News Trend Tonight|Actual

"Some days are just bad days, that's all." - Dita Von Tesse

This photo was taken at the airport last summer, while my family was waiting for my third-born's plane to arrive from Vietnam. My baby was almost home and I was beyond excited.

Tonight, I feel sad.

Deeply, profoundly, soul-wearyingly sad.

Tonight is the last night of the Christmas holiday. After a lovely two-week break, my real world of classes and schedules and lessons will resume tomorrow morning.

Which means, for me, tonight is the darkest night of the year.

Now, no doubt most of the world shares my melancholy. Surely we all would much rather spoil ourselves with another couple weeks of festivities than haul ourselves off to work.

But I might get a little lost in my malaise. Beyond the general gloom of the workaday week, I take my frettings to a metaphysical realm

I ponder the meanings of life and death.

I recall raw emotions from my childhood.

I grieve again for losses and sadnesses.

I feel an overwhelming fear that life will never measure up to its promise

And I worry that I will feel this sad for a long, long time.

Kind of depressing, right?

But at the time, I was also profoundly worried. My daughter was struggling with a mighty problem, and I overflowed with concern for her. And although her return flight to Asia was several months off,  I dreaded her eventual departure and struggled to think I could ever send her off again.

However, after dealing with this back-to-school phenomenon every year of my life, I also know one thing for sure to be true:

This too shall pass.

But you can guess the end of this story. She dealt with her issues, strengthened her soul, and flew back to Vietnam with her confidence and courage intact. And in the end, it turns out that I was happy to let her go.

By tomorrow morning,

my eyes will blink open

my mind will turn to trinomials

my car will transport me to my students' homes

and my life will feel happy and rich and full once again.

Yep. I know these end-of-Christmas-break blues will last only for tonight, and I'll get through them just fine, as I always do.

But just for tonight, I feel sad.

* * * * *

Celebrate the Twelve Days of Christmas with me!

The First Day

The Second Day

The Third Day

The Fourth Day

The Fifth Day

The Sixth Day

The Seventh Day

The Eighth Day

The Ninth Day

The Tenth Day

The Eleventh Day

The Twelfth Day

AndEpiphany too.

News Trend Leaving Walla Walla And Heading For Home|Actual

"True friendship multiplies the good in life and divides its evils." - Baltasar Gracian

^ Leaving Walla Walla and heading for home, the scenery along the bucolic two-lane highway rolls with the gentle hills of the palouse and glimpses of the Blue Mountains stretching low and lean beyond.

^ Tidy postmodern vineyards spring up between the traditional wheat fields, and picturesque old barns still stand.

^ Where nature roams unchecked, the land is dry and dotted with scrub grasses.

^ As the highway bends north toward the Tri Cities, rail cars sit along a track, offering their graffiti-covered sides for the entertainment of those passing by.

^ Depending on which way the wind is blowing, pulp mill operations often assault the nose with a stink like fermented cabbage before the factory comes into view. Who knew cardboard could smell so bad.

^ This is the place where the Snake River, legend of Hells Canyon and Oregon Trail navigational fame, feeds into the might Columbia on her way to the sea. And this is also the place where the little highway from Walla Walla meets the interstate in the Tri Cities, and the mood of the trip toward home is changed.

* * * * *

Leaving Walla Walla and heading for home, I reflect on the time just spent with a friend.

He is kind.

He is thoughtful.

He is wise.

He works every day to better himself.

He seeks out opportunities to stretch and grow.

He finds ways to turn problems into positives.

His faith in God is constant and true.

He shines with the light of God's love.

The fact that he lives behind the walls of a prison has nothing to do with the state of his soul.

He soars.

And every time I leave Walla Walla and head for home, I think how fortunate I am to have such an inspiring friend.

News Trend Keeping Score|Actual

Settings (L to R): sunny, partly sunny, cloudy. Cloudy wins.

Whenever I go to a baseball game, I keep score.

