Adventure Mom

Splendid at the Checkout I couldn't decide if she was ridiculous in her splendor, or splendid in her ridiculousness. The first thing that caught my eye perched on her head. From the baking products aisle of the Countdown grocery store, the head lump looked like a white beehive. A closer look from the checkout line revealed this 80-something Kiwi glama-gramma had fashioned a turban from (I think...) a pair of nylon stockings. It was braided and snaked around a mass of grey-blond hair. 12 Magpies could nest in that turban. Glama-gramma chatted easily with the checker, clutching her receipt between shiny fake fuchsia talons. Diamond-looking rings sparkled from several fingers. A thick paste of sky-blue cream eyeshadow and long, fake, black eyelashes obscured her eyes. Her lips and wrinkled cheeks were painted bright pink She'd decorated herself like a Christmas tree, wearing a dozen or 20 silver necklaces and roughly the same number of jingly silver bracelets, the kind with

Prayer: Why Bother? Two people I know here in New Zealand are experiencing major crises involving ill or injured family members. One of those people asked me to pray. While I'm not a prayer expert (more of a prayer polliwog), I could be a crisis expert (after living through a late husband's critical illness for four-and-a-half months; the birth and subsequent operation of a pre-term baby and my own sky-is-falling-wait-maybe-not health crisis). When things go terribly wrong, like when the husband who's supposed to return from the hospital dies in the ICU instead, you think about prayer differently. It's not about outcomes. It was never about outcomes. We pray (or wish, or hope, or whatever...) for a return to physical health, wholeness, financial security. We pray (or wish, or hope, or whatever...) for our ideal. We rarely reach what we thought was ideal. Expectations can get snuffed like candle flames. Some studies have shown prayer  can  influence outcome. That'

Housing Crisis I just looked in the mirror and saw a smudge of dark chocolate coating my upper lip. Red wine stains my teeth. My reflection is that of a woman on the edge. I’ve indulged three of my vices tonight – chocolate, red wine and watching fat people on TV (a 651-pound American lost 331 pounds. If nothing else, you can watch his story and think, ‘Thank God I’m not that guy. Now, where’s my snack?’ ) The reason for the solitary pity party: What started as a crap afternoon morphed into a shit storm of Kiwi cow dung. Here’s the rub: I hired the cows. I orchestrated their, ah-hem, movements. This is a mess of my own doo-doing (pardon the pun - I couldn't resist). Before you stop me, let me tell you – you cannot have my job: Own Worst Critic. I’ve loafed long and hard to get where I am today. I’m damn good at this job, and not about to give it up. It pays nothing and has no tangible benefits – no vacation, expense account or wardrobe allowance. Plus, I’m on call 24/7. Unless

Test Match Pete and kiddos before the All Blacks' game, Eden Park, Auckland “All Blacks! All Blacks! All Blacks!” the crowd in the nosebleed section, where we’re sitting, thunders the cheer: “All Blacks! All Blacks! All Blacks!” The Boyfriend, Pete, quips, “You think they’d come up with a better chant.” I’m sitting in Eden Park Stadium in Auckland with Pete to my right, Fiona and Finley to my left. I’ve just painted the kids’ faces – half black, half white. Fiona wears a souvenir black beanie sponsored by a cell phone company. It says, “Backing Blacks” and “Telecom.” She looks especially grown-up tonight, with her adult-sized teeth and long, chestnut-colored hair cascading from beneath her hat. Pete got discount tickets to the rugby game (they call it a “test match,” which I don’t get, because “test” sounds more like a scrimmage than a game among international rivals) between New Zealand’s All Blacks and Australia’s Wallabies.  The Boyfriend texted to ask whether the