So remember how I posted back in May (which seems like two weeks ago, by the way) about how busy the summers always are?

Well, you know, there’s a reason that I haven’t posted anything for two months. Because…just like I said…summers are busy.

I won’t describe all of Emma’s softball tournaments. If you’re my Facebook friend, you’ve heard all the scintillating details already. Overall the team was solidly middle-of-the-road, which is pretty good as far as I’m concerned—though they went out with a 0-4 record at Western Nationals. This is to be expected, however, as middle-of-the-road teams really don’t belong at Western Nationals, which is supposed to take only the top teams in the western half of the country. But John and I seem to be the only parents who appraise the situation with the appropriate level-headed skepticism. All the others seems to have drunk the Kool-Aid, refusing to notice that these “championship” tournaments are designed to rape the wallets of desperate parents hoping to groom their children for college scholarships.

Anyway, that all ended last week, and now we are enjoying a much-deserved week in Truckee. I am currently sitting on a beautiful patio surrounded by a pluot, a bag of popcorn, and four different kinds of gourmet fudge. And my gold-star husband treated me earlier today to an hour with a traveling masseuse. So if this is summer’s end, it’s a pretty good way to go out.

Emma is officially a high-schooler, having graduated from eighth grade last Friday. I had a great time helping her get ready for the big event. She was so ready to be out of that school it was actually a little dire; for the past couple of months I’d kind of been counting down the days on her behalf.

Besides noting that it was, as expected, about a thousand degrees, I’m not going to drone on about the graduation itself (who cares), but I am going to complain (and marvel, really) about one of the kids’ speeches.

Now, first you must understand that the speech-givers were not chosen based on academic success or anything old-fashioned like that. Instead, every eighth-grader had to write a speech using a specific formula (basically, extract a life lesson from a personal experience) and present it to his or her core class. Each class voted on the top few kids, who then performed at an assembly, whereupon mysterious administrators selected four speeches for the actual graduation ceremony.

Here’s what they picked. This kid—we’ll call her Sassy—talked about how her mean, evil parents had made her go live in a foreign country for six months back at the beginning of middle school. Sassy was angry. Sassy was bereft. Sassy loved her middle school more than life itself. And when she arrived at the foreign country, guess what? (I know you think you know where this is going, but stick with me.) The people were nice, but the school was crap. It was old and crumbling and had no technology and there was no such thing as substitute teachers! Sassy couldn’t wait to get home!

And her lofty moral? Appreciate what you have, because the buildings here are amazing (yes, she actually waxed poetic about the buildings), and everywhere else basically sucks.

Now if I thought there was some boldness or courage in the selection of this speech—or even some wee suggestion that helping others less fortunate might be a nice supplement to constantly patting our own backs—I might have liked it more. But I don’t think the mysterious administrators even realized what a butt-kissing, sad little xenophobic speech they picked. It’s just another example of the self-congratulatory Kool-Aid that everyone in this city seems to suck down. Lap it up, folks.

But I got my revenge, don’t you worry, because I sneaked out of the ceremony early to make sure I got some good cupcakes at the reception. After the countless bake sale disappointments I’ve endured these three long years, I really think I deserved it.

So Emma’s middle school has a competition between the 6th, 7th, and 8th graders every year, with the winning grade getting a trip to Raging Waters during the last week of school. I don’t know exactly how they get points, but I imagine it’s kind of like the House Cup competition in the Harry Potter books.

And just as Gryffindor wins every year, so does the 8th grade. Is it because they are older, stronger, wiser? No, it’s because they cheat. According to Emma, “The 7th grade always complains, but then they just cheat the next year.”

Even lovelier, the prime cheaters are those on the Leadership Team (whatever that is), who join said Team solely to cook the books.

This is all so sick, yet somehow I’m kind of impressed.

Summers have always been weird for me as an adult. Somehow I still have the feeling that I’m going to have the whole thing off—maybe because everyone else in my household does (not that I’m bitter or anything)—and I start looking forward to meandering days full of local adventures, relaxing dinners on the patio, evening walks with a well-behaved dog.