Though I used to spend a buck per game to buy the official scorecard, I grew impatient with the ridiculously tiny squares and hard-to-write-on paper they offer. So now I carry my own scoring book around, which looks pretty impressive when I take my seat and whip out that score pad and a fine tip marker.

I tend to attract attention, mostly from nearby ushers, who either greet me with a comment like, "Ohhhh, you're one of those..." or sometimes just straight ask me why I keep score.

And usually I give them a vague answer about how I just think it's fun.

Which is true.

But the full truth of the matter is that if I don't do something to rivet my attention to the game, my mind will wander all over the place.

Tonight, for example, at Texas Rangers v. Seattle Mariners, I was struck by a sudden impulse to test the light settings on my Instax camera. Once minute, I'm calmly logging balls and strikes to Nomar Mazara, and the next I'm digging through my bag to pull out my camera, taking test shots on each setting, and then holding the photos in my hand like a deck of cards as the images develop before my eyes.

Trust me, I did not peel off three Hamiltons to sit in a plastic seat and squint at overexposed photos while the crowd roars and I'm lost in my own crazy daydreams.

Better that I focus on filling out my scorecard, obsessively noting every ball and strike; every pop fly, double play, and RBI in rapt attention, allowing nothing to come between me and a flawless record of the game.

And that, in a nutshell, is why I keep score at baseball games.

* * * * *

P.S. In the top of the fourth, Ranger right fielder Mazara hit a home run into the batter's eye, next door to our section. A few innings later, a season-ticket-holding old timer seated nearby finagled that home run ball away from stadium personnel and presented it to my fourth-born, a loud and proud Ranger fan. A kind gesture from a stranger, and a special night for my daughter.

* * * * *

To watch the highlight reel of tonight's game, including Mazara's home run, go here.

* * * * *

More stories about my Instax photos:

Surprising Pjoe And Amy

Self-Development

Missing Mexican Memories

Keeping Score

Less Than Perfect

News Trend Birthday Adventures: Seattle's Capitol HIll|Actual

Once upon a time, when my daughters were young, birthdays were all about the parties. Plans sprung forth from the pages of Family Fun or American Girl magazines - water sprinkler games! bear claw cupcakes! handmade piñatas! tie dye crafts! - and with a round-up of eight or ten other little girls, we had some pretty good times. Of course, I could bet the ranch that the birthday girl would be in tears at some point during the day. All of the anticipation and emotion was just too much for any reasonable child to bear. But there was joy in the chaos, and I happily planned and presided over my daughters' birthday parties for many years until finally, my daughters decided enough.

Now the birthday tradition tables have turned, and my adult daughters have perfected the art of the birthday adventure. On any given Streicher birthday afternoon, you will find us traveling, touring, inspecting, and exploring the world, according to an itinerary set by the birthday girl. And this, too, is a joyful way to spend these special days.

* * * * *

Yesterday was my eldest's birthday and to celebrate, she planned an adventure around Seattle's Capitol Hill neighborhood.

^ Let's be honest. The brand new Glossier pop-up store idrove the day's rencana. Open just a week now, our visit slides perfectly into place after the first few days of opening madness. Rather than waiting in line for an hour, we walk up to an open door and find a chill staff and a laid back crowd exploring the gorgeousness that is Glossier.

^ Glossier, if you don't know, is an online purveyor of skincare products and cosmetics that emphasize natural beauty and good vibes. Case in point: as I took my first step into the highly stimulating visual space, I was met with this soothing white oasis of zen. A water bottle styled with a darling floral logo for sale, with five dollars of the proceeds from each bottle going to support Mary's Place, a shelter for homeless women and children. Yes, I'll take one. And I already feel good about my visit to Glossier.

^ Well, now that I've got a humanitarian good deed under my belt, let's check out the merchandise. Honestly, I fall under the spell of these sleek white display vignettes and perfectly spaced products, and can barely focus on what I might want to buy. Luckily, my daughters understand the nuances of the Glossier product line, and skillfully guide me through the maze of products, steering me toward their most highly recommended purchases.

