Touch a Truck Day!

OK, the Conejo Recreation and Parks District is turning out to be one of the best things about living in Thousand Oaks. Not only are they the ones behind the swim program Zeke's involved with, they're also responsible for "Touch a Truck Day," which just went down today and apparently happens every Father's Day weekend like clockwork. 

The name pretty much says it all. They fill a park up with fire trucks, dump trucks, tow trucks, ambulances, tractors, a limo (which I thought was weird, but whatever), and even a helicopter, then let the kids touch all the vehicles, sit in the respective driver's seats, and even work the controls. As you can see, one of the firemen very generously allowed Zeke to help him with the firehose. As far as I can tell, when you're a three-year-old boy, that's pretty much touching the hand of God. The other picture is of him in the helicopter. Photo credits and outstanding activity planning kudos to Mom--she's the one who took him. Smart grandma. 

Tiny Tot Seal

Oh, that's not what I call Zeke. I would never call him a "tiny" anything, lest I offend the big boy of the house and subject myself to a lengthy and repetitive lecture about just how big and grownup he is. No, "Tiny Tot Seal" is actually what the Conejo Rec and Parks district calls him. He's taking swim lessons from them right now, and they categorize the kids based on their ages and abilities. So, as a 3-year-old with no water fears at all, but zero actual swimming skills, he's a Tiny Tot Seal. If he completes this class satisfactorily he'll be promoted to Polliwog, then full-fledged Seal, Dolphin, Barracuda, and so on until he becomes a Shark. So far, so good. We're three days into a two-week eight-session course, and he loves it. He's learned to kick on a kickboard and put his head all the way under water and hold his breath (a huge improvement over his previous technique, which was to open his mouth and gulp all the water he could), and he's doing it all without Shanti or I in the pool--just him, his instructor, and his two cute little classmates. This picture is of him at the pool in his rashguard and shorts, waiting for his lesson to begin. A big thank you to Grandma and Grandpa for taking him to their pool so often and getting him comfortable in the water.

One Month To Go!

My mom and I flew up to the Bay Area last weekend for my sister-in-law Carolyn's baby shower. Just a one-day trip. Up at 5 a.m., drive to airport, fly to Bay Area, drive to shower, eat way more than my share of the salami and cheese that was put out as an appetizer (there was a lot of other food--lovely food--but the salami and cheese was just outstanding, so I chose to focus my attention on that end of the table), catch up with long-lost friends, drink mimosas, watch pregnant lady open a zillion gifts, drive to airport, hop on plane, drive home. Whew. It was an exhausting day, but totally worth it. Thanks for having us Carolyn!

The Dream Lives On

Not the anteater dream. The bowl cut dream. I'm back to that now that it looks like an exotic pet is off the table for me.

Look how long Zeke's hair is getting! His bangs are almost touching his eyebrows already. Maybe he has a short forehead, or maybe his hair is growing faster than the one half inch per month that is allegedly the norm. He's definitely going through some kind of growth spurt right now. Every time we feed him lately he finishes the meal by saying "But I'm still huuuungry." So we give him more food. The he tells us he's hungry again. So we make him wait, and give him more food an hour or so later, but by then he's ravenous, so even though he has in fact received additional food, he continues to ask for more. We don't want to over-feed him, but it feels wrong to withhold food from a hungry kid. I honestly can't imagine how people with teenage boys put aside enough money to pay the mortgage. Right now I feel like we are shoveling food at Zeke and it's just never enough. Amazing.

Anyway, the upside to this whole thing is that I think the extra protein (and everything else) he's getting is resulting in more hair. Which means that with any luck, he'll have enough for a fancy and fabulous bowl cut by the end of August.

Meditation on the Logistics of Anteater Acquisition

I know you didn't think I was serious about the anteater thing, but I was.

I did a little research last week, and here's what I discovered: Anteaters come in three sizes: Small, medium, and large (or “pygmy,” “tamandua,” and “giant” if you want to pass yourself off as an anteater pro when cruising the online anteater discussion boards). I also discovered that some people (probably people who are into giant anteaters) call the medium anteaters “lesser anteaters” and that the lovers of medium anteaters are a little touchy about that. They prefer the “tamandua” label.

