There's Never a Dull Moment ...

... when you travel with Jenee. This girl brings out a seriously silly side of me that I usually only get to display when my sister is in the vicinity.

I first met Jenee when I got suckered into attending a weekend-long camp with a group of unruly high school kids. This wasn't your typical s'mores and campfire songs camp. There was some seriously in-depth subject matter on the agenda here ... race, religion, sexual preference ... and how the preconceived notions of both students and staff get in the way of a peaceful and nurturing campus climate. A truly moving experience. That was ten years ago. I didn't run across Jenee again until my first day on the job where I work now, three years ago. I was being introduced to my staff and to school personnel with whom I would be working closely, and there she was. Little did I know that our work together would take us across the nation. What I can say with great certainty is that cities such as Washington, D.C., Albuquerque, and now Dallas will never be the same after having known us.

A few weeks ago -- and later this week -- when you run into Jenee or myself you will meet "WJ" (Working Jenee or Working Jodi). But when we're off to a conference, you will have the distinct pleasure of catching a glimpse of "VJ" ... Vacation Jenee/Jodi. We're away from the day-to-day stressors of the district, our minds are being fed by experts in the field, and we have plenty of time in the evening for good food, great wine, and thrills-a-minute karaoke.

Tonight was one such evening (sans karaoke). The VJs were taxied to a Dallas mall to check out some Bobbie Brown wares at Nordstrom's and stopped first for dinner and La Crema chardonnay. Five glasses (combined) and two makeovers (also combined) later, we found ourselves back at the 7-Eleven across from our hotel. Jenee was having a serious string cheese deficiency and I fancied myself a fountain Diet Coke. While waiting in line to check out, a tourist in front of us began to search her backpack frantically for her wallet. Our super-hero counselor-like skills kicked into high gear and we told her to take a breath and search again... no need to worry and hurry quite yet. As we waited, the line grew behind us. A local with an armful of 7-Eleven fruit (I know, right???) and beverages began to display her impatience. Jenee turned to face her and said, "She think she's lost her wallet. We can all relate. YOU can relate. So you can WAIT."

You see, Jenee has decided she needs to be more assertive these days. Standing up for her rights and the rights of those around her. So when she sees a fellow patron being hurried, or a conference-goer not rewarded for her participation as are the others around her, she speaks up.

But the cape-wearing Jenee (HJ for hero?) has to fight for time alongside the giddy out-of-town Jenee on these trips. VJ often wrestles her way to the surface, because she's got a job to do. She hunts down karaoke joints for me to croon at, she startles serious presenters by loudly protesting "WHAT?!?" when he says that there are no youths in the room (she's sooooo anxious to avoid the big four-oh), she leans over my shoulder to ask about every magazine and sudoku puzzle I'm perusing on the plane, and, frankly, she needs to be entertained like my 7-year-old.

I guess the upside to that is that she applauds loudest at my singing, breaks up the tension in a boring seminar presentation, and doesn't puke like Jacob does sometimes during landings.

You gotta love her.

What I Wouldn't Give for a Basement ...

Really, can anyone explain to me why us Californians are relegated to above-ground living only?

What I affectionately refer to as our basement is actually our nursery. Jake moved into a new room several years back, so his first space soon became a spot to put items that were "in transit." As in, "let's just put this box from the new vacuum cleaner in this room until we're sure it's working correctly." No surprise, I suppose, that the box is still there, so many months later. The room is now where treasures go to rest, then get lost, then die a slow, painful death.

If I had a basement, I could close the door and not think about it. But the nursery is smack-dab in between my son's room and mine, and I have to walk by the door dozens of times a day. Sure, the door may be closed, but it taunts me ... after all, I know what's behind it.

So a couple of nights ago I decided that I needed to see just how bad the room had gotten. Have you ever seen the TV shows where an organization and design team descends upon a family to "save" them from their clutter? And when they show you the "before" images of the room, you tell yourself that the mountains of junk just have to be for show. Surely the producers hauled in extra boxes and bags of dust-covered trinkets, kids' school papers and coupons clipped and never seen again for ratings, right?

That's what I always thought. But I'm ashamed to say that our "basement" was starting to look like the trigger point for cameras and fuzzy microphones to suddenly appear on our doorstep. I had to take action.

I warned the boys that I was going in. They weren't to bother me for anything. I cracked the door open and shoved a laundry basket full of Jacob's too-small clothes out of the way so that I could get in. As the door swung shut behind me, I knew I was trapped by my own despair. I wouldn't emerge from the room until I had made some serious headway.

An hour in, my stomach started growling. I unearthed some Scooby-Doo fruit snacks from a bag brought in from the car that landed ... and lived ... in the nursery. I couldn't stomach the thought of it, so I ignored the hunger pangs. Anyway, I had brought in reinforcements (Diet Coke and a water bottle). They would have to do.

The room was stuffy, so I dug through the closet for a small fan. Finding no flat surface available to set it, it perched precariously on a stack of magazines yet to be sorted through and recycled.

Fan working ... but still getting warm. Locks of hair continued to fall from my ponytail, fighting containment. Much like the nursery. Resourceful as ever, I found the extra shoelaces from Jacob's school shoes in a plastic box filled with odds and ends. Oh yeah, you read that correctly. Shoelaces. Darn, I'm good. I tied it around my head as a makeshift headband.

Two hours later, I had nearly burned up the shredder, filled several containers of recycling and fizzled out of all remaining energy. That was enough for one night. Plus, I had to use the restroom, and I could not come up with one logical way to solve that issue in MacGyver fashion in that room.

Triumphant at all that I had accomplished (OK, the room still isn't ready for Martha Stewart's blessing, but Rome wasn't built in a day, right?), I threw open the door and stepped out into the hallway, breathing a deep sigh of satisfaction. I walked right into The Boy and The Man. They stopped, looked at my shoelace-tied hair, the sheen of sweat on my brow, and the cloud of dust accompanying me from the room.

And Jacob looked into the nursery, looked back at me, and said, "So when are you gonna start cleaning out the nursery?"

Uncle.