^ I do want to purchase a few products, partly for my own enjoyment but also to support the Glossier movement. In these troubled times for brick and mortar retailers, I believe that the pop up is an idea perfectly designed to give shoppers a valuable, hands-on experience with products that need to be smelled, touched, tried on, to be truly appreciated, while at the same time minimizing their financial risk. Pop ups are a fun, innovative, creative way to bring products and people together, and I'm glad to back up my beliefs with my dollars.

^ Now, the artistry of the store decor wins my full attention. Mounds of mosses and heaps of real plants create rolling meadows of flowers amist the sleek displays. Bold graphics in Glossier's signature pink and occasional touches of industrial design play off the natural green and send my imagination reeling.

^ Here's evidence of Glossier's nuanced eye for design. When I look at the pink graphic from one angle (see previous photo), I see waterfalls of green flowing over large ruffled green leaves, punctuated by a spray of magenta flowers up above. But if I take one step to my right and look again (this photo), the graphic looks more or less the same but the kaleidoscope of plantings shifts, the foreground now filled with clumps of mosses, creeping greenery, and low mounds of light and medium pink daisies.

^ As much as I appreciate the dreamy green decor, I'd say that the vast majority of shoppers are more interested in testing every flavor of Balm Dotcom before making their final selection. Which leaves more room for lurking for me.

^ Glossier uses an ingenious strategy to design this retail space. Because their product line is relatively small compared to their floor space and the crowds they attract, the products appear on multiple display stands throughout the store. That way, if one customer is struggling to ascertain which shade of Stretch Concealer is best for her skin tones, other customers can find that same product line on two or three other displays around the store. Clever, right?

^ I have no idea if this sturdy-looking column serves a purpose here, but the juxtaposition of architecture to horticulture makes my heart sing.

^ The floors are also worthy of note, all curvy and wooden and properly thumpy to walk on.

^ Alright, one last look at a display stand and I'm ready to place my order:

Bubblewrap eye lip cream

Boy Brow for, yes, brows

Priming Moisturizer Rich which promises to be luxurious

Invisible Shield daily sunscreen

a water bottle. Available only at the Seattle pop-up.

Oh, and I almost forgot.A tube of Body Hero Daily Perfecting Cream

^ A pink-jump-suited rep takes my order on her iPad, and in the blink of an eye, another lady in pink pops out from this door with my selections bagged up in a canvas Glossier tote bearing my name on a wildflower seed-infused card.  My Glossier appetite is now thoroughly sated and along with my daughters, I'm ready to move on.

* * * * *

^ Food. We need food. Hiking to a pizza place that my daughter has in mind, we pass by construction in this spirited walk way. I'm inspired.

^ And when we pull up to the pizza place, I'm intrigued. Though I'm not one to say no to an on-trend hipster bistro, I am a huge fan of the marginally tacky, probably past its prime style of restaurant too.

^ Big Mario's seems to be a mash-up of hipster and marginally tacky, much like its Capitol Hill surroundings. Ah, anything goes in this quirky part of town, so we skip over any judgments and get right to placing our order.

^ One subtle sign of good food: stanchions designed to keep order among heavy crowds at lunchtime. Lucky for us, we arrive long after the normal midday rush,

^ Within moments, we are seated outside with some lovely big wedges of warm, crispy pizza, around $tiga.50 each. We quench our considerable thirst with a shared can of root beer and a bottle of "stilldanquot; (as opposed to bubbly) water. Lordy, don't we just call it plain water?

^ I could have devoured three more pieces of that amazing pizza but we are saving room for dessert. Another half block walk lands us at Cupcake Royale where the plan is to eat ice cream.

The birthday girl chooses a strawberry waffle cone, so I follow suit with the strawberry in a cup. The other two sisters opt to share a lemon drop cupcake, and we all sit quietly and eat.

^ That's how you can always tell when everyone loves their food. People don't waste time talking

when they are busy eating something delicious.

And so we sit, the four of us, eating steadily and silently, in a quiet restaurant filled with dappled sunlight and the scent of baking cupcakes.

