It's All Fun And Games Until Bears Attack.

Yesterday morning, we woke up in a really fancy house that smelled like breakfast. This house, that our friends own, is located only a few miles from Canada. And our room in this house has a sliding door that overlooks mountains that surround a lovely lake with a French name that goes on and on for miles. When this sliding door is opened, you can hear the water lapping up on the docks that hold boats that you can ride to different shores where there are trails. Lots of trails.

So yesterday we decided to drive to one of these trails. And for some reason because looking at mountains isn't quite enough, we decided to climb one.

At first, I was a little nervous about this. Mainly because the last time I hiked up a mountain I ended up having to take karate for physical therapy.

And I never want to take karate again.

But this time, we had an almost five-year-old camper along, and I thought, if she can do it, surely so can I.

So we headed upward.

And then it occurred to us: There are bears around these parts.

And we all smelled like bacon.

We had no bear repellent, armory, or counter-attack plan. In fact, we all had no idea what to do if we ran across a bear.

But really, I mean, bears attacking while you're hiking, it's so cliché. Kinda like seeing Paris Hilton when you're out at an LA club. I mean, it could happen, probability-wise and all, but it's so expected, it's almost dumb. That's how I felt about the bears.

Our almost five-year-old cohort felt the same way and wasn't scared at all. She started calling out to the bears. Telling them to step off because we weren't afraid. And that was mostly true.

Mostly.

Until we saw bear tracks. And bear poo. Both pretty fresh. We looked at each other with a little concern, but kept on.

That's about the time when everyone over four feet tall started looking up and around for any movement anywhere that wasn't instigated by us. We were all trying to be nonchalant of course. No one wanted to admit concern. But the leaders of the pack were making a few too many bear jokes for me to believe they weren't just a tiny bit concerned.

We made it to our stopping point without any sightings.

Then we made it back down with even more track and poo sightings. Five times the track and poo sightings. It seems the smell of bacon makes a bear want to mark his territory.

And seeing bears mark their territory makes me want to spend today on the boat.

A Little Place Called Hope.

We're in Hope, Idaho.

And here's what the world looks like from our point of view.

You might even say we're Hopeful.

Eventful.

I've been to so many events over the last week. Too many. And as a rule, if it's more than four, I can't really recall or recount them. Unless there is photographic evidence. And in a few cases, that is the case. So I'll start with this one.

I think we've established that I'm an idiot when it comes to soccer. But even still, I was invited by the good people of the Houston Dynamo to attend their Soccer 101 event, a non-American-football festival for females. An attempt to educate me. This is actually a very good thing because a.) soccer is playing on our kitchen tele 24/7; b.) the HcQ recites random facts about players, teams, rules, and more to me on a regular basis; and c.) the players are totally cute.

So we went. And we played soccer. And it was fantastic. And I was horrible.

We broke into group and did drills with a variety of star players . This was supposed to be an amateur gig, but we had a group of cleat girls in our group that took their kicking VERY seriously.

Very seriously. Plus, they were wearing cleats.
Who owns cleats? The girls in our group, that's who.

I drug the HcQ along, and he took a variety of photos and verified that I was definitely the one of the "girliest" girls out there. Not sure what that means exactly, but I think it has something to do with my awesome form.

As you can see, I'm moving faster than the speed of film.

All in all it was a fantastic event. And now I'm a complete fan. If you've been awake the last few months, you know that MLS Soccer is getting some pretty good press these days thanks to Mr. Posh, and I must say, I think that's fantastic. Because the game is incredibly pure. The sponsorships are meager. The players aren't playing for millions (Well, except for Mr. Posh, of course. But the vast majority are hovering around teachers' salaries.) They play because they love the sport. It's obvious, and it's refreshing. And, even though these are professional events, they have the flavor of a small college match-up. In other words, you feel like you're a part of something good...not some over-produced advertisement for sportswear and beer. Plus, the fans are passionate. And I should know, I live with one of them.

So I'm taking my soccer fan and we're heading to the hills for the week. We're going to almost Canada to see, well, I'm not sure what. But I think they have Wi-Fi in Idaho (Idaho? Yes. Idaho.), so I'll be blogging from there. I'll let you know what we discover. Hopefully it won't be too eventful.

