At our staff meeting Monday, my fellow day-jobbers at the alt weekly were horrified to hear we were writing about The Wiggles, and only slightly less so when I announced the piece was about how I refused to review their upcoming Phoenix show.

“And Sophie has never liked The Wiggles,” I exclaimed, at the end of a diatribe about the short shelf life of this group. More blank stares.

OK, so maybe New Times wasn’t the right venue for the piece. But hey, as you’ll learn, it wasn’t my idea….

Funny, just last night I was singing the the lyric from the Bloodhound Gang song, “The drummer from Def Leppard’s only got one arm!” (we were talking about our first concerts — mine was Rick Springfield) and this came along, in the form of an email this morning from Sophie’s music therapist, who wanted to talk about schedules for the school year (can that really be upon us?) and as an aside, mentioned,

“…also, in case you didn’t know, Sophie is a drummer at heart. She was playing the drum set today and you could tell she was playing with everything in her.”

No, I didn’t know. A drum set may be the one thing we don’t have in the house. Oh dear. Where will we put it?

Sophie’s dating, and I think it’s serious.

She’s had playdates before, sure. Good playdates, even — sweet little kids with well-meaning mothers. Kids who like Sophie, I know that.

But true friends? Real play? I haven’t been sure. Until Sarah.

Early in kindergarten — almost a year ago now — Ms. X started telling me about Sophie’s relationships. Several names came up, but none as often as Sarah’s. Sarah’s the youngest of several siblings, and towers over Sophie; Ms. X thought she liked playing caregiver. But Ms. X was always quick to point out that Sarah and Sophie really seemed to be striking up a friendship, too.

I guess so. At Sophie’s birthday party, I watched my kid settle into Sarah’s lap for a good hunk of time, and take her around to show her her toys. Sarah’s gift — Foofah, from Yo Gabba Gabba — was Sophie’s favorite.

And my favorite gift came toward the end of the party, when Sarah’s mom asked me if we could trade phone numbers. Sarah would love to have some play dates with Sophie over the summer, she said.

I practically swooned. I put the note with Sarah’s mom’s number up on the side of the fridge and stared at it for days. When I finally got up the nerve to call, I realized it was mid-June — and at the bottom of the note her mom had written, “We’ll be gone mid Juneish.”

So we waited. Every day, Sophie asked, “You call Sarah’s mom?” And every day I told her, “Soon! I promise.” Then it was time to go to the beach.

“When we get back, I promise!” I told Sophie. My phone rang as we were getting on the plane to come home. It was Ms. X calling to say she’d just run into Sarah and her mom. “Sarah’s mom lost your number, but she found it. She’s going to call for a playdate!” Ms. X promised.

I beat her to it. Friday morning I called. She called back almost immediately. We tried unsuccesfully to find a time over the weekend, and Sarah’s mom wound up inviting  Sophie to come over Monday afternoon (today). I had to explain that Sophie had never been to a playdate by herself. Could Sarah come over instead?

It was another sad working-mom-moment. Courtney oversaw the playdate. I texted her this afternoon.

How was playdate???

Good! she’s still here…got here around 230 and they were having so much fun I called to see if she could stay till 5 5:50

That makes my day!

They are pretty cute! And I talked to her mom about wed and we are going to go to pump it up in the morning

(Pump It Up is one of those bouncy places.) Sarah’s mom also agreed that the playdate was a big success. As for Sophie? She’s thrilled. She, Annabelle and Ray just got back from frozen yogurt (it’s quickly become a summer habit) and I couldn’t wait to ask her what she and Sarah did on their playdate.

She couldn’t wait to tell me.

“Me and Sarah sat on the Whoopee Cushion and I farted! And she farted!”

They also played hide and seek, she told me. Sophie hid in the bathtub.

Sounds like a great date to me.

For someone with no formal belief in any sort of organized anything, without real faith in anything except the power of a Diet Coke first thing in the morning, I certainly see a lot of signs.