Speaking of those who love and hang out with anteaters, it turns out you can actually have a pet anteater in some states, but California is not one of them. If you want to own one here you have to apply for a special permit and build a giant cage in your yard and sign a contract promising that your anteater won't actually be a pet, but an educational/therapy animal. And then you have to take your anteater around to schools and old folks homes and let people pet it. That part actually makes me want one more, because I think that anyone packin' an anteater is going to be the rock star of the therapy-pet circuit. Right? I mean, how many drooly, stinky Beagles and retrievers have those poor kids and old people been subjected to? I think they'd flip out if you brought 'em an anteater. But the other stuff (cage building, permits, contracts) does not make me want one. I didn't envision a cage when I conceived of this whole scheme. I thought the anteater would just come and live with us and eat ants and pop in and out of the dog door at will. I was hoping he or she would make friends with Zadie and that they might even snuggle up together in the same dog nest (which it turns out was not entirely off the mark--the anteater people say they're actually very affectionate animals, bordering on needy, and get along quite well with cats and dogs).

Alas, it is not to be. Not only are the California anteater regulations something of a deal breaker, the cost and the inherent difficulty of caring for one pretty much preclude any anteater relationships that may have been in my future. It turns out that they cost anywhere from $1500 to $4000, and they are high-maintenance companions (physically—not personality-wise). The online community claims that most households do not have enough ants to sustain even one anteater. So you have to supplement their diets with a soup that has fruit and spinach and ants and cheese. Apparently they enjoy avocados as well, but those aren't part of the soup. And if you don't get the nutrition thing perfect they get sick. And wind up costing you thousands more at the vet. The websites couldn't emphasize the fragility of the anteater strongly enough. Oh, and they're cold all the time, so you need to dress them in sweaters (unless you live in a tropical climate).

So there you have it. Ready to pick one up? Yeah, me either. But I really was excited about it for a couple days...

Bird watching

OK, this blog is supposed to be about Zeke, and there have been precious few Zeke photos or mentions lately, so I am posting this very cute photo of him from a few days ago over at my mom's house. We stopped by to pick up mail and check in on her birds while she's gone. Not pet birds. She's not a weird bird lady. These are wild birds that are nesting in one of the geranium baskets in front of her house. Every year the female builds a nest in the basket in the corner, and last year the eggs were demolished, but this year they survived, so now there are five very fat little baby birds just hangin' out in the nest, eatin' worms and waiting to grow enough feathers so they can blow that pop stand. Zeke likes me to take the basket down so he can see what they're up to. We don't touch. Just look for a little bit. And talk to the birdies about how one day they'll be big enough to eat goldfish crackers and pasta and potstickers...and go to school. I think they're excited.

No big deal

OK, the party hosting thing wasn't that big of a deal. I shouldn't even have mentioned it. It's just that last weekend was gorgeous and Zeke was playing in the pool, and it seemed like he'd have so much more fun if his cousin Jacob was in the pool with him, so I called his mom Patti and asked her if they wanted to come over for lunch and a swim. Only Patti didn't pick up. And she didn't get my message for another hour. So by the time she and Jacob and her husband John did make it over, it was late. Two o'clock. And that was cool. We were thrilled they could make it. But now lunch was over. And a couple hours later my tummy started growling, which made me think that my guests tummies were probably growling too, which led to a mental inventory of the food situation, and the conclusion that the guests and myself were hosed because I didn't have any guest-appropriate food. Unless you call leftover chinese or peanut butter toast appropriate for an afternoon spread. Bad hostess. Bad, bad, bad. I mean, I'm never really a great hostess—if I get the food right the decorations are missing, or I get the decorations right and the stemware is filthy, or I forget to pick the dog poop off the lawn for my lawn party, or...you name it, it has happened—but this case was especially egregious because Patty is an awesome hostess. Always remembers everything. Good food, clean plates, parting gifts—you get the idea. And now she and her family were visiting, and we had squat. Even Shanti, who is generally unconcerned about things like this, was aware that the total absence of food was something of a problem. So, to his credit, he emptied the last handful of broken pretzels from a month-old bag into a pretty little bowl, then did the same thing with the last handful of chips, and threw some cheddar goldfish in a third, and brought those out to our guests along with a big pitcher of what looked like real lemonade, but was in fact Crystal Light.