It Only Takes A Spark

Come on. You’ve thought about it. And you’ve wondered. Maybe while you were stuck in traffic. Or paying bills. Or having your teeth cleaned. But admit it, you’ve wanted to know. No. You’ve needed to know who your most compatible celebrity love would be.

Well wonder no more because now you can use CelebMatch.com to find out! See, CelebMatch uses “the scientific method of biorhythms to calculate the compatibilities.” That’s right. The scientific method. Of biorhythms. And you really can’t argue with that.

So.

As you might expect, I’m best matched with a Hobbit, a player, a cross dresser, and a guy from CSI.

Your best matches:

Sean Astin 99%
Jason Kidd 99%
Tyler Perry 98%
Jason O'Mara 98%

The crazy thing is, I have actually met my number-one man. The Goonie. The Hobbit. The son of Patty Duke.

Our eyes met at the Apple store in LA. He saw me from across the room, standing in line at the Genius Bar. He walked straight over to me. He stood close. Looked deep into my soul.

He paused.

And then he totally cut in line. Walked right in front of me. Never looked back.

Of course, I’m sure he was in a hurry. For, um, work or something. And being a celeb and all, he probably didn’t want to get attacked by fans, the paparazzi, Perez Hilton or Gollum. Stuff like that.

Plus, he probably didn't know about the biorhythms.

Oh See What You Have Done

The sky fell in Houston this morning.

In fact, it rained so much, that it looked like Venice outside my office window. Venice with no gondolas anywhere. Venice where cars with questionable drivers attempted to forge ahead through swollen canals that produced actual waves crashing onto sidelined Starbucks and Kinkos parking lots. Venice like that.

But the rain was cool. And it was dark. And it was the perfect setting to turn on the radio and hear a little tribute to the King who died 30 years ago today.

Luckily, about 31 years ago, my mom and dad had the foresight to take me to my first concert.

And it looked a little something like this.



Elvis, if you're reading this, I hope the sun was shining in Buenos Aires today.

Thanks for changing the world a bit. In a good way.

There may be 6,000 ways to say I love you, but I’d settle for one.

There are 6,000 languages of the world. The Hurricane speaks two of them. In theory. Of course, in reality, he speaks none of them. At least for 22.5 months he’s basically spoken none of them.

But who’s counting?

Oh yeah, that's right, I am. I'm counting back to two years ago right at this time when I was very pregnant and watching my niece like I was cramming for the test. Our baby was coming any minute, and I needed to learn overnight what kids did, ate, pooped, and said. Two years ago, she was exactly the Hurricane's current age, and she said a heck of a lot. In fact, she talked more than I do ever, even on my most talkative day.

And now two years later, it seems the Hurricane is a fantastic candidate for mime school. In other words, he thinks talking is for losers.

Oh sure he sometimes says a random “more” or “mine” or “no”, but by and large he’s not talking. And he’s definitely not doing anything of the sort on cue. For instance, if I ask a question (that he totally knows the answer to) in front of any breathing person, something easy like let's say, “what’s a cow say?”, he looks at me incredulously like I’ve just signed KFed for a record deal.

The boy doesn't like the talking.

When I bring this up to our pediatrician, he usually says something in the vacinity of...not to worry, he's learning two languages at once, and kids who are learning two languages talk later.

Okay, I can roll with that. It's true the Hurricane does spend a lot of time with Spanish and English speakers, so okay, maybe we'll put mime school on hold. At least until he's three.

But then last week, I read "The Bilingual Edge" a book written by two Georgetown University linguistics professors on why, when and how to teach your child a second language. And these linguists say there are three major myths about second language learning:

1. Only bilingual parents can raise bilingual children
2. Television, DVDs and ‘edutainment’ like bilingual talking toys are great ways for all children to learn second languages.
3. Exposing a child to two languages means that child will be a late talker.

Crap. Number three blows my "just chill out" reasoning. So I kept reading. And I reviewed the book today on Cool Stuff con Queso. Check it.

(And leave a comment there to be entered to win your own copy of The Bilingual Edge.)