Signs of what, I don’t know. Maybe by definition, that means they’re not signs at all. You tell me. I will recall the latest — including my reaction, for the purposes of being completely honest.

Probably it’s just the latest sign that I’m an asshole.

The second or third night of our beach vacation, a few of us loitered on the walk back from dinner to the hotel. Annabelle had gone to Sea World with my sister and her family; my parents were already on the couch. My dear friend Trish and her son Zach, who is 16, were in town and we’d eaten together. Trish had Sophie on her hip as we headed back.

Funny, I hadn’t noticed how much shabbier than chic the little strip of retail on La Jolla’s north shore has become over the years we’ve been staying there — the ancient surf shops, the coffee joint that changes owners every two or three years, the grungy market. I love it all, even the tiny nail salon too dirty looking to dream of stepping foot in. Except it was gone this year, replaced by a gleaming, colorful, weigh-your-own frozen yogurt shop — the kind that are popping up all over Phoenix. Sophie’s favorite.

We stopped for chocolate with no toppings for her and a little something for everyone else, ate it there, and started back to the room in the dark. The sidewalk is narrow a block from the beach, sandy and slippery and people scoot around a party as slow as ours. We didn’t notice; Sophie was loudly singing her ABCs — doing a fine job, I thought, til a middle-aged woman passed us and called out, “Hey, she missed the H!” I responded, “At least it wasn’t the P!” (Sorry, old joke.)

Really, a trivial moment if ever there was one.

Immediately after, from the pitch black, a figure emerged. At first, all I could see was that the person was rather big, wearing all white — white shirt, white shorts, white shoes — and bounding toward us. Galloping, sort of. It was a girl, I could finally tell, with a dark brown pageboy and, I realized, features not unlike Sophie’s. 

We stopped to let the girl pass us; she was gone as quickly as she’d appeared.

If I’d been with anyone else, I’m not sure I would have said a word. But it was Trish. We have a lot of history – most recently, two months ago, at the girls’ dance recital, when right before the show was to begin, we had an encounter with another person with Down syndrome.  

I don’t think Zach and Sophie noticed a thing. But Trish and I stood there, staring first after the girl, then at each other. And we did the mature thing. We burst out laughing. To be fair, Trish had had two beers and I’d had some kind of vodka lemonade thing, but still. One of us even wet her pants, but I’m not saying who.

Zach demanded an explanation as to why we were laughing. Trish tried. She said it was the look on my face when the girl ran by. But there was no way to explain it. Definitely not to a 16-year-old boy, who looked increasingly disgusted with us.

And perhaps not to you, either. Or maybe you get it. I still can’t explain why I laughed, except to say I was uncomfortable, and also saying to Trish, “SEE? SEE? IT KEEPS HAPPENING.” 

Was the figure in white another ghost of my future? Or am I looking for signs where there are only young girls, chasing after their own families — or maybe even their dreams.

Or maybe she was just on her way to get some frozen yogurt.

I just looked at the two dogs sleeping at my feet (both are black with a bit of white, so a photograph is impossible — you’ll just have to take my word for it) and noticed that Rosy, the Grand Dame of the house, has her front leg thrown over Jack the puppy’s muzzle, in a sweet show of affection. Both are snoozing comfortably.

What do I do?! Rosy, as you know from past posts, is long past 14. Old old old, particularly for a big dog. She’s arthritic, covered in lumps and bumps (benign, but still) and I’m pretty sure deafer by the day. She tends to poop wherever she is, which hasn’t been as big a hassle since we introduced the “intestinal distress” diet. She gets pain meds twice a day.

She’s ok. I guess. I can’t ask her.

“You’ll know when it’s time,” people keep telling me.

I’m not so sure. I don’t want Rosy to suffer, I want her to die while she’s still happy, but since it’s looking more and more like I’m in the role of Grim Reaper, how can I kill a happy dog?

I had to stop reading the squid stories. It’s gone from bad to worse — by yesterday the New York Times was reporting that jumbo, flying, carnivorous squid are pulling masks and oxygen tanks off divers up and down the San Diego coast.