So that's all that happened. No big deal. Just us sucking as hosts and squirming in total awareness of our ineptitude.

We're actually going to Patty and Jon's tomorrow for a Memorial Day BBQ, which should be fun, because as Shanti said, “You know it's going to be perfect, right?”

I do know it's going to be perfect, and I am going to take diligent notes. Here's hoping that by the time you come to visit I will have elevated my game (but you still might want to toss a snack into your purse just in case).

Got Anteaters?

What's the deal with all the ants down here?

They are everywhere. Our corporate housing condo was positively riddled with them. No matter how much time and energy we spent trying to stamp them out, they always came back. And while our new pad is practically ant-free, a sentry did make an appearance at our breakfast table today, and I am seriously concerned that he is the first of millions that will be parading on in once they realize the house is occupied again.

Where is the predator that is supposed to be eating all these guys? And what predator is it anyway? Are anteaters all nature has to offer in this department? Does all ant eradication fall upon his humble shoulders? I find that hard to believe--although it would certainly explain the current state of affairs.

I know, I know—we are at least partially responsible for the situation. Obviously ants don't come to sterile, food-free homes. But we like food. We're not ready to give it up yet.

So we need an anteater. Or several anteaters. I looked on Craigslist for one, because you can find anything on Craigslist, but no, they have no anteaters. So now I'm putting out a plea to you, my friends and family. I need an anteater. Find me an anteater. One of you has got to have a friend that works at a zoo. And every zoo has its bad actors. Its troublemakers. Its discipline problems. I'm not saying steal an anteater. I'm just saying that if you were to offer to take a problem anteater off the hands of the zoo that your friend works at, and were then to ship that anteater to your good friends the Amagasus, well, we'd be grateful. And we'd keep him well-fed. I promise. As far as I can tell, Thousand Oaks is the all-you-can-eat buffet of the anteater world.

We're in!

In the house. We've actually been here since the 4th. And we're about 70-80% unpacked. Which is to say that the furniture is generally in its place (although some rooms are conspicuously furniture-light), and the boxes are more or less in the right rooms, (although a good number are still full). We've met the neighbors (awesome people), scoped the local supermarket, and had friends over for a swim visit (an event that needs to be blogged about later). We've gone to the Home Depot (about ten times already). We've walked the dog to the neighborhood dog park. I've joined a new gym—and a new book club. The dog has learned how to use the dog flap. Zeke has made friends with a kid across the street. Shanti has made his inaugural bike ride into work.

So there you are. The Northern California Amagasus are now officially the Southern California Amagasus. Easy as that. I hope we get to stay here for a good long while.

Music Update

OK, I know that some of you think I’m exaggerating about the 80s music thing. And that’s reasonable, because I’m not above stretching a detail or two in the interest of a more engaging story. But I am tellin’ you, swearin’ on everything dear to me that I have not embellished the way the citizens of the greater Los Angeles area love their 80s music. Come down here and turn on your radio. You will hear the truth.

Seriously. When was the last time you heard “Here I Go Again” by Whitesnake? “Why Can’t I Get Just One Kiss” by The Violent Femmes? “Come on Eileen” by Dexy’s Midnight Runners? Or “Pour Some Sugar on Me” by Def Leppard?

I heard them all today. In one day. And I don’t even have a commute.

The peculiar thing to me isn’t so much the appearance of “Come On Eileen” or “Mickey” (Oh Mickey you’re so fine, you’re so fine you blow my mind…” –that Mickey) on radio playlists, because love of those tunes is almost universal. It’s the shameless playing of hair bands that’s such a stunning thing to witness. Grinding, yelling, chaotic hair bands. Poison, Bon Jovi, KISS, Scorpions, Quiet Riot. They are all disproportionately popular here. Still getting oodles of airtime. I don’t understand what is going on. Did the guys in these bands all retire and buy the local radio stations? Are they foisting their music on an innocent populous? Or are my new friends and neighbors actually submitting requests for this stuff? Don’t get me wrong. I’m actually enjoying the whole thing—ain’t nothin’ like a little Whitesnake on the Stairmaster—I’m just curious about what seems like a very illogical state of affairs.