When we finish eating, we are all satisfied and ready to go home.

^ Outside, as we double back on our steps, we find one more surprise. A riotous rainbow of color, better than any shower of candy streaming from a birthday party piñata, and a perfect ending to a delightful birthday adventure.

* * * * *

Quick links to our birthday adventure destinations:

Glossier Seattle

Big Mario's New York Pizza

Cupcake Royale

* * * * *

Remember when I visited the Glossier pop-up store in Chicago? That was cool too. Check out the full story here:

Chicago: Glossier Pop-Up

News Trend Leaving Neverland|Actual

"Feet of clay: an unexpected flaw or vulnerable point in the character of a hero or any admired person."

-From the "Encyclopedia of Word and Phrase Origins" by Robert Hendrickson

I know, I know.

I'm months late to the Leaving Neverland game. But watching this four-hour HBO documentary tonight has left me full of thoughts and emotions that need processing.

So here I go.

I grew up with Michael Jackson. He was just a few months older than me, so our childhoods intertwined through the Jackson Five's smoking hot Motown career in the early seventies. His solo career took off during my college days, and Off The Wall played as the soundtrack to much of my senior year. Though I was never anything close to a super fan, I always considered Michael's music to be a vital part of who I am.

But as the eighties stretched into the nineties, and Michael moved from Thriller to Bad to Dangerous, something about him began to feel more and more wrong.

His skin changed color.

His face bore evidence of many plastic surgeries.

He spoke in an eerie falsetto.

He lived in a place called Neverland and played with chimps.

He claimed to have fathered white kids and dangled one of them over a hotel balcony.

During these years, I looked at Michael Jackson and saw the wheels coming off a human being. Despite his outrageous success as a pop star, I saw him as a profoundly broken man. And even though he did a lot of good for the world, I looked at Michael Jackson and saw evil, though I never knew exactly why.

When we were both fifty years old,  Michael Jackson died. I felt nothing but relief that his crazy ricocheting ping-pong ball of a life had finally come to rest. God grant him peace.

* * * * *

Wade Robson and James Safechuck were children pulled into the madness of Michael Jackson's life. In Leaving Neverland, they each tell the story of how they were befriended, intentionally groomed, and sexually abused by Michael Jackson.

Their stories punched me in the gut.

I find both Wade and James to be intelligent, articulate, deeply thoughtful men.

I feel the sharp edges of their brokenness, and the weight of evil that bound them for so many years.

I have deep and profound compassion for Wade and James. Their lives were derailed and their identities crushed by the years of abuse they suffered.

I admire them for all they have done, and for all they continue to do, to break free of their pain and to reclaim their lives.

* * * * *

As much as I hate the things he did to Wade and James and Lord only knows how many other young boys, I have compassion for Michael Jackson. It's likely that someone did those same things to him when he was a boy, and he never found a way to heal. Despite all his success, Michael's life was tragic.

* * * * *

Now I've read the angry reviews and the hateful comments; I've even heard from people I know who believe that these two men, these so-called victims, are just scam artists who've come round with their trumped-up false accusations, trying to suck a few millions out of Jackson's estate or, even worse, damage his reputation as the king of pop.

And to them, I also offer compassion. Because when we put our heroes up on pedestals and refuse to look honestly at the people they truly are, we deny them their humanity.

To truly care about Michael Jackson as a human being, we must be willing to look at his life honestly, and accept his feet of clay.

News Trend Smart Dog|Actual

Yesterday, when Gracie and I were out walking, a woman, whose name I soon learned was Janice, stopped us and said, "Wow, that's the longest leash I've ever seen!"

Yep. We get that all the time.

So I explained that it's actually a fifty-foot piece of rope that allows Gracie to run back and forth, snuffling through the brush and exercising her hunting instincts, while I walk along at my own preferred smooth and steady pace.

Janice mulled over that answer and then asked the classic follow-up question:

"But she could wander out into the street. How does she know to stay on the sidewalk?"

To which I could only reply, "Because she understands what sidewalks are for."

