We lounged about until the early afternoon today, and then got ourselves to near Western and Wilshire, where we descended into the blessedly cool depths of the Metro to catch a downtown-bound train headed for Staples Center, where we took in the Ringling Brothers Barnum & Bailey Thingie Named Whatchamacallit Entertainment Circus Show (it's got a long name, folks, is the joke here.)

Anyway. The kid, he enjoyed the circus quite a bit, but I'm not entirely certain that he didn't get a bigger thrill out of taking "the underground train." Although he really hated the fact that when we caught the Blue Line on the way there, we had to wait about 10 minutes before it left, so that we could ride for two minutes to the Pico/Chick Hearn/Staples Center stop. Sorry, kiddo.

The circus was pretty damn good, too. I was a bit bummed that this particular iteration didn't have the dudes who ride on motorcycles in a steel ball, but otherwise, totally aces. Especially for 15 bucks each.

On the way back, we decided to skip the Blue Line and simply hoof it up Figueroa to 7th/Metro - a pleasant walk since we were largely shaded by large buildings and it had become a pleasantly warm early evening, but the walk became a bit much for the kid. So I put him on my shoulders for the last block or so, and everybody ended up happy. He really enjoyed how subway stations get windy when a train is coming.

And hey, he's not the only one - I remember during my summer month in Prague how sometimes the only escape from the heat and humidity was to go underground and wait for a train to come - oh, that beautiful blast of cool air. I was there as a school thing, and one of our assignments was to write a poem, and I wrote a bad poem about just that. No, I don't still have it and wouldn't reproduce it here even if I did still have it. I'm no poet.

Anyway, we went to El Cholo for margaritas (well c'mon, we wanted him to sleep, so yeah, we got him a Cadillac margarita. He prefers them blended, but he's only 5, he doesn't know better), played tic-tac-toe and hangman on the coloring sheet/menu with the provided crayons, and munched up a tasty dinner. Then home to watch a They Might Be Giants kids' CD about numbers. A good day all around!

Today I attended an event at Glendale Community College, honoring the life of Ms. Sally Black, a nursing instructor at the college and not coincidentally my mother. A brand-spanking-new and frankly cool nursing lab was dedicated to her memory.

I've gone back and forth about writing anything more about her, though in times past I've written about other members of my family. But what came to me today is this: Everybody (well, almost everybody) is important to those who love them, and on this basis alone they should be eulogized and remembered. But my mom was a bit more than just a nice lady who I loved. She did something small but incredibly important. We all, especially those of us who live in Southern California, lost someone important on January 26, 2008. Which won't seem important, at least until you get sick.

You see, my mother spent the last dozen or so years of her life teaching nursing, and she was amazing at it. She loved her job and was incredibly committed to her students and their success. Several of her students have personally told me that they simply would not have made it through the tough nursing program without her guidance and support, and how glad they were that she was their teacher. Many of her former students kept in touch with her long after they graduated, and she was always so pleased to learn about their lives.

At least two of her former students were inspired enough to want to continue their education to become nursing teachers themselves (having met both of them, I think they will be fine instructors in their own right).

But most fundamentally, my mother understood the often overlooked importance of nursing. Especially in an inpatient setting, we trust nurses with our care, our well-being, and sometimes our lives. Doctors are important. But especially in hospitals, nurses are the "first repsonders," and can be the difference between life and death long before a doctor shows up on the scene. Nurses are also the difference in less stressful situations, too. It is the nurses who put the "care" in health care. She never let her students forget that responsibility.

She also never forgot her own responsibility, gaining more education in medicine than some doctors. She subscribed to a number of medical journals and actually read them, continuing her learning just because she wanted to know. She was good enough at her job that other people noticed. She turned down several jobs, including a job as an education coordinator at a hospital which paid well over $100,000 a year, in order to continue doing what she loved and considered the most important: Making good nurses.

What this all adds up to, and what I'm trying to get at, is that her loss is important to more people than just me and my family. Her presence as a teacher improved by some small but significant amount the quality of health care not just in Glendale, but probably throughout all of Southern California (and perhaps beyond). Not only that, but those she inspired to become teachers will help spread her passion and commitment to excellent nursing. The ripples of that will continue to spread and bounce back for years and years to come - and that work was recognized today in a small and quiet way, just the way she did her work.

