So long, 2008! In with the new year and that annoying 3 months when I write the wrong dates on checks. Again, I'll mention the strangeness of time: in some ways, January was ages ago: S was starting a new school, E was a little preschooler and Mobile was still so very new to us. On the other hand, the kids' first Mardi Gras parade seems like just yesterday. As I look to the year ahead, there are already vacations on the books, our tenth wedding anniversary, grade school for E..it's overwhelming, as it is every January for me. Obviously, every day is a bit overwhelming for me. Three hundred and sixty five is just plain daunting. But, we are starting off on the right foot. I have made some amazing friends this year, and I am so grateful for them. MT and MK are the little people sitting on my shoulders whispering funnies, advice, and their own wisdom into my ears. I am a better person for them both. I have tried to let go a little this year. Tried to be the "fun" mom. While that hasn't exactly panned out, I am going to keep at it. M and I had another healthy year together, which is something that can't be underrated. He is still my best friend, and partner in parenting crimes.
I took S to his final Mommy and Me music class this year--another bittersweet moment. it is just another example of how my children are growing and separating from me. While certainly I would be certifiable to say I wish I could keep them little forever, I am ambivalent about watching them become little men. Their constant growth also compels me to reexamine my own life and what I want to make of it, now that my children are not dependent on me for everything. I wonder what I will be doing with my time, and how I will reinvest some energy in myself. Will I actually succeed at a diet? Will I expand my love for photos into something more? Will I stay at home and clean out closets every day? Will I become one of those scary women who dress their dogs and treat them like babies? Further self-examination is required.
As always, I stand on the precipice of the new year with idealistic hopes of spotless home, and sane mind. I envision myself as the perfect wife/daughter/mother/friend/room mom/chef/housekeeper/everything. I picture my family in a Norman Rockwell image: smiling, neatly dressed, together serenely on a couch, playing with our perfectly trained puppy. I dream of everything being happy, and readily achievable, and successful. And, as always I look behind me at a year of nearly-was. I am overly critical of my shortcomings, and dwell on my failures both big and small.
Perhaps wanting the perfection is a reasonable enough resolution.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Yes, Dear
The fundamental difference between parents and grandparents can be expressed in a single word: NO.
Apparently, the word has been eliminated from grandparents' vocabulary. "Can we eat waffles for breakfast, lunch, and dinner?" Yes. "Can we leave every room looking like a post-apocalyptic war zone?" Why, yes. Can we have dessert after eating all of our waffles?" Of course. "Do we need to look after our own things, be responsible for our own sweatshirts, feed ourselves?" I will do those things for you, my loves. Do not trouble yourselves.
It kills me. I know it's the prerogative of the grandparent to spoil the children. I understand it's in the best interest of the child to seek out the spoiling. I remember doing it myself. But, man, it is a test of my parental fortitude.
I can tell my kids to sit at the table while eating, only to return to them picnic-ing on the kitchen floor with grandma's seal o' approval. I can ask them to clean up their lethal Lincoln Logs only to find Grandma kneeling over the mess. M looks at me as though he is in a strait jacket. He strains against the restraints yet abstains from comment. I can see it in his eyes.
I concede. I give up. I will be in charge again, whether I want to be or not. Inevitably the responsibility will fall back to me and my children will be reminded of "No" and "Can't" and "Won't" and "Forget it." But for now, they are being spoiled rotten. It is my job to stand by and take it. Grrr
Apparently, the word has been eliminated from grandparents' vocabulary. "Can we eat waffles for breakfast, lunch, and dinner?" Yes. "Can we leave every room looking like a post-apocalyptic war zone?" Why, yes. Can we have dessert after eating all of our waffles?" Of course. "Do we need to look after our own things, be responsible for our own sweatshirts, feed ourselves?" I will do those things for you, my loves. Do not trouble yourselves.
It kills me. I know it's the prerogative of the grandparent to spoil the children. I understand it's in the best interest of the child to seek out the spoiling. I remember doing it myself. But, man, it is a test of my parental fortitude.
I can tell my kids to sit at the table while eating, only to return to them picnic-ing on the kitchen floor with grandma's seal o' approval. I can ask them to clean up their lethal Lincoln Logs only to find Grandma kneeling over the mess. M looks at me as though he is in a strait jacket. He strains against the restraints yet abstains from comment. I can see it in his eyes.
I concede. I give up. I will be in charge again, whether I want to be or not. Inevitably the responsibility will fall back to me and my children will be reminded of "No" and "Can't" and "Won't" and "Forget it." But for now, they are being spoiled rotten. It is my job to stand by and take it. Grrr
Friday, December 26, 2008
Who keeps moving my Hell?
To everyone who believes that Heaven is drifting above us in the silvery meadows of the clouds, I have bad news: Hell is at 36,000 feet. Not that our flight was that bad or anything. We lost track of time and had to rush a little to the regional airport. But regional airports are awesome. We parked, walked to the counter, checked everything in and moseyed up to the gate. And, considering the godawful weather of late, we were pleasantly surprised with a 5 minute delay. Unfortunately, the seating arrangements on regional jets are sucky. The agent couldn't find a way to divide us 2 and 2, so the kids sat together. They fought, poked each other, and eventually grew weary of harassing each other, and we arrived at DFW on time. We walked briskly to our gate there, made a pit stop and a fast food stop and walked on to that plane, too. We were in the second to last row. The row where you can still smell the blue toilet goo. The row behind us--kids. The row across from us--kids. The row kitty corner in every direction--kids. The row directly in front of us? A dour faced couple, at least one of whom really hated kids. And dogs.
Clooney was relatively well behaved. He preferred to sit in our laps (in the duffel bag of course) to sitting under the seat. But he drank a little and ate a little, and was relatively non-problematic. Except for the dude in front of me who kept stink-eyeing the dog! Bah, humbug.
We arrived in the O.C. on time, Uncle J picking us up on time (of course, he's very prompt). We rode for all eternity along the jam packed 5 Freeway (of course, it's always jam-packed) and pulled in to my parents' house jam-packed with people. Aunt, Uncle, Grandpa, my sister's in-laws. Everyone. No chance to go wipe that disgusting blue-toilet goo smell from my nose. No face wash. No way to wash the Ebola from the kid behind us off of our bodies before being conscripted into the Merry Christmas Service. Oh, merciful God. I was so tired. M was tired.
The kids were tired.
We ate a delicious dinner. Then there was that kid-stimulant process of opening gifts. The boys received 2 R2D2 robots. Yes, two. Which we couldn't get to work because everyone was barking orders at the poor things, and all they could do (which M and I agreed we sympathized with) was beep, spin, and chirp in confusion. We sent everyone home, and I, bleary-eyed, stayed up to visit with my sister. She seemed a little fried on family time herself.
It's only Christmas Eve. I felt as though I had been trapped in some year-round Christmas village forever. How could it be only Christmas EVE? All the presents yet unopened under the tree...transport them home...R2D2 wars I imagine breaking out in my dining room...Clooney pulling on bows and potentially crapping on my mother's prized floors...just one alarming scenario flitting through my head after another. I need more to drink. More. More. More. Wait. T0o much.