We were safely back in Phoenix by then, and upon reflection, I must tell you that really, squid were not the scariest thing on the beach last week.

I’m far more frightened of a typical six-year-old.

It’s not like I don’t walk amongst them on a regular basis, but seldom do I find myself in very close quarters with one for an extended period of time. That happened last week, when we vacationed with my parents and my sister Jenny and her family — including Ben, 8, Sam, 2 and Kate — 6.

My niece Kate is just about 6 weeks older than Sophie. My first memory of her is burned into my psyche — Jenny walking into my hospital room, carrying Kate in her bucket seat. She caught the first plane to Denver after I called to tell her about Sophie, hauling her own newborn.

(Jenny’s a way better sister than I am — a way braver one, at least. No way would I have taken my newborn into a dirty, smelly hospital. To be fair, Jenny is a hospital social worker, so she’s not freaked out by all things medical the way I am. Still. She’s one hell of a sister and friend.)

Kate and Sophie grew, one faster than the other. I know there are differences between Sophie and her peers, but it’s one of those smoke and mirror things — until I’m confronted with some quality time with Kate, I can sort of make those differences go away. Diminish a little. But Kate is so strong, so smart, so on.

And so close to her cousin Annabelle.

Only once or twice during the week together did I feel compelled to pull Annabelle and Kate aside and ask them to include Sophie. It wasn’t like that, not really. It was like they were in a different orbit. Sophie didn’t seem to care at all when the other girls took a walk up the beach (don’t worry, within eyeshot!) by themselves, or ran up to the room together to pee. Or did a complicated craft, or told silly stories, or — you get the idea.

Sophie was perfectly happy in the company of adults, or Baby Sam, as we all call him, who soon won’t be much of a baby anymore. (She, of course, had to be watched like a hawk. She’ll still run off if she can, and needed a lot of coaxing up and down stairs.) I didn’t really even think much of it til we were back home, and my girls were back to their ways.

We walked in the house, and the two of them went straight to Annabelle’s room, where they played together for a good 20 minutes. (A miracle!) Last night, Annabelle painted Sophie’s nails. This morning, she gently chastized her for chewing the polish off. They bicker, but they cuddle. They are friends. Sometimes.

At one point during the beach week, I did say to Annabelle, “I’m glad you’re having so much fun with Kate! Hard to believe she’s the same age as Sophie, isn’t it?”

Annabelle looked up at me. “Kate has her Kate Things, just like Sophie has her Sophie Things,” she said, more wisely than I could ever dream of putting it.

Still, it makes me melancholy for what isn’t. That said, Jenny and I barely spoke a civil word to one another til we were both pregnant for the first time. So there’s some perspective for you — and for me.

And maybe by next year’s beach trip, Sophie will have caught up to the other girls, at least a bit.

If not, that’s okay, too. It’ll have to be.

(Note: This post includes a spoiler regarding the book “The Ramen King and I” by Andy Raskin.)

On Sunday evening — or maybe it was Monday morning, I’ve got a serious case of beach brain after a week, and can’t be trusted with such details – I sat down at the desk with the corner-of-the-eye ocean view out the window of the hotel room my parents have stayed in each summer for more than 20 years, and opened my laptop.

That’s where I saw the giant squid, in the lead story on Yahoo. I’d felt the earthquake Saturday morning, just a pleasant shaking so mellow I didn’t mention it to anyone (I went to college in southern California; I’ve felt worse) but giant squid?

Yes, on La Jolla Shores. Possibly as a result of the earthquake, which hit in the ocean, many giant squid had washed ashore. I looked out the window, which offers a view of, basically, the entire beach called “La Jolla Shores”. It’s not a long stretch, but a pretty one, beginning, for my purposes at least, at the Marine Room at the La Jolla Beach and Tennis Club, and stretching north to the Scripps Pier.