But it's hard not to think of how much more good she could have done had she gotten the usual allotted three score and ten. GCC will continue to turn out great nurses - my mom's fellow teachers are just as deeply committed. They're feeling the loss, though. Nobody can do it alone and the team has most assuredly been diminished. I hope that my mom's former students who are just now beginning to teach will rise to fill that void.

The thing I'm finding that I miss most is when something cool happens that I know she would have been tickled by. She would have been so knocked out about Michael Phelps and the Olympics. And she would have been over the moon about the nursing lab. I've no doubt that she would be pleased about it being dedicated to her, but I know for sure that she would have much rather been teaching yet another new crop of "baby nurses" there.

Also, dammit, I just miss my mom, for no more important reason than that she was my mom.

So 2008 is probably not going to go down in The Book of My Life as the best year ever. Sort of the reverse in most ways.

But then again...

There I was this evening, with a beer in my hand, in this lovely weather, barefoot on our back lawn, where I had just spent a fun half hour playing some baseball-related activities with my little family while the charcoal got ready.

I was grilling some burgers and futzing with a cast-iron pan trying to make it hot enough on the grill to cook up some home fries to go with the burgers (it didn't exactly work out but it was still pretty tasty and I think I know how to do it better next time), and from inside I heard my wife chopping up stuff to make a salad to complete our meal.

I took a second to stop and enjoy every bit of it, from the smell of the smoke coming from fat dripping on coals, to the sound of the helicopter hovering somewhere over Hollywood mixed with the dull whock-whock-whock of my wife's knife chopping cucumbers, to the small and delicious popping sounds the fresh thyme made as it sizzled in my pan, to the texture of the grass and dirt under my feet - not to mention the part where there were two people in that house who, for some crazy reason, absolutely love me. For just a moment or two, I took it all in as much as I could.

Then I knocked that hippie shit off and flipped the burgers and got those taters moving around in the pan so they could all get browned and delicious. Communing with the universe is all well and good until you go and ruin dinner.

Life is just so damned good sometimes. Especially when the home fries come out good... but not so good that you can't make them better the next time.

For Mother's Day, I mostly wish I still had a mother.

But before we go diving too deep into that particular well of sadness, I should say that I am genuinely and truly happy that I still have a fantabulous stepmother, not to mention all kinds of awesome grandmothers (seriously, I've got like 4 of them and they all rule).

And that's not even counting this girl I know who is the mother of a kid who is currently taking up a room in my house. I am short one mom, but... there are still many mothers whom I love dearly.

Next year will be a bit easier, I hope.

I know it's depressing but goddammit, I miss my mom.

The house, it is about as clean as it gets. (Don't ask about the goddamned bookshelves, though.)

Dog hair and dust and dander has been removed as much as is possible for purposes of attempting to not kill Mom.

Cooking preparations have been made for leg of lamb, fancy-pants mashed potatoes, and asparagus (I know, it's out of season, but my grammy likes asparagus with lamb so she's damned well getting it - shabby-looking as it is.)

Cookies have been baked and distributed to neighbors as appropriate.

Dogs have been looked askance at, cats have been bawled out and sprayed with water, again as appropriate. (And I assure you that it *has* been appropriate in the case of the cat. Get your dusty little paws off my our artfully set dining-room table, you... you CAT you. And stop trying to eat our friggin' centerpiece!)

A special cookie was left out for Santa, which cookie has been nibbled and crumbs artfully left, as well as peels from a Clementine "Cutie" orange, designated to be divided into nine pieces, one for each reindeer and one for Rudolph.

Presents have been wrapped or bagged and placed under the tree, except those presents which contain chocolate which will remain safely out of the dog zone.

Merry Christmas to you and yours, folks. I'm happy to be having ours here. Really!

A moveable feast was created over the past few days. We (and by "we" I do mean "we" but also I mean "mostly my wife") cooked and cooked on Tuesday, Wednesday, and today to create a full-on bitchin' Turkey Day that could be transported to my mom's house: Appetizers (including a delicious pate), salad, dinner rolls, mashed potatoes, green beans, stuffing, fancy-ass experimental cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie. Every single bit of it was home made, with the exception of the appetizer cheese and the canned cranberry schmutz that my wife likes. (Which, for all I know, is ambrosia for people who like cranberries.) Oh, and of course there was a roasted turkey, carved inexpertly by yours truly mere minutes before we left for mom's house.

