gabe is putting weird, powdery, banana flavored stuff in milk. Nothing like a hit of banana Lactaid to get you back in homework-tackling form.

It’s one of those weeks or so that I teeter on the brink of wacko. Jeff is in Colorado for two definable purposes. 1)To help his brother Wade retrofit a latter-day hippie communal housing project, and 2)so Wade can take him on a round (several rounds, from what I’m hearing) of poking from the acupuncturist, pounding from the masseuse, and prodding from the homeopath. They have noticed something interesting which I had not picked up on. Jeff can have a conversation as long as his eyes are closed. The minute he opens them the confusion returns and the dazed look prevails. This will be important for me to remember. Close your eyes...I’d like your opinion on [whatever.] Today he wondered if I would mind him staying another week as Wade has a deadline. And I don’t really mind. Since I hadn’t learned the eye-closing trick I’ve spent the last several years making like an Amazon. (we keep men for breeding purposes, but do everything else ourselves.)

I’ve been working on budgeting. The truth has generally been that I stink at budgets, but am adequate at muddling through. Muddling though, as a manner of being, is starting to get to me, and I would really like to feel capable of budgeting. To this end, I located (online, where else?) a cute little Palm program called Quik Budget (note that it offers no assistance with spelling.) Happily, Palm software has made small enough strides in the past several years that the PDA I acquired when I needed a drug database is still completely up to the task of running Quik Budget. So, as long as I remember to input the occasional lattes, and the frequent grocery errands, Quik Budget is supposed to inform me when it’s time to eat just Cheerios, and maybe even the Cheerios box.

As for going wacko--well, I’m trying to quell that tendency by doing yoga by candlelight and hacking away, bit by bit, at my story.

All that’s left of the Easter jelly beans are a few pinks and oranges at the bottom of the bowl. Pink is supposed to be grapefruit, but Becca got a bubblegum this afternoon. A factory jokester maybe. I don’t think anyone will eat the few remainders as it appears that Gabe cut a goodly number of them in half with scissors. Hard to say why. Probably for the same reason that he has a bunch of thumbtacks stuck into a roll of duct tape on his desk.

One more reason to run a yellow light.

What do other people think of intersection fundraising? The reason I wonder is because of the diverse collection of attitudes that run through my brain every time I’m faced with this type of solicitation--and that’s often nowadays. I’m not even talking about the homeless people with cardboard signs that say “God bless” on them. I’m referring strictly to the kind of folks who usually present in the following way: 5 gallon bucket with a slot in the lid, and some kind of flyer taped to the outside. They usually wear day-glo safety vests, and there are usually several at one intersection, the better to be accessible to cars going in any direction.

Today’s group, at the intersection of Forest Drive and Route 2, was a textbook example. In these cases I’m often grateful to be several cars back from the light, because they might not get to me, but today I was at the head of the line, one lane over from the median. Of course the lady crossed the lane. I pretended to be listening intently to Ladysmith Black Mambazo, but still had to turn my head slightly in her direction and shake it, just in the interest of human acknowledgment.

I did notice the bucket. It said, in slightly rain-smeared inkjet print, New Life Church. I have never heard of New Life Church. It could stand for anything or nothing. I noticed that all three of the ladies working the intersection had on hausfrau-esque dresses. How could I be sure that New Life Church doesn’t espouse a backward repressive theology requiring all women to wear dresses? On the other hand, it’s entirely possible that their manner of dress reflected the fact that they were all, shall we say, zaftig, and they were wearing what they find the most comfortable. You just don’t know, do you? And should I really care whether the church requires its women to wear ugly dresses if it uses money for a good cause? Perhaps not, but how can one possibly assess whether a)the cause is good, and b)they’re even telling the truth, at a 20 second stoplight?

So there I am subjected to a whole host of unanswerables--Would I approve of their goals? Could I even open my wallet fast enough if I knew I approved, and if I did, would I even have a loose buck? Am I just a stingy curmudgeon who engages in these psychological inner battles to avoid charity? Do I mind if they get plowed down by the impatient dude in the ugly Hummer one lane over? Couldn’t they find a less annoying way to raise funds? And if the answer is “no,” does it therefore make intersection soliciting ok?

I have more or less decided that I don’t drop money into unknown buckets. But the good that the bucket people do--if I should give them any credit for this--is that after I pass a certain critical mass of intersection bucket brigades, my guiltometer reaches the red zone and I send a donation to--for example--the Lighthouse Shelter or Habitat or something. And that is the upside.

Food, glorious food.

The time in my life when I enjoyed grocery shopping was when I lived in an apartment near the University of Maryland, with Ginny. In those days, cooking was fun. Stocking our kitchen (it had a pink stove and refrigerator, which lowered our rent by $50 a month,) gave us a giddy sense of independence, and cooking was a relaxing diversion from the necessary drudgery of studying for another chemistry exam.

As I recall, I kind of liked it during the early days of marriage too. I seem to remember having the turntable somewhere weird, like on top of a kitchen cabinet, but it pleased me to spin a Judds lp while putting thoughtful preparation into a meal at our downtown house. (which we left at 7 months gestation because I remember being keenly aware that when the burglars next came a’knocking I could easily climb from the bedroom deck, to the courtyard wall, to the neighbor’s yard myself, but a baby would limit my escape possibilities.)

I distinctly remember making the point to Jeff that grocery shopping with a baby was twice as hard as doing it solo. (not that shopping solo as a young, unencumbered 20-something is even remotely difficult, so you could make it twice as hard without doing much damage.) But even dinner prep, with the kid around, had its charm. I tended to tuck the little one in a front-carrier and carry on as usual, with the occasional tendency to drop pasta sauce on the kid’s head.

I stopped liking grocery shopping as it came to mean the following things: Someone would drop a jar of applesauce in aisle 9. Someone would sneak Sugar-blasted fluorescent gummy-snake puffs into the cart when I wasn’t looking. Someone would have a nuclear meltdown in the check-out line. And years later, someone would go shopping with me as a consultant, only to decry (the very next day) the utter lack of edible food in the house..

There was an even messier slew of reasons why my interest in cooking dried up and died an early death. Most people know this one--children like to fight and yell during dinner prep time. But I had some unique ones: A year spent with rainwater falling in 30 gallon trash cans all over the house--several in the kitchen. Several years during which the demolition stage of the house transformation meant that loose insulation and 40 year old rotten rafter debris were as likely to be unintentional dietary additives as dog and cat hair.

It seems that the family has more or less learned to accept that they don’t have that kind of mother anymore. And something cool is happening--not all the time, but last night was a shining example--Becca made vegetable pot pie. Olivia made mashed potatoes. Gabe made apple crumble. I ate. And under the circumstances, I was more than happy to help clean up.