I didn’t see any giant squid. This was the first any of us had heard of this at all. For someone afraid of the sea and everything in it (don’t ask why I so enjoy this annual beach trip; I can’t explain it), the description in the NBC story was horrendous: Gigantic (hence the name) creatures with parrot-like beaks, suckers and claws. And my nephew had been swimming in that water for days. Ray took Annabelle out in it, in a kayak.

Shudder. But we hadn’t seen hide nor claw. Maybe they were much farther down the beach; perhaps NBC had the wrong beach entirely? Feeling it safer to stay indoors at this point, I called the hotel front desk.

“Oh yeah! We had ‘em!” the clerk said jovially. “But they were nowhere near you. More like near Room 130, not your room.”

I swooned. That put them mere yards from us.

But here’s the thing. We never saw a giant squid (we’ve got a couple hours left before the plane, so I suppose there’s still time). I thought about writing a blog post about giant squid — a much more interesting one than this, in which I trick you into believing I did encounter one of the beasts and then wait til the last minute to tell you that well, actually, no I didn’t.

That, however, reminded me of Andy Raskin. His new book, ‘The Ramen King and I,” literally topped my beach reading pile. I picked it up first and finished it in two days. Funny, after reading “The Fortune Cookie Chronicles,” I desperately wanted Chinese food. But though I love ramen, I didn’t much want any after Raskin’s book. I was left  feeling a bit cheated. He spent the entire book letting me think he was going to meet the guy who invented instant ramen, a guy he credits with turning his life around.

Here’s the thing: It’s a really well-written book. I don’t want to dis Raskin; he bared his soul. But even in this day and age (and I know I’m a hypocrite, as I blog and blog and blog), um, TMI. This guy wanted to tell the world that for years, he cheated on his girlfriends. Mission accomplished. But he also wanted us to believe the solution was whimsically tied to his obsession with meeting the Ramen guy.

Call me a cynic, but at that point, I didn’t smell soup. I smelled a book proposal. The truth is that Raskin did what amounted to a 12-step to overcome his addiction to breaking hearts. (That’s the abbreviated version, to be fair.) The ramen stuff was a conceit. A cute one, but a conceit. And he never got close to the ramen guy, or even close to convincing me that it was anything about that guy and his teachings (if you can call them that) that convinced him to keep it in his pants.

I want to be clear: I loved the parts of this book about Japanese culture and history and food. It was worth reading for that. And the entire thing was well-written. But as I read, I kept turning to the book jacket and looking at Raskin’s doleful photo and wincing.

I won’t tease you, I’ll just tell you: no giant squid for me, and I’m thankful. The only creatures I saw this week were the two-legged, familial kind.

As for beach reading, I finished with ramen and turned to “America America,” Ethan Canin’s latest. I can’t recommend it enough — a terrific piece of somewhat-historical fiction set in 1970s American politics, but with issues ringing true today. I won’t give you any spoilers; I’ll just tell you to read it. Unlike “The Ramen King and I,” it’s out in paperback, which is nice.

There’s no more time to read, but I think I’ll risk one last walk down the beach. I’ll dig out my close-toed shoes first. The ramen king is dead (Raskin actually sort of pretends he’s writing about the funeral for the New York Times in order to sneak in; tacky!) but the giant squid? Who knows.

Happy birthday, dear Annabelle.

Here she was on the proper day, July 10, on the beach — where she’s celebrated all but 2 of her birthdays.

From the moment we pulled up at the drive-in, all I wanted to do was belt out,

Stranded at the drive-in./Stranded a fool./What will they say — Monday at school?

And so I did (with apologies to John Travolta). The good thing is, the monsoon winds were blowing so loudly, no one could hear.

I had my doubts about the drive-in, even though my friend Kathy (she of cupcake baking fame) has been raving about it for years. It’s on the edge of town, technically on the Salt River/Pima Indian reservation (yes, we have bona fide Indian reservations, and that’s what they call them, here in metro Phoenix) and Kathy swears it’s a few degrees cooler.