I lay in my parents' guest room on Christmas morning, listening to my kids at 5:30. Listening to the morning sounds of my parents' house: coffee machine beeping, mom unloading the dishwasher, starting the sounds of breakfast. It was all at once familiar and warm, and horrifying and alien. I pulled the covers over my head, imagining teleporting to somewhere tropical and deserted. Clooney crawled under and starting licking my face. There is no room for denial on Christmas. It is all everything. All at once.
I rolled over to see M's face. The temper was already rising. He feels he has been usurped as parent and his children are running amok. He is right. I cede responsibility. I am in survival mode. It's every man for himself.
I got out of bed. Mumbled good mornings on my way to the coffee maker. Hell is now at sea level.
Clooney was relatively well behaved. He preferred to sit in our laps (in the duffel bag of course) to sitting under the seat. But he drank a little and ate a little, and was relatively non-problematic. Except for the dude in front of me who kept stink-eyeing the dog! Bah, humbug.
We arrived in the O.C. on time, Uncle J picking us up on time (of course, he's very prompt). We rode for all eternity along the jam packed 5 Freeway (of course, it's always jam-packed) and pulled in to my parents' house jam-packed with people. Aunt, Uncle, Grandpa, my sister's in-laws. Everyone. No chance to go wipe that disgusting blue-toilet goo smell from my nose. No face wash. No way to wash the Ebola from the kid behind us off of our bodies before being conscripted into the Merry Christmas Service. Oh, merciful God. I was so tired. M was tired.
The kids were tired.
We ate a delicious dinner. Then there was that kid-stimulant process of opening gifts. The boys received 2 R2D2 robots. Yes, two. Which we couldn't get to work because everyone was barking orders at the poor things, and all they could do (which M and I agreed we sympathized with) was beep, spin, and chirp in confusion. We sent everyone home, and I, bleary-eyed, stayed up to visit with my sister. She seemed a little fried on family time herself.
It's only Christmas Eve. I felt as though I had been trapped in some year-round Christmas village forever. How could it be only Christmas EVE? All the presents yet unopened under the tree...transport them home...R2D2 wars I imagine breaking out in my dining room...Clooney pulling on bows and potentially crapping on my mother's prized floors...just one alarming scenario flitting through my head after another. I need more to drink. More. More. More. Wait. T0o much.
I lay in my parents' guest room on Christmas morning, listening to my kids at 5:30. Listening to the morning sounds of my parents' house: coffee machine beeping, mom unloading the dishwasher, starting the sounds of breakfast. It was all at once familiar and warm, and horrifying and alien. I pulled the covers over my head, imagining teleporting to somewhere tropical and deserted. Clooney crawled under and starting licking my face. There is no room for denial on Christmas. It is all everything. All at once.
I rolled over to see M's face. The temper was already rising. He feels he has been usurped as parent and his children are running amok. He is right. I cede responsibility. I am in survival mode. It's every man for himself.
I got out of bed. Mumbled good mornings on my way to the coffee maker. Hell is now at sea level.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Unraveling Our DNA
For all you people who are going to watch the Grand Tradition of the Rose Parade, and think, "WOW! Look at the weather!" Don't be fooled. It's going to be in the 50s and rain all week. I know this because an Accuweather metero-dork told me so. It won't be a problem, since there will be only 8 people and Clooney hanging out in my parents' 1000 s.f. place. We're good.
I am taking collections for my alcohol consumption fund on the plane. Now that they charge $7 for a cocktail, and the economy being what it is, I need a little help. I'm thinking of setting up a kiosk in the airport, showcasing my children running around. I'm thinking Hare Krishna meets drunken Hobo. So, yeah.
I have received a bunch of notes, emails, and phone calls from various friends and relatives spending these holidays with friends and relatives of their own. One question keeps coming up: "How am I related to these people?"
Part of the explanation must be rooted in the DNA of Theme Sweaters (see related post), but how is it that we can be so fundamentally different from those whose DNA we share? Fat family, skinny friends. Or in my case, fat me, skinny family. Theme Sweaters and Grinches. Christians and Atheists. Atheists and Jews. Big families, Little families. Slobs, OCD's. Then, on top of that, are In-Laws. (A group ranging from intolerable to remarkably normal. Mine fall into the latter end of that spectrum.) How could the spouse you love and live with every day have such an enormous dark side? How could this person have been raised in a house with those people? And emerged semi-sane?
I ask myself these questions often. And not always in a snide way. I mean, sometimes, snidely, sure. But mostly out of curiosity. My sister is often referred to as a clone of my dad. They share certain obvious similarities in their appearances. Additionally, they cross their arms and feet in the same ways when they recline. They have hands that are so similar, it's eerie. They share a similar intolerance for people of a certain thinking oppositional to their own. (Though I must say, my sister is more vocal in hers.) I have often called them separately to retell a story, only to find their reactions are the same. Creepy. My mom and sister are mostly oil and water. Me? I'm truly a mix of my parents, I think. But this does not necessarily mean a better relationship with either. In fact, I often feel at sea in the group. My sister and dad are clearly a bloc. My mom is a strong personality of her own. I often drift in the middle, finding no agreement from either side. For example, I like animals. My sister finds house pets revolting. My Dad finds them not so much revolting, but tremendously unworthy of the effort. My mother finds them dirty. And M and I went off and got a puppy just a year and a half after our first was euthanized. For us, the cuddly presence of a pup outweighs the inconvenience. (Most of the time.)
I have heathen friends among families of devoutly pious people. I have brilliantly successful friends among families of underachievers. Social butterflies among social misfits.
Obviously, these relationships cultivated our experiences. The process of pushing against these people and being pushed on by these people defines us. Unfortunately, this process sometimes reduces me to my adolescent self. The alienation and friction evoke a petty reaction. They often transform me into a person barely recognizable to M. Often, the best I can do is to remain silent and brooding in another room (the bathroom?). Usually, however, sarcasm and nastiness are my primary weapons.
Other times, naturally, we are not divisive in such a dramatic way. Often, the differences manifest as dialogue and dichotomy. Often, we share more ground than we think. Often, I find my family's ideas thought provoking and insightful. Often, I find my sister and I coincidentally have bought identical products, clothes, or services. We laugh at the same jokes. We will email each other the same articles we found online independently. We talk on the phone every day.
So, how could we possibly be related to these people is not really a question I can answer. Why are we related to these people is far more interesting. Why? Because it's a test. And a reward. And it's that crazy, feathered nest from which we eagerly flew on our first wings. And the cuckoo's nest to which we must occasionally return. And because psychosis skips generations. Or because thriftiness runs in only the men of your family. Or because God, or Thereisnogod has a sense of humor.
And the best answer of all to these familial differences: egg nog.
Bottoms up.
I am taking collections for my alcohol consumption fund on the plane. Now that they charge $7 for a cocktail, and the economy being what it is, I need a little help. I'm thinking of setting up a kiosk in the airport, showcasing my children running around. I'm thinking Hare Krishna meets drunken Hobo. So, yeah.
I have received a bunch of notes, emails, and phone calls from various friends and relatives spending these holidays with friends and relatives of their own. One question keeps coming up: "How am I related to these people?"