Okay, I never delude myself about the dog. But each year, the rest of this fantasy persists, until it is eventually followed by the realization that summers are actually the busiest time of the year, and if we can cram in a single local adventure or patio dinner, we’re looking pretty good.

As it does for many, Memorial Day weekend kicks things off. For Emma, it’s the first softball tournament of the season—a three-day extravaganza in Stockton. She’s playing on the California Spin 16-and-under team this year and actually may be scouted (!) by college recruiters at several showcase tournaments this summer. But lest you think the kid has all the fun, never fear! For the parents, these trips afford plentiful opportunities for enjoying motel hospitality and seeking out undiscovered Sonic Burger restaurants in some of the hottest (and I do mean that literally) locations in Central California.

Sadly, I will not be sharing in the pleasure of this Saturday’s 6am wake-up call, because of course I will be heading to Rock Creek. (For those who may not know, it’s an annual friend and family camping trip that is critical and unmissable. To say that Rock Creek has at least partially defined my being would not be an understatement.) I’ll be making my s’mores and chillin’ like a villain. And with any luck, this year no one in our party will shatter his leg into a thousand pieces.

Besides that, I’m taking one class (which other students have assured me is easy), forcing my husband to go camping for one night (we’ll see if it happens), trying to start volunteering for any organization that will have me (they all seem to have these dastardly waiting lists), and making plans to see some Shakespeare and a musical. In August we’ll take a family vacation in Tahoe, and then, bam! Emma starts high school.

It will be kind of insane. But damn it, I will force some fun into it if it’s the last thing I do.

Today Emma turned fourteen, so of course we all had to take her out for her first drink. I know, I know, it would have been more age-appropriate to let her take her first drive, but she’s been tearin’ up the back streets of Menlo Park for a couple of years now, so we had to up the ante.

Okay, so maybe it was just a glass of lemonade, dinner at Il Fornaio, and dessert at the Prolific Oven (with a couple of chocolate chip cookies for the road).

Tomorrow morning some vindictive dentist will turn my child into a metalmouth. Emma’s being very brave about it, but I have to say I’m still grateful that I never needed braces (and I do wonder if my parents owe me the several thousand dollars they saved). Sometimes I think the saddest thing about not having a biological child is that no one has inherited my amazing teeth (I mean, they are amazing). But I digress. I’m looking forward to seeing the New Emma, and I’m sure she’ll look fine. (And now that I think about it, we should have had caramels and taffy for dessert. Oh, well.)

The fact that she’s fourteen, however, also makes me realize that I really need to update the JEL Family web site with new photos. The actual frame of the site depicts a—what?—ten year old? But geez, that’s hard, and just saying it is easier.

So happy birthday to the Emsk! This will be the first year of high school, a year of new friends and experiences, and just another year of worshiping your stepmother’s incredibly amazing teeth. We love you lots and lots.

Fake Press Releases Expected to Proliferate

MENLO PARK, CA — April 5, 2010 — In a shocking turn of events, lazy blogger Lisa Adams announced that, after a pathetic delay of a year and a half, she will maybe try to think about updating the JEL Family blog more frequently.

The blog, which was launched in conjunction with jelfamily.com in December of 2007, sailed along for almost a year before shuddering to a halt in September 2008.

Due to Adams’ unexpected hiatus, legions of devoted fans were deprived of firsthand details regarding the family’s endless complaints and horrifying summer sports commitments.

“I know, I don’t deserve to live,” moaned Adams. “On the other hand…this was supposed to be a family blog and so far only the ‘L’ is doing any work. Veeeery interesting, isn’t it.’

The “J” and the “E” were not available for comment.

Parents Baffled but Grateful

MENLO PARK, CA — September 10, 2008 — In a shocking turn of events today, Emma Heath received her school picture and found that it did not make her look like a leering, mildly retarded troll.