Damn, she’s right. Maybe it’s the breeze blowing in from the waterpark across the street (that’s a joke, as is the waterpark itself, “Big Surf,” because yes, 40 years ago someone decided we needed to surf in the desert) or the fact it’s a bit removed from the concrete jungle. For whatever reason, though the temperature reached 110 yesterday, by nightfall at the Scottsdale Drive In, it was practically bearable.

Kathy whipped up a whole wheat pasta salad, set out lawn chairs, a small table and blankets, and made a bed for the girls in the back of her SUV. We had a whole posse, which included another large car, several more chairs, two moms and four more kids, a huge cooler and oatmeal cookies with dark chocolate M&Ms. It was a great time.

Ice Age III (what I saw of it, anyway) was not bad. The sound from the car radios was surprisingly good; the only drawback was that several batteries died by night’s end.

The best part: Sophie. This is the movie-going experience for my child! Like the princess with the pea, she tried every lawn chair, the back of each car, the blankets and every lap, before finally demanding she be strapped into her car seat, where she relaxed in luxury. The best part: She didn’t disturb a soul. (Not much, anyway.) I can’t remember the last time I took Sophie to the movies and she didn’t spend the entire time begging to go to the bathroom, then admitting she didn’t have to go once there. The most memorable experience was when we saw Mamma Mia last summer and Sophie ran down to the front of the theater and danced practically on top of the screen. (The staff were not amused.)

She’s got Down syndrome, that’s for sure, but as I filled out the multi-sheet questionaire from the latest psychologist yesterday, I wondered what the paper diagnosis would be, given my answers: Sophie’s got no attention span, she won’t sit still, she doesn’t always interact appropriately with others. Sounds like ADHD to me. Or even autism, and since this shrink is famous for giving that diagnosis to anyone who comes through the door, I better brace myself.

Not that I think Sophie’s autistic. Trust me, she’s not. But if you saw her at the movies — hands over ears, running down aisles, refusing to listen to reason….

As usual, I digress. The drive-in experience was wonderful, and left me sad that it’s a dying breed. Funny, because outdoor movie-going is all the rage, as long as it’s in a hotel pool or at a fancy park. Slate just did a piece on it this week. (To which I’ll say only, lady, you’re lucky if anyone ever invites you anywhere again, let alone a movie, after writing that.) I prefer the old school experience, for sure — a place still untouched by development (bless the Native Americans for moving slowly on such things), rickety and low budget ($6.50 for three of us for a double feature!) and, as Kathy puts it, “a dustbowl by day.”

“But see how it’s transformed into a wonderland at night?!” she asked, relaxing against her poofy comforter, diet cherry limeaid in hand, thrilled she’d finally dragged us all along.

She better watch out. We’ll be back, and we’re taking her with us.

So after the pizza, we got frozen yogurt.

There’s been some debate over whether pizza technically qualifies as junk food. I suppose not. (And I forgot about Annabelle’s cotton candy when I wrote that, so the weekend was shot, in any case.) You can argue about the relative health merits of fro yo, as well. It’s 1984 all over again, with the frozen yogurt craze. (I can’t stop thinking of that Seinfeld episode, when they find out the non-fat really isn’t.)

Back to the evening. Sophie chose chocolate with no topping, as always, and Annabelle tried a very bright orange, dressed with gummi bears. Both girls tried to avoid spilling on their dresses, but Annabelle did get a bit of orange on hers. I grabbed some ice from my drink and dropped it onto the dress, holding the fabric in my hand so it would melt (not hard, it was 110 here Sunday), hoping to at least dissipate the stain a bit.

I was so focused on the dress that I didn’t notice what was going on right next to me. Sophie had finished her yogurt, then turned the cup upside down and spattered her dress with chocolate.

“Sophie! Why did you do that?!” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“So you put ice on it!” 

Fresh from an Elvis appreciation lesson that afternoon, thanks to satellite radio, Annabelle belted out a most appropriate lyric:

“Little sister don’t you do what your big sister done!”