Part of the explanation must be rooted in the DNA of Theme Sweaters (see related post), but how is it that we can be so fundamentally different from those whose DNA we share? Fat family, skinny friends. Or in my case, fat me, skinny family. Theme Sweaters and Grinches. Christians and Atheists. Atheists and Jews. Big families, Little families. Slobs, OCD's. Then, on top of that, are In-Laws. (A group ranging from intolerable to remarkably normal. Mine fall into the latter end of that spectrum.) How could the spouse you love and live with every day have such an enormous dark side? How could this person have been raised in a house with those people? And emerged semi-sane?
I ask myself these questions often. And not always in a snide way. I mean, sometimes, snidely, sure. But mostly out of curiosity. My sister is often referred to as a clone of my dad. They share certain obvious similarities in their appearances. Additionally, they cross their arms and feet in the same ways when they recline. They have hands that are so similar, it's eerie. They share a similar intolerance for people of a certain thinking oppositional to their own. (Though I must say, my sister is more vocal in hers.) I have often called them separately to retell a story, only to find their reactions are the same. Creepy. My mom and sister are mostly oil and water. Me? I'm truly a mix of my parents, I think. But this does not necessarily mean a better relationship with either. In fact, I often feel at sea in the group. My sister and dad are clearly a bloc. My mom is a strong personality of her own. I often drift in the middle, finding no agreement from either side. For example, I like animals. My sister finds house pets revolting. My Dad finds them not so much revolting, but tremendously unworthy of the effort. My mother finds them dirty. And M and I went off and got a puppy just a year and a half after our first was euthanized. For us, the cuddly presence of a pup outweighs the inconvenience. (Most of the time.)
I have heathen friends among families of devoutly pious people. I have brilliantly successful friends among families of underachievers. Social butterflies among social misfits.
Obviously, these relationships cultivated our experiences. The process of pushing against these people and being pushed on by these people defines us. Unfortunately, this process sometimes reduces me to my adolescent self. The alienation and friction evoke a petty reaction. They often transform me into a person barely recognizable to M. Often, the best I can do is to remain silent and brooding in another room (the bathroom?). Usually, however, sarcasm and nastiness are my primary weapons.
Other times, naturally, we are not divisive in such a dramatic way. Often, the differences manifest as dialogue and dichotomy. Often, we share more ground than we think. Often, I find my family's ideas thought provoking and insightful. Often, I find my sister and I coincidentally have bought identical products, clothes, or services. We laugh at the same jokes. We will email each other the same articles we found online independently. We talk on the phone every day.
So, how could we possibly be related to these people is not really a question I can answer. Why are we related to these people is far more interesting. Why? Because it's a test. And a reward. And it's that crazy, feathered nest from which we eagerly flew on our first wings. And the cuckoo's nest to which we must occasionally return. And because psychosis skips generations. Or because thriftiness runs in only the men of your family. Or because God, or Thereisnogod has a sense of humor.
And the best answer of all to these familial differences: egg nog.
Bottoms up.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Waiting for the other shoe to drop
Happy Hanukkah, everyone!
It's cold. It's REALLY cold. My fountain froze. I froze.
Last night was one of those nights when I realized why pet ownership is a drag. First, Clooney had bladder failure on the bed. Which took out the comforter and the duvet (don't worry, it's only the coldest night of the year). Then at 4 AM, something he ate came back to visit us. The neighborhood cat, who stayed in last night because of the cold mewed at every one's door all night. True, he mostly slept with S, but apparently he got hungry around 2. Mew mew mew. I spent most of the night wondering if I would wake up to cat pooh.
Animals are icky.
Today is going to be my zen day. I am making 2 batches of one of my favorite dishes and having lunch with friends. The second batch will be for dinner with M. Perhaps there will be wine involved in my lunch :) and my dinner :) My house is clean. I cleaned thoroughly this weekend. The laundry is done. Everything is just so, if only for a day. I will enjoy the clean. M and I broke down and bought the kids light sabers for Hanukkah. They are actually playing happily (even if they are playing mortal enemies). S is "Yogi" and E is Vader and Clooney is an Ewok spectator trying to avoid the crossfire.
I find myself smiling, which is dangerous. Something horrible invariably happens when I smile.
It's cold. It's REALLY cold. My fountain froze. I froze.
Last night was one of those nights when I realized why pet ownership is a drag. First, Clooney had bladder failure on the bed. Which took out the comforter and the duvet (don't worry, it's only the coldest night of the year). Then at 4 AM, something he ate came back to visit us. The neighborhood cat, who stayed in last night because of the cold mewed at every one's door all night. True, he mostly slept with S, but apparently he got hungry around 2. Mew mew mew. I spent most of the night wondering if I would wake up to cat pooh.
Animals are icky.
Today is going to be my zen day. I am making 2 batches of one of my favorite dishes and having lunch with friends. The second batch will be for dinner with M. Perhaps there will be wine involved in my lunch :) and my dinner :) My house is clean. I cleaned thoroughly this weekend. The laundry is done. Everything is just so, if only for a day. I will enjoy the clean. M and I broke down and bought the kids light sabers for Hanukkah. They are actually playing happily (even if they are playing mortal enemies). S is "Yogi" and E is Vader and Clooney is an Ewok spectator trying to avoid the crossfire.
I find myself smiling, which is dangerous. Something horrible invariably happens when I smile.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Post # 100
Congratulations to me! This is my 100th post. I remember when I was just a frustrated suburban mom without a voice. Stewing on life's little mini-tragedies, mini-crises, mini-annoyances with no outlet for expression, save a night time martini. Now, here I am, a cent-blog-anarian, daily exorcising my mini demons, slandering my children and husband, and wasting quality time sitting here at my desk. Moderately entertaining all two of my faithful readers. And still, savoring that night time martini. Ah, how times change.
So, I finally mustered the courage to tackle that bedroom closet. I purged the size 4s and 6s. (Who was the woman who wore those, any way?) I purged the dry-clean only work wear from more than 6 years ago. (The birth of E signaling the demise of my fashion consciousness) I purged the old tyme faves that are just hanging on by a thread. (But they were sooo comfy!) I delivered four big black garbage bags to Goodwill. Woohoo! The battle was long, and it seemed for a while as though the closet might prevail. The closet had its minions working against me: a legion of entangled hangers relentlessly tripped, scraped, poked and ensnared me. Avalanches of dusty long-forgotten purses and diaper bags toppled onto my head. Safety pins, deftly placed by secret agents at the dry cleaners, pricked my fingers. Armies of dust bunnies embedded themselves in my hair. And, lo, those hateful size 4s mocked and sneered mercilessly at my expanded derriere. It was a no-holds-barred battle royale. It was a cage fight in a closet.
But, I prevailed. And I realized something, as I was painstakingly arranging the few articles that remained: I shop for M all the time. He had over 40 pairs of pants! Nice ones, all ones he can still wear! I had 6. And two of those are really only for days after I've had a severe case of the flu. Now, I have identified a part of the economy that I have been undersupporting: retail clothing! I will venture into these department stores I have heard of (see also: Internet shopping rules) and purchase things not for my house, for my children or for my husband but for ME! I will become a fashionista! A size 10 maven of clothing. A thoroughbred of clothes horses!
More likely, though, I will wear the three things left in my closet until they fall apart, naively thinking every day that someday I will once again wear single digit sizes, fail, and then cry.