In the rush, though, the rack of the turkey, as well as some delicious skin and other delectable/interesting turkey bits were left behind, such as the little nodule of goodness that hangs off the end of the cavity, and the wishbone, and a fair amount of meat from the legs and such. But we were pressed for time, these things had to be left where they were, on the kitchen table. With only a gate standing between this pile of mostly bone but also a lot of deliciousness... and the dogs. The ravenous, ravenous dogs.

As we drove away, my wife said "I sure hope they don't break down the gate and get at the rack!" We laughed nervously. Ha ha ha ha ha. Yes, that would be awful, ha ha ha.

Well, you already know what happened, don't you? Yes. They managed to break down the gate, something that they've never been motivated enough to do before. But then again we've never left the cooling remains of what has to smell like heaven to a dog nose AND the gate was a bit loose in the door frame.

The good news? Neither of the dogs died from choking to death on a splintered turkey bone. The bad news is that our kitchen looked like the pit of that monster in Star Wars - broken bits of bones everywhere - and remarkably, a few bits of turkey still left in place on the kitchen table. I guess the dogs ate and ate until they got not just full, but tired. Also, apparently one of the dogs, we know not which, was so excited at getting to eat turkey that she pissed on the floor. Whee.

Molly has been whining at us all evening, though does not actually seem to be sick. Small puffs seem to be escaping her anterior aperture, so I think she's just got gas. I imagine that'll probably happen when you crunch up that much bone and give it to your stomach acid to deal with, eh? Just rewards, my fine young pup.

So what we have learned is this:

1) Amazingly enough, Molly can actually be filled. Hard to believe but apparently true.

2) No matter HOW pressed for time, don't leave that kind of temptation not only in nose range but also in sight of these dogs. It's not fair to the dogs, and bad things will happen.

3) Make sure the gate has well-tightened wall connections at all times (especially now that they know the thing can be broken down with enough persistence - it should be solid if it's tight enough, which it wasn't tonight.)

4) Our dogs are bastard, bastard dogs. Their parents were not married.

I adore this picture so much. It is a Niblet and his grandfather. Can YOU tell which is which? Well of course you can. But I love how seriously my son is contemplating whatever is going on - he's already learned how to be cheeseball for the camera and, frankly, though I love him to little pieces, he doesn't cheese well, so candid photos are best. Meanwhile, my dad looks like he's going to kick some ass. Why? Nobody knows. Maybe for taking an unauthorized non-cheese picture of his grandson.

Or maybe it's just, y'know, a picture. But two of my very favoritest people in the world are in this picture, looking like they are not in a picture.

That's my brother George and his then-girlfriend Jeanette, at UC Irvine where yesterday he received his "gonna be a doctor" white coat.  Later in the day, girlfriend Jeanette became fiancee Jeanette.  Some day, huh?  Congrats, George.  I couldn't possibly be any prouder of you.

There are some of you who know this, some of you who don't: Last week, my mom was diagnosed with lung cancer. Yes, this sucks. It sucks a lot. But:

The good news is, the doctor says it's curable. "Curable" is a pretty iffy term when it comes to lung cancer, but at least this was caught about as early as it could have been. The cure starts about now, inasmuch as the chemotherapy starts today, June 29, and then a lot of other really awful things happen to my poor mother, who does not deserve to have all this awfulness happen to her. But:

It's going to suck really badly for her, but she's going to be okay, for years to come. That much is true. I have absolutely no doubt of it.

Kayak.com's monthly e-mail has the following Father's Day suggestion for me:

Got a non-traditional Dad? Take him on a non-traditional vacation. Germany's version of Father's Day is called Vatertag and is more about "boys day out" and drinking in the pubs than honoring dad with a tie in the shape of a fish. Revitalize the tradition and head to Hamburg for a well-rounded trip of culture, funky shops, smoky bars, and good food. If you can stomach the thought, shock your Dad with a visit to the Erotic Art Museum. Not your dad's speed? How about Fish Auction Hall and Market for some local flavor. Next, try Jungfernstieg Street for some shopping, Alster Lakes to relax, or just hit the local bars. Try Top of the Town, Toast, or Max & Consorten for some good brew. Cheers!

They seem to be suggesting that I take my dad to Germany to get drunk, go look at some porn, buy a fish, then go get drunk some more. Which, come to think of it, doesn't actually sound like all that bad a Father's Day. It beats a tie, anyway.