And that seemed to take care of Janice's questions.

News Trend Sex On The Patio|Actual

The best ideas are when you take two older ideas that have nothing to do with each other, make them have sex with each other, and then build a business around the bastard, ugly child that results.

-James Altucher, The 7 Habits of Highly Effective Mediocre Entrepenuers

This is not a good home for a plant. Too drafty.

Once there was a cracked planter on my patio step.

Oh, it hasn't always been cracked. Last summer, I found it at a thrift store, a nice wooden bucket sort of a thing with straight sides and interesting wooden knob things that probably served to attach a handle at some point in its previous life.

I brought it home, planted it up with some outdoor succulents and watched the whole arrangement bloom and flourish in the glorious August and September sunshine.

But at some point during the winter, the wood gave way to water. The fused strips of wood split in one place, and then two places. As spring came and I took over watering duties from Mother Nature, I noticed that any water I poured in to the old wooden bucket immediately streamed out the splintered side. While the plants inside were still riding the tide of good health from the winter rains, I knew their lush green luck would not last into the hot days of summer.

The old bucket had had it, and I needed to move my plants to a safer home. But what with my shopping ban, rather than running out to buy a new pot, I encouraged my brain to puzzle over the persoalan and see if I could find a solution at hand.

This home is much cozier, with ample soil for deep roots and plenty of sunshine. Soon this angel will be blooming again.

Once, on the far side of that very same patio, there was an empty planter.

Oh, it hadn't always been empty. Since the tall, ochre yellow pot occupies a place of honor in the view from my kitchen window,  I make a point to fill it up every spring with bright and showy annuals. Sometimes, if I'm lucky, the annuals coast through the lean months of winter, and then perk back up again for a second summer performance.

The most recent occupants of this planter had already served me well for three summers, and sure enough, this March, I recognized that their long run was over. So I yanked out the exhausted roots and with them came a lot of potting soil, which left me with a planter not only devoid of flowers but also missing about eight inches of soil.

So I regretfully added "new annuals for yellow patio pot" to my long nursery shopping list, and reminded myself that, shopping ban or not, this purchase would be allowable and money well spent.

* * * * *

It wasn't until yesterday afternoon that I was outside on my patio, running the hose, planting new tomato starts, and generally having a wonderful time that the lightning bolt hit. And it happened like this.

I was watering - or attempting to water, I should say - the plants in the cracked planter, watching the water pour uselessly down through the space between the inside of the planter and the dried soil, and spill out onto the step.

And then, without skipping a beat, I turned around 180 degrees to do something else, and saw the empty yellow planter standing straight in front of me.

Zip. Zap. ZING!

Without a moment's hesitation, I picked up the broken planter, carried it to the yellow pot, turned it upside down to release the plants.

They popped out perfectly, all the soil in one intact disc. I dropped the whole bundle into the empty space at the top of the yellow pot, where the plants now sat at a perfect level to the top of the pot. Grabbing the bag of potting soil sitting nearby - remember my tomato planting project? - I quickly tucked soil round the diameter of the new occupants, settling them into their new home.

My only question:  why, why, why was I so blind to the obvious connection between these two conundrums?

Because I literally could not see both parts of the masalah at the same time.

From my kitchen window, I can see the tall yellow pot but not the wooden planter.

And from my patio steps, I look directly down upon the wooden planter but rarely lift my gaze to see the yellow pot across the way.

My brainstorm struck when I looked first at one duduk perkara situation and then directly at the other; that one-two punch of visual connection jump-started my brain and showed me a solution that I could not otherwise see.

These are not the plants that I moved to the new planter, but they look very similar.

Imagine these blossoms in hot pink.

Soon, my happily relocated plants will bloom again, and this episode of sex on the patio will be complete.

* * * * *

More stories about the secara acak ideas that fuse themselves together in my head:

Sex In The Kitchen

Sex In The Workshop

Sex In The Garden

Sex In the Front Hall

Sex On The Patio

Sex With The Bookcase

Sex In the Side Yard