So, I finally mustered the courage to tackle that bedroom closet. I purged the size 4s and 6s. (Who was the woman who wore those, any way?) I purged the dry-clean only work wear from more than 6 years ago. (The birth of E signaling the demise of my fashion consciousness) I purged the old tyme faves that are just hanging on by a thread. (But they were sooo comfy!) I delivered four big black garbage bags to Goodwill. Woohoo! The battle was long, and it seemed for a while as though the closet might prevail. The closet had its minions working against me: a legion of entangled hangers relentlessly tripped, scraped, poked and ensnared me. Avalanches of dusty long-forgotten purses and diaper bags toppled onto my head. Safety pins, deftly placed by secret agents at the dry cleaners, pricked my fingers. Armies of dust bunnies embedded themselves in my hair. And, lo, those hateful size 4s mocked and sneered mercilessly at my expanded derriere. It was a no-holds-barred battle royale. It was a cage fight in a closet.
But, I prevailed. And I realized something, as I was painstakingly arranging the few articles that remained: I shop for M all the time. He had over 40 pairs of pants! Nice ones, all ones he can still wear! I had 6. And two of those are really only for days after I've had a severe case of the flu. Now, I have identified a part of the economy that I have been undersupporting: retail clothing! I will venture into these department stores I have heard of (see also: Internet shopping rules) and purchase things not for my house, for my children or for my husband but for ME! I will become a fashionista! A size 10 maven of clothing. A thoroughbred of clothes horses!
More likely, though, I will wear the three things left in my closet until they fall apart, naively thinking every day that someday I will once again wear single digit sizes, fail, and then cry.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Boys R Dum
Cue Rocky! theme song...
Today's the day. E is at school. S is in front of TV. The closet is gonna be my b*tch. I will be ruthless in my throwing out. I will be brutally honest in my body size. I will conquer clutter. I will....as soon as M gets out of bed. I have to wait. (Imagine Rocky music slowing, stopping)
M learned a valuable lesson about growing up last night. And, that lesson is: he's all grown old.
He was going to a concert with friends in Pensacola last night. It was supposed to be a chance to meet new people, listen to blues, and do something fun and new.
It turns out, that M, while wanting to meet new friends, and do something fun and new, wants to do so in the comfort of his home. He wants Friends On Demand. Imagine the service offered by DirectTV. Press a few buttons on your DirectTV remote, have friends delivered to the comfort of your sofa to watch movies, sports, or hang out, AND no late fees. M learned that his bedtime is 10 PM, not 3 AM. (Late fee paid this morning when E came in at 6:30.) M learned that drinking alcohol past one's bedtime is not energizing, but rather narcotizing. M learned that sometimes the front man in a blues band also sidelines in a thrash metal band. (For some reason, I find this last lesson especially amusing.)
These are painful lessons for a man in his 30s.
I on the other hand, tied bows with MK on her fragrant baked goods, enjoyed a lovely home cooked meal at her house, and pawned my children off to HER television for a couple of hours. I have learned my limits. They include a 9 PM bedtime, 2 glasses of pinot, and a sensible dinner and conversation. Silly boys. They learn so slowly!
Today's the day. E is at school. S is in front of TV. The closet is gonna be my b*tch. I will be ruthless in my throwing out. I will be brutally honest in my body size. I will conquer clutter. I will....as soon as M gets out of bed. I have to wait. (Imagine Rocky music slowing, stopping)
M learned a valuable lesson about growing up last night. And, that lesson is: he's all grown old.
He was going to a concert with friends in Pensacola last night. It was supposed to be a chance to meet new people, listen to blues, and do something fun and new.
It turns out, that M, while wanting to meet new friends, and do something fun and new, wants to do so in the comfort of his home. He wants Friends On Demand. Imagine the service offered by DirectTV. Press a few buttons on your DirectTV remote, have friends delivered to the comfort of your sofa to watch movies, sports, or hang out, AND no late fees. M learned that his bedtime is 10 PM, not 3 AM. (Late fee paid this morning when E came in at 6:30.) M learned that drinking alcohol past one's bedtime is not energizing, but rather narcotizing. M learned that sometimes the front man in a blues band also sidelines in a thrash metal band. (For some reason, I find this last lesson especially amusing.)
These are painful lessons for a man in his 30s.
I on the other hand, tied bows with MK on her fragrant baked goods, enjoyed a lovely home cooked meal at her house, and pawned my children off to HER television for a couple of hours. I have learned my limits. They include a 9 PM bedtime, 2 glasses of pinot, and a sensible dinner and conversation. Silly boys. They learn so slowly!
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Grrrrinchy
Last night we took the kids to Bellingrath Gardens to see the lights. I know, pretty theme sweater-y. But, we took them last year, and they have been desperate to go again. So, we are about half way to the Gardens last night when S says he is tired and wants to go to bed. Then, when we are walking around, he is miserable. E enjoyed it, although as is typical, he blabbed the WHOLE time. I tried to explain to him that some times it is nice to enjoy things in silence, but NO.
Then there were some kids racing through the displays, running off the paths, screaming, and careening into people. But, in all the lights were beautiful, and although it was a tiny bit drizzly, there were hardly any people there, which made for a nice, leisurely stroll. I enjoyed my moment of festiveness.
I have been so busy this week. E wanted to teach his class about Hanukkah, so I made latkes and read a story on Monday, then S wanted latkes for his class, so I made some on Tuesday. Yesterday, I helped M move some stuff into his new office, too. Today, S has his Hanukkah program at school, and I am going to "help" MK bake again. Tomorrow, I plan to clean out closets. Friday, we have music class cookie exchange, E's class party to which I am bringing spaghetti and fruit salad, and oh, did I mention today is S's last day of school before the break? Next week, Monday Clooney has his last day of obedience training class, Tuesday he gets groomed, Wednesdsay we leave. And here I thought I'd be BUSY during the holidays.
By the by, Clooney crapped on my new bamboo floor yesterday. I almost fed him to the pandas.
Then there were some kids racing through the displays, running off the paths, screaming, and careening into people. But, in all the lights were beautiful, and although it was a tiny bit drizzly, there were hardly any people there, which made for a nice, leisurely stroll. I enjoyed my moment of festiveness.
I have been so busy this week. E wanted to teach his class about Hanukkah, so I made latkes and read a story on Monday, then S wanted latkes for his class, so I made some on Tuesday. Yesterday, I helped M move some stuff into his new office, too. Today, S has his Hanukkah program at school, and I am going to "help" MK bake again. Tomorrow, I plan to clean out closets. Friday, we have music class cookie exchange, E's class party to which I am bringing spaghetti and fruit salad, and oh, did I mention today is S's last day of school before the break? Next week, Monday Clooney has his last day of obedience training class, Tuesday he gets groomed, Wednesdsay we leave. And here I thought I'd be BUSY during the holidays.
By the by, Clooney crapped on my new bamboo floor yesterday. I almost fed him to the pandas.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Slipper Socks, Size 8
Closer...closer..closer...I can feel my trip to CA sneaking up on me. It alternates between cat-like stealth and banshee-like ferociousness. The variations keep me edgy.
I am largely looking forward to it, if only because I haven't seen my sister since June. But, oh, the baggage. Both literal and metaphorical.
Of course, we're bringing Clooney. What's another $100 each way? Also, some one else to whine, bitch and complain on the flight. Wonder what he'll be like after a bourbon and Coke?