“I couldn’t believe it,” the seventh grader reported. “I didn’t look that bad!”

Heath suffers from a genetic disorder that causes perfectly attractive people to make ghoulish facial contortions in the presence of a camera. As a result, Heath’s school photos generally inspire cringing and stammering in others.

“She does the makeup picture every year, but it’s never any better than the original,” lamented Heath’s father, who suffers from the same condition and in fact admits passing it on to his innocent child.

Yet sources say the true victim of the disease is Heath’s stepmother, who cannot get a decent family picture to save her life. “With these freaks, it would take a miracle,” she moaned, but feels heartened by Heath’s recent photographic success. “Here, at last, we have some progress. It’s not the best picture I’ve ever seen, but at least she doesn’t look like a leering, mildly retarded troll.”

Heath’s parents report that the picture in question will likely remain unavailable to the public, as school photographers apparently have not embraced the digital age.

“Us, scan this in?” scoffed Heath’s father. “It’s an improvement, but it’s not that good.”

I know, I know, it’s been a long time since I posted an update. But here’s pretty much what we do in the JEL family:

1) work
2) attend youth sports

So you can consider yourself up to date.

We actually had a really nice vacation last month in Tahoe, renting a great little house near King’s Beach for a week. We brought a friend of Emma’s and set about doing the things one does in Tahoe: swimming, canoeing, eating ice cream for breakfast, even splurging on a parasail trip. The weather was perfect and the movies were classic: Ferris Bueller, Breakfast Club, and So I Married an Axe Murderer (“we’ve got a piper down!”). ‘Twas most lovely all around.

Now Emma’s back to school and John isn’t, a fact wielded most cruelly by John (and resented by me since I NEVER have summer vacation). However, that fact is rapidly outgrowing its truthiness, for John will go back to teaching in a couple of weeks, leaving me and the Terrible Puppy to party all day and then pretend we have been working and/or licking ourselves as soon as John and Emma get home.

When we have time in the evenings we are taking turns reading Treasure Island aloud. I am excited about this because I now have some bitchin’ lingo to use when the annual Talk Like a Pirate Day rolls around again.

The only real news is that Emma — having outgrown Little League earlier this summer — tried out for two competitive softball teams and made both. This fall she will be the starting shortstop for the California SPIN team! Glamorous as this may sound, her participation will require her parents to spend weekends in less choice locales than our own balmy Peninsula. You know…Hayward, Salinas, Stockton. As the manager of the team said, “That’s just the reality when your kids play sports.”

And so it is. I actually have rather fond memories of an AM/PM in Stockton where I once made myself a sundae wearing cat pajamas and then managed to knock over an entire container of plastic spoons. I then cackled out the door, leaving my poor mortified mother to deal with the fallout. Ah, memories.

Anyway, we’ll see how this traveling softball thing goes. All I can say is: the other parents had better not suck.

“If you were worth anything, I would sell you on eBay.”
- Emma to John

What a sweet and gracious child we have.

Well, my friends Dan and Lupine had a girl after all – Bina Clementine Swanson Blaker.

BUT! My cousin Jason and wife Rava are having their second son very soon, so the boy count still remains oddly high this year.

At Emma’s baseball game the other night, one of the moms was saying that Menlo Park’s crop of 11-year-olds is very girl-heavy; apparently her son’s class is 2/3 girls, and even Little League enrollments are down amongst that age group. Weird how these things happen.

Yes, it is Little League season, so we are all dutifully freezing our asses off three times a week. I have taken to bundling up in the Green Maggot (my down sleeping bag) to survive the frigid climes. Even worse, the head coach is obsessed and sadistic, choosing to prolong our agony whenever possible (like playing the final inning when it’s two minutes to seven and we are four thousand runs ahead). We bleacher-huddled folk have formed the Cold Parents’ Association to lobby for more humane treatment, but I am not optimistic. Our cries fall on deaf ears.