I have a request: Please stop throwing the whammy on me and my wife.

I say this because divorce seems to be catching lately with our friends. But then people always look at me and byrneout and say "Oh, but you guys will be fine." And yes we will be, but hey, also, shut up! You don't tell a pitcher in the 7th inning that he's got a no-hitter going - he probably knows, okay, but if he thinks about that he'll lose his focus on what he has to do, which is get the next few batters out.

Much the same, you shouldn't tell me that after 6.5 years of an awesome marriage that "hey, you guys are gonna be juuuuust fine" because then I'll start wondering. Why would you even say that? I mean, we are gonna be fine, but, why do you need to tell me that? What about this problem where people we know are getting divorced after about 7 years? Are we REALLY okay? Huh? Are we? Huh? WHY DID YOU MAKE ME THINK ABOUT THIS?

I know it doesn't work like that. But it makes me nervous and sketchy to be part of the marriage that is held up as proof that marriage can work the first time. In our case, it can and it will, but I'd rather not have anybody else looking at us as a way to be. We're not role models. Please ignore us and our strange little marriage.

I'm sure you were all terribly worried about my absence from the LiveJournal world for the past 5-6 days. As it happens, I was in Chicago, visiting fambly. The Chicago report:

- Yes, it was quite chilly, though not as chilly as a few previous visits have been. However, it had snowed shortly before we arrived, and so everything was coated in a white blanket. Snow is quite pretty until you get up close, when you realize it's basically just dirty water that has decided to hang around. I am aware that I am most assuredly NOT the first person to make this observation.

- Chicago put on a snow storm especially for the NFC championship game (seriously, the snow started about the time the game did, and stopped about half an hour after the game ended), and huzzah, Da Bears won. I worry about what will happen in Miami, but Chicago loves its Bears so much that they really deserve one, so let's hope that happens. Also, it will keep people alive in the household of my brother-in-law, who doesn't seem to get much enjoyment out of sports, just a lot of stress. I'm also personally pleased since I don't really care all THAT much about football unless the Chargers are doing well, but the Bears are my Emergency Backup Football Team, so it will be cool to have a team to really root for for the first time in many, many, many Superbowls.

- I had a good time hanging out on Friday night with misskaz, ajax, mchristensen, and various other non-LJ folks. It was nice to meet those whom I hadn't met before, as well as to meet the famous Alina "Beans" Dog (who is just as sweet and cute as advertised.)

- It ain't easy traveling with a 2.75-year-old child, but luckily, he's such a good-natured little guy that it wasn't too tough. He got a little bit annoying during the last hour of the flight to Chicago, but we got through it. On the flight back he was fighting a cold so he was already a bit sluggish, plus we drugged him to sleep (which he did for about half the flight), and then he just wanted to snuggle for the last hour and a half. But having the DirecTV with with two channels of cartoons also helped, even though he (as always) got bored with TV after about half an hour or so.

- I continue to love JetBlue. Granted, because they were putting on promotional fares for their new route from Long Beach to Chicago, we were able to purchase three roundtrip fares for 240 bucks. Not 240 bucks each, 240 bucks TOTAL. For all three of us. We'll never get that fare again, but it was awesome while we could. But I *still* love JetBlue. I love the DirecTV, I love that there is more legroom, and I adore Long Beach airport even though it takes 10 million years to get your checked baggage. (There's a reason for that, though, which I will be happy to explain to anyone who asks.)

- Navy Pier is really a nice place to go, and if you have kids, Chicago's Children's Museum is quite worthwhile. If I lived in Chicago and I had kids to take care of every day, I'd absolutely get a membership and take them several times a week. The Riva restaurant located at Navy Pier, while a bit pricey, is also a nice place. If you live in Chicago and want to have a nice night out, make a reservation for mid-winter, because you can get a table right by the window with a lovely view. The food was excellent. Not cheap, but worth the price.

- Sledding, even down a little bitty hill, is fun.

( The bad part. Don't blame you if you don't want to read about it. )

Luckily, Christmas is one hell of an antidote for all that sort of stuff And a Christmas filled with lots of noise and presents and tons of kids running around and dogs and giant piles of food and even staying up a bit late drinking with your little brothers and cousins is all very, very, very good.

Another good thing is that we have, truly, the absolute sweetest kid in the world. He really is just such a nice little guy. He's smart as a whip, too.