Of course, we have to check a suitcase. What's another $25 each way? If I can make it under the 50 pound limit. Don't the airlines know that M's shoes alone weigh a ton? And jeans? And Christmas presents? I don't want to pack.
Then, the metaphorical baggage. Of arriving on Christmas Eve. This has disrupted the traditional Xmas Eve dinner. Of bringing the dog. Of you know, NOT CELEBRATING CHRISTMAS.
When M and I married, we agreed to raise our family in a largely secular, but culturally Jewish home. But like all nuclear armament treaties, environmental pacts, and trade agreements, the arrangement doesn't necessarily apply to my family. There have been concessions.
The kids' annual ornament on the tree: not my tree, no problem.
The presents: MORE PRESENTS. My kids are swimming in presents. I have asked and asked for limits, but apparently Christmas-kah, birthdays, Easter, Valentine's Day, St. Patrick's Day, Fourth of July, Halloween and Arbor Day are gift-limit exempt days.
Santa's Pretend: A series of mishaps led to this revelation. I think my mom is disappointed my kids don't believe. I think my mom is disappointed that I don't believe.
Christmas brings out all the best and worst in us all. MK believes that while Triptofan causes drowsiness, cranberry sauce or dressing causes conflict. Maybe it's the mistletoe. Isn't it poisonous? There are all these conflicting images of Christmas: the families of old movies, like It's A Wonderful Life. Everything is wonderful, and tinsel-y, and oh, darling, I am so glad to be married to you and your extended family. It's a dream come true. Do you think it used to be like that? The more appropriate paragon might be from The Ref. A burglar takes a family hostage only to find they're the most aggressively annoying people EVER.
There's also the conflict in personality that goes deeper than merely interacting with people who are not your blood relatives. It's the personality of those who deeply love all things Christmas and those who see it as just another holiday. I categorize these into Theme Sweaters and Grinches. Theme Sweaters actually have space in their houses to store those sweaters all year long, just to break them out with a certain fondness on Black Friday. These people decorate their houses, even though they have no children. They buy butter sculptures. These people wear bow earrings. They ENJOY shopping. They might even own Tartan Plaid Pants.
Then there are the Grinches. These people don't actually want to ruin others' love of the holiday, they just don't share it. Grinches watch all the Whos down in Whoville frantically preparing for their holiday and wonder wherefore? and why? Grinches just want all the decorations that have been up since Halloween to GO AWAY. We are eager to eat ham/prime rib/duck/turkey/whatever and enjoy it and move on. We will feel no post-partum depression on Boxing Day. We feel no triumph in taking that extra 30% off a semi-crappy we're buying for some one else. We don't have inflatable snow globes on our yard. We are wondering if it's 2009 yet.
So, in my family, there is a DNA glitch. A blood incompatibility. My father is Grinch positive and my mother is Theme Sweater Positive. Therefore I am Grinch positive and Theme Sweater Negative. It's not working well.
So, all you Whos down in Whoville. Party it up. Your days are numbered.
I am largely looking forward to it, if only because I haven't seen my sister since June. But, oh, the baggage. Both literal and metaphorical.
Of course, we're bringing Clooney. What's another $100 each way? Also, some one else to whine, bitch and complain on the flight. Wonder what he'll be like after a bourbon and Coke?
Of course, we have to check a suitcase. What's another $25 each way? If I can make it under the 50 pound limit. Don't the airlines know that M's shoes alone weigh a ton? And jeans? And Christmas presents? I don't want to pack.
Then, the metaphorical baggage. Of arriving on Christmas Eve. This has disrupted the traditional Xmas Eve dinner. Of bringing the dog. Of you know, NOT CELEBRATING CHRISTMAS.
When M and I married, we agreed to raise our family in a largely secular, but culturally Jewish home. But like all nuclear armament treaties, environmental pacts, and trade agreements, the arrangement doesn't necessarily apply to my family. There have been concessions.
The kids' annual ornament on the tree: not my tree, no problem.
The presents: MORE PRESENTS. My kids are swimming in presents. I have asked and asked for limits, but apparently Christmas-kah, birthdays, Easter, Valentine's Day, St. Patrick's Day, Fourth of July, Halloween and Arbor Day are gift-limit exempt days.
Santa's Pretend: A series of mishaps led to this revelation. I think my mom is disappointed my kids don't believe. I think my mom is disappointed that I don't believe.
Christmas brings out all the best and worst in us all. MK believes that while Triptofan causes drowsiness, cranberry sauce or dressing causes conflict. Maybe it's the mistletoe. Isn't it poisonous? There are all these conflicting images of Christmas: the families of old movies, like It's A Wonderful Life. Everything is wonderful, and tinsel-y, and oh, darling, I am so glad to be married to you and your extended family. It's a dream come true. Do you think it used to be like that? The more appropriate paragon might be from The Ref. A burglar takes a family hostage only to find they're the most aggressively annoying people EVER.
There's also the conflict in personality that goes deeper than merely interacting with people who are not your blood relatives. It's the personality of those who deeply love all things Christmas and those who see it as just another holiday. I categorize these into Theme Sweaters and Grinches. Theme Sweaters actually have space in their houses to store those sweaters all year long, just to break them out with a certain fondness on Black Friday. These people decorate their houses, even though they have no children. They buy butter sculptures. These people wear bow earrings. They ENJOY shopping. They might even own Tartan Plaid Pants.
Then there are the Grinches. These people don't actually want to ruin others' love of the holiday, they just don't share it. Grinches watch all the Whos down in Whoville frantically preparing for their holiday and wonder wherefore? and why? Grinches just want all the decorations that have been up since Halloween to GO AWAY. We are eager to eat ham/prime rib/duck/turkey/whatever and enjoy it and move on. We will feel no post-partum depression on Boxing Day. We feel no triumph in taking that extra 30% off a semi-crappy we're buying for some one else. We don't have inflatable snow globes on our yard. We are wondering if it's 2009 yet.
So, in my family, there is a DNA glitch. A blood incompatibility. My father is Grinch positive and my mother is Theme Sweater Positive. Therefore I am Grinch positive and Theme Sweater Negative. It's not working well.
So, all you Whos down in Whoville. Party it up. Your days are numbered.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
A Household Chemistry Lesson
Picture yourself in high school chemistry. Do you remember the experiment about super saturated solutions? The teacher has been adding sugar (or was it salt?) to a beaker and then chilled it down really fast or something? And then he added one more spoonful and it turned into a solid? OK. Pretend you remember that. Also, you might have to pretend that it is, in fact a scientific phenomenon.
That is what is happening to my house. Every cupboard, drawer, shelf, cubby, closet is stuffed to its absolute maximum. In the event I acquire one more object, the whole place is going to just be filled with crap. It's completely overwhelming.
I have in the past week, taken out 8 big black garbage bags of trash/stuff for Goodwill. (I do sort) and yet still. I am paralyzed by the situation. If I open a closet and begin to clean, I might never reemerge. My closets may be like children' s bedtime tales, and I might walk into one and find myself in another dimension. Even my freaking refrigerator is overfull. I have leftovers from dinners made too long ago to remember. I tried to make a hasty dessert to take to a party last night and my cake mix expired in JUNE. Did you know cake mix expired?
The only thing that doesn't have a chance to expire in my kitchen is Coke Zero. I need that stuff on a tap and just constantly pour.
My laundry room cupboards are full. I can't reach the top two shelves of them even with a step stool. So, basically those are useless. Under my TV is filled with CDs that are now on the iPod--what should I do with those? I have a closet in my family room that is, ironically, full of tubs and bins for organizing stuff. There is also a Circuit City's worth of old electronics in there. Why don't we part with that crap? Upstairs, where we went through the trauma of reflooring, everything that was on the floor in closets or under beds has been forcefully crammed onto the higher shelves. Except for this giant headboard/footboard that used to live under my bed. What do I do with that?? I want to give it away, but have this irrational fear that as the headboard is leaving my hands, the regret fairy will sweep down upon me and find 37 new uses for the previously useless furniture.
My E and M have an addiction to paper. They seem unwilling to part with it. E has every school assignment he has done this year, including pieces of paper that don't even bear a mark of his own. M saves every document that comes into the house, just in case. He, too lives with a healthy fear of the regret fairy.
S saves parts of broken toys. He loves the toys, are sorry they are broken, and yet can't throw them out. Random wheels, chassis, and hoods are strewn around his junkyard closet.
I feel like even when my house is clean and picked up (as it was yesterday for approximately 45 minutes) that it only takes one stray item, one lapse in organization, one misplaced item, and every door, drawer and cubby will vomit its contents into the house and we will be drowned in our junk.
It keeps me up at night. I keep an eyeball on my closet. When the house creaks in the wind, I think that's it: it will move a millimeter of the wall in the closet, and everything will spill. I CAN'T TAKE THE PRESSURE ANY MORE!
Please. Come over to my house today and extract a piece of crap. Take it to your house. I am afraid of my stuff.
That is what is happening to my house. Every cupboard, drawer, shelf, cubby, closet is stuffed to its absolute maximum. In the event I acquire one more object, the whole place is going to just be filled with crap. It's completely overwhelming.
I have in the past week, taken out 8 big black garbage bags of trash/stuff for Goodwill. (I do sort) and yet still. I am paralyzed by the situation. If I open a closet and begin to clean, I might never reemerge. My closets may be like children' s bedtime tales, and I might walk into one and find myself in another dimension. Even my freaking refrigerator is overfull. I have leftovers from dinners made too long ago to remember. I tried to make a hasty dessert to take to a party last night and my cake mix expired in JUNE. Did you know cake mix expired?
The only thing that doesn't have a chance to expire in my kitchen is Coke Zero. I need that stuff on a tap and just constantly pour.
My laundry room cupboards are full. I can't reach the top two shelves of them even with a step stool. So, basically those are useless. Under my TV is filled with CDs that are now on the iPod--what should I do with those? I have a closet in my family room that is, ironically, full of tubs and bins for organizing stuff. There is also a Circuit City's worth of old electronics in there. Why don't we part with that crap? Upstairs, where we went through the trauma of reflooring, everything that was on the floor in closets or under beds has been forcefully crammed onto the higher shelves. Except for this giant headboard/footboard that used to live under my bed. What do I do with that?? I want to give it away, but have this irrational fear that as the headboard is leaving my hands, the regret fairy will sweep down upon me and find 37 new uses for the previously useless furniture.
My E and M have an addiction to paper. They seem unwilling to part with it. E has every school assignment he has done this year, including pieces of paper that don't even bear a mark of his own. M saves every document that comes into the house, just in case. He, too lives with a healthy fear of the regret fairy.
S saves parts of broken toys. He loves the toys, are sorry they are broken, and yet can't throw them out. Random wheels, chassis, and hoods are strewn around his junkyard closet.
I feel like even when my house is clean and picked up (as it was yesterday for approximately 45 minutes) that it only takes one stray item, one lapse in organization, one misplaced item, and every door, drawer and cubby will vomit its contents into the house and we will be drowned in our junk.
It keeps me up at night. I keep an eyeball on my closet. When the house creaks in the wind, I think that's it: it will move a millimeter of the wall in the closet, and everything will spill. I CAN'T TAKE THE PRESSURE ANY MORE!
Please. Come over to my house today and extract a piece of crap. Take it to your house. I am afraid of my stuff.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Christmas Mailings
Am I still standing? Woah. It's Friday again. And it's been freaking cold here. I did that dreaded of all holiday chores this week--Christmas cards. I order mine from an online (natch) company called Winkflash. Upload, click click, order, delivered in two days. Niiiice. Our photo was from our Thanksgiving vacation. I have a somewhat crazed look on my face. Maybe it was the pressure of the moment. My kids, dressed for dinner, (can't take the pic after, since they would be wearing dinner), feeling extra plump, asking a stranger to take the picture: "Excuse me, I think we blinked in that one, too. Would you mind taking a 43rd just in case?"
I sent one hundred cards this year. I used to hand write a note on the back of every one. (That was when E was a baby). Now, I use that awful enclosure--the boilerplate Christmas letter.
I sent one hundred cards this year. I used to hand write a note on the back of every one. (That was when E was a baby). Now, I use that awful enclosure--the boilerplate Christmas letter.
We had another amazing year. Boys are grown up so fast.Somehow, it took me two pages to get it done this year. I threw in a couple of extra pictures. I also used to have all of my addresses in a database and could sort by country, (lots of international mail during the holidays) religion, (yes, I used to send Hanukkah & Christmas cards) and by whose side of the family. (just in case, one day anything went sour and we had to divide up our friends) Everything was so high tech and spiffy. Click, Click PRINT and out came 100 perfect labels. But then every one started moving, and getting divorced, and married, and I never updated these things in my database. I barely updated these things in my phone book (I still have our landlord from Baltimore in there, and we HATED him). So, now I hand address the envelopes. The writing's all sloping and uneven, especially around card 90. We stuffed the notes during a football game, and M sealed them shut for me. Sam put the stamps on, and we got those suckers on their way. So, if you get a card from us this year, enjoy all the work we put into it. If you have been getting cards from us for many years, try not to compare this one with the hand written masterpieces you used to receive. And, if you didn't get a card this year, keep reading this. It's waaaaaaaaaaaaay better than the card.
We had great vacations all over. SO happy every one in our families are
healthy. M and I enjoying our first full year in Mobile. E is in
Kindergarten. S is a growing boy. Everything is SUPER!!! Happy
Holidays!
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Christmas in a Catalog
Some of my posts lately have been nostalgic remembrances of holidays past. Yesterday, in email exchange with my moms group, we were talking about Christmas trees. I was reminiscing about my grandmother's tree. We used to have Christmas Eve dinner at her house. The tree was always a stumpy little thing that was flocked to within an inch of its life. She hung these globe ornaments on it in clusters. They were the a specific 1970s shade of gold (mostly orangish-yellowish brass?) and were joined on the overly white tree by balls of plastic fruit with glitter on them. There were some feathered birds wired to the branches, and the now-retro colored lights. Usually one or a series of 3 blinked randomly. It was not what you would call elegant. But it was reliable. Every year, you could hunt out the crocheted angels with their kind of psychotically scary doll faces on them. You knew that the tree topper was a glittery thing that was invariably slightly askew. My sister and I would troop into Grandma's house on Christmas Eve Day, clad in some itchy wool thing that my other Grandma had made for us. Something we would not appreciate until years later. Dad would come in behind us, laden like a Bethlehem mule with presents. We would bound into Grandma's house and it would smell like ham and Christmas pine (how did the smell escape from under that fake snow?) and yams and rolls and Grandma would be dressed up and drinking un-spiked eggnog. It was noisy and wonderful. We used to serve devilled eggs to my Uncle who would protest that he couldn't eat another, and then grab three more. My dad would make Manhattans and cocktails for everyone. My sister and I would sit on Grandma's green shag carpet by the tree and speculate on the gifts. Christmas couldn't be any other way.
But lately, I have been browsing catalogs (my book club) that get mailed to me in the dozens, and came upon a catalog called Frontgate ( http://www.frontgate.com/ ) whose slogan is "Outfitting America's Finest Homes." They have a variety of fake trees that are incredibly expensive. They also boast collections of ornaments so that your tree can have that 'decorator' look. The names of the collections kill me-- Aspen Summit, Villa, Lafayette-- each highlighting some quality that the owners of America's Finest Homes desire: earthy hues, stunning details, blah blah blah. You can also choose to order the whole shebang (they suggest you might desire more than one themed tree in your house for entertaining). A prelit tree can run you as much as a grand. But, you know. You can never spend too much on your fake tree. You can also purchase "the scene" The instructions: Shop our designer collections of color-coordinated outdoor Christmas decor in just 3 easy steps--Select the look you like, Choose your furnishings and accents, Click to add to cart.
Really? You can't beat Christmas in three easy steps!
Regardless, it appears that no one who owns America's Finest Homes is Jewish: Under Hanukkah decorations, there is a single listing. It is a jeweled menorah ORNAMENT. For the bargain price of $350.
Maybe Christmas memories are better than actual Christmases. Maybe if Grandma had designer flocking...
But lately, I have been browsing catalogs (my book club) that get mailed to me in the dozens, and came upon a catalog called Frontgate ( http://www.frontgate.com/ ) whose slogan is "Outfitting America's Finest Homes." They have a variety of fake trees that are incredibly expensive. They also boast collections of ornaments so that your tree can have that 'decorator' look. The names of the collections kill me-- Aspen Summit, Villa, Lafayette-- each highlighting some quality that the owners of America's Finest Homes desire: earthy hues, stunning details, blah blah blah. You can also choose to order the whole shebang (they suggest you might desire more than one themed tree in your house for entertaining). A prelit tree can run you as much as a grand. But, you know. You can never spend too much on your fake tree. You can also purchase "the scene" The instructions: Shop our designer collections of color-coordinated outdoor Christmas decor in just 3 easy steps--Select the look you like, Choose your furnishings and accents, Click to add to cart.
Really? You can't beat Christmas in three easy steps!
Regardless, it appears that no one who owns America's Finest Homes is Jewish: Under Hanukkah decorations, there is a single listing. It is a jeweled menorah ORNAMENT. For the bargain price of $350.
Maybe Christmas memories are better than actual Christmases. Maybe if Grandma had designer flocking...
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Cyber shopping
So, my friend MT says she is trying to channel some Ho!Ho!Ho! into her day. I think the only way to get some Christmas cheer is with egg nog, but that's just me and my love of combining high calorie dairy foods and alcohol. So, maybe she can muster some sugarplums just by wearing her holiday theme clothing. Good for her.
About holiday shopping. Today, I did my first shopping at an actual store. I am an Internet addict and have been for years, in fact. When M and I were living in Toronto, I was constantly frustrated by the lack of products I had become fans of. Like, at the time, I was using Origins cosmetics. None for sale. I also liked clothes from Banana Republic and Ann Taylor (I used to work, and, you know, wear clothes that weren't jeans) I had to endure crazy delivery times, pay insane duties on everything and, pay a miserable exchange rate. But, to have my trieds and trues, I was happy. So, that was ten years ago. Now, EVERYTHING is available on the Internet. In fact, I was just shopping for some authentic German food shipped from Germany (as opposed to....where?)for my dad. I was hoping to find these cookies that my grandmother used to make. I found something very close, but it had raisins in it, and my dad would not consider anything with raisins to be a gift.
This year, I have a very short list of 10 people. Always at Christmas, I am most thankful for my small family. I had things monogrammed, personalized, and shipped to my mom's house so that I don't have to schlep everything across the country. Now that American Airlines charges fees on overweight and checked bags, schlepping represents significant expense. When is Southwest going to fly from my doorstep to my parents' doorstep? So, where was I? Right, shopping. Today, I went to my first actual store for a gift. I needed to gauge size because it was for some one to whom I am not related and returns become complicated. Ack. I hated it. I hated being in the store, waiting in the line, rummaging through racks. Although, on the upside, I did see the BEST CHRISTMAS GIFT EVER. Something I would not have seen just idly surfing my usual gift sites...crushed velvet Santa G-String for men. With jingle bells. That's a must have for all you wives out there who think your husband is too sexy, and needs to be taken down a notch. On-line, I can shop at night, without my kids, I can shop in my jammies, with hot cocoa. I can find unique and funky things that don't even exist in stores anymore.
Stores are all clones of one another now. Same products, pennies difference in price. What's the point of going to a mall? It's all inane crap for teenagers who all want to look the same. (And perhaps all a little whore-ish?) Some one told me the other day that she loves to scour the mall to find just the perfect gifts for everyone on her list. Which leaves me with questions: 1. Why? 2. Who on her list is craving a cardigan from Pennys? 3. Who wants to actually scour a mall?
So, for those of you who are up for it, enjoy your aching feet, screaming kids, long lines, and generic stores. For the rest of you, welcome to the 21st century. Shop on.
About holiday shopping. Today, I did my first shopping at an actual store. I am an Internet addict and have been for years, in fact. When M and I were living in Toronto, I was constantly frustrated by the lack of products I had become fans of. Like, at the time, I was using Origins cosmetics. None for sale. I also liked clothes from Banana Republic and Ann Taylor (I used to work, and, you know, wear clothes that weren't jeans) I had to endure crazy delivery times, pay insane duties on everything and, pay a miserable exchange rate. But, to have my trieds and trues, I was happy. So, that was ten years ago. Now, EVERYTHING is available on the Internet. In fact, I was just shopping for some authentic German food shipped from Germany (as opposed to....where?)for my dad. I was hoping to find these cookies that my grandmother used to make. I found something very close, but it had raisins in it, and my dad would not consider anything with raisins to be a gift.
This year, I have a very short list of 10 people. Always at Christmas, I am most thankful for my small family. I had things monogrammed, personalized, and shipped to my mom's house so that I don't have to schlep everything across the country. Now that American Airlines charges fees on overweight and checked bags, schlepping represents significant expense. When is Southwest going to fly from my doorstep to my parents' doorstep? So, where was I? Right, shopping. Today, I went to my first actual store for a gift. I needed to gauge size because it was for some one to whom I am not related and returns become complicated. Ack. I hated it. I hated being in the store, waiting in the line, rummaging through racks. Although, on the upside, I did see the BEST CHRISTMAS GIFT EVER. Something I would not have seen just idly surfing my usual gift sites...crushed velvet Santa G-String for men. With jingle bells. That's a must have for all you wives out there who think your husband is too sexy, and needs to be taken down a notch. On-line, I can shop at night, without my kids, I can shop in my jammies, with hot cocoa. I can find unique and funky things that don't even exist in stores anymore.
Stores are all clones of one another now. Same products, pennies difference in price. What's the point of going to a mall? It's all inane crap for teenagers who all want to look the same. (And perhaps all a little whore-ish?) Some one told me the other day that she loves to scour the mall to find just the perfect gifts for everyone on her list. Which leaves me with questions: 1. Why? 2. Who on her list is craving a cardigan from Pennys? 3. Who wants to actually scour a mall?
So, for those of you who are up for it, enjoy your aching feet, screaming kids, long lines, and generic stores. For the rest of you, welcome to the 21st century. Shop on.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Living Large, or Extra Large
So, last night I mentioned that I should shave for MK's night out. Which I did. Then I found out I needed to wear something fancy. Fancy? All my fancy clothes are at least 2 sizes too small. Depressing.
So, I pull out the Spanx. Spoiler alert: if you don't want to know about my undergarments or about women's undergarment secrets in general, you don't want to continue.
Actually, this fine piece of equipment is MORE than Spanx. This is industrial strength Lycra with reinforced seams. This is a girdle that could contain Marlon Brando. This is probably the kind of armour that soldiers in Iraq are wishing their Humvees had. This is SERIOUS. My undergarment of choice under fancy clothes is the last thing I want any one to see. If I'm going someplace fancy and think I might get some wink-wink, this is NOT the undergarment I wear. This is the antidote to wink-wink. I need to call firefighters with the jaws of life to get me out of it. This makes Mormon underclothing look like Victoria's Secret. This is Victoria's Ugly Evil Stepsister's Secret.
OK. Bra-girdle-leg fat sucker inners all-in one. That is what this is. It's like a unitard from knee to boob and it is TIGHT. Putting it on is hideous. Getting it off is worse. The designers foresaw this difficulty, and it has a snap-crotch in case you have to pee. (I have never used it, it creeps me out). It is something my granny would have been embarrassed to wear.
But, last night, I was reinforcing to MK how special she is that in fact, I would pull this bad boy out and wrestle it on. I wanted to look nice. And that sound you heard at 10, followed by the seismic waves? That was me taking it off, and all the rolled-up, pent up rolls hitting the ground and exhaling.
And yet. And yet, I am so unhappy with my body, that I can't even identify which part I would change first in some magical Oprah episode where she buys me a new body. I am considering signing up for experimental French surgery where they attach my head to a new face, body and hair. I am like Brittany Spears 6 months after the head shaving. All round and soft, and confused looking. I am in need of discipline.
I blame my babysitter. Her school participated in a fundraiser for a trip. She was selling cookie dough and cheesecake. I bought a 3 pound tub of dough and a cheesecake.
The cheesecake is still mercifully intact. (It is too frozen to damage). The dough is a sad, sad tale. It is gone, now. And not a single cookie was baked. I destroyed that dough spoonful by sinful spoonful. In fact, I left some in the bottom and M asked me if I wanted to put it away in the fridge, and I said, "no." He asked if it would go bad. "I hope so. Then I won't eat it. Probably."
What was I supposed to do? Deny the talented girl and her music ensemble a trip to London?
So, the dough has mutated. It didn't really get digested, it just morphed into my skin and butt. And then I crammed, stuffed, and finagled it into the undergarment last night to look decent.
But I didn't feel beautiful like I used to when I get dressed up. I felt wedged in, not feathery. I felt like the pounds-per-square-inch on my heels would be enough to kill a grown man were he to be accidentally under my foot. I felt, in short, like a rhino with lipstick. It's not a pretty self image.
And yet...where is my self control? Where is my motivation to exercise? Where are my non-elasticized pants? I have stuffed these things into their own super tight storage. Where I deny their necessity. I deny the now tightness of my formerly loose jeans. I deny the accuracy of the dog scale I stepped on while no one was looking today at the vet. (Do you think it's possible that jeans, a sweatshirt and shoes weigh 30 pounds?)
Denial is a powerful thing. Fortunately, so is my undergarment.
But it's not quite strong enough.
So, I pull out the Spanx. Spoiler alert: if you don't want to know about my undergarments or about women's undergarment secrets in general, you don't want to continue.
Actually, this fine piece of equipment is MORE than Spanx. This is industrial strength Lycra with reinforced seams. This is a girdle that could contain Marlon Brando. This is probably the kind of armour that soldiers in Iraq are wishing their Humvees had. This is SERIOUS. My undergarment of choice under fancy clothes is the last thing I want any one to see. If I'm going someplace fancy and think I might get some wink-wink, this is NOT the undergarment I wear. This is the antidote to wink-wink. I need to call firefighters with the jaws of life to get me out of it. This makes Mormon underclothing look like Victoria's Secret. This is Victoria's Ugly Evil Stepsister's Secret.
OK. Bra-girdle-leg fat sucker inners all-in one. That is what this is. It's like a unitard from knee to boob and it is TIGHT. Putting it on is hideous. Getting it off is worse. The designers foresaw this difficulty, and it has a snap-crotch in case you have to pee. (I have never used it, it creeps me out). It is something my granny would have been embarrassed to wear.
But, last night, I was reinforcing to MK how special she is that in fact, I would pull this bad boy out and wrestle it on. I wanted to look nice. And that sound you heard at 10, followed by the seismic waves? That was me taking it off, and all the rolled-up, pent up rolls hitting the ground and exhaling.
And yet. And yet, I am so unhappy with my body, that I can't even identify which part I would change first in some magical Oprah episode where she buys me a new body. I am considering signing up for experimental French surgery where they attach my head to a new face, body and hair. I am like Brittany Spears 6 months after the head shaving. All round and soft, and confused looking. I am in need of discipline.
I blame my babysitter. Her school participated in a fundraiser for a trip. She was selling cookie dough and cheesecake. I bought a 3 pound tub of dough and a cheesecake.
The cheesecake is still mercifully intact. (It is too frozen to damage). The dough is a sad, sad tale. It is gone, now. And not a single cookie was baked. I destroyed that dough spoonful by sinful spoonful. In fact, I left some in the bottom and M asked me if I wanted to put it away in the fridge, and I said, "no." He asked if it would go bad. "I hope so. Then I won't eat it. Probably."
What was I supposed to do? Deny the talented girl and her music ensemble a trip to London?
So, the dough has mutated. It didn't really get digested, it just morphed into my skin and butt. And then I crammed, stuffed, and finagled it into the undergarment last night to look decent.
But I didn't feel beautiful like I used to when I get dressed up. I felt wedged in, not feathery. I felt like the pounds-per-square-inch on my heels would be enough to kill a grown man were he to be accidentally under my foot. I felt, in short, like a rhino with lipstick. It's not a pretty self image.
And yet...where is my self control? Where is my motivation to exercise? Where are my non-elasticized pants? I have stuffed these things into their own super tight storage. Where I deny their necessity. I deny the now tightness of my formerly loose jeans. I deny the accuracy of the dog scale I stepped on while no one was looking today at the vet. (Do you think it's possible that jeans, a sweatshirt and shoes weigh 30 pounds?)
Denial is a powerful thing. Fortunately, so is my undergarment.
But it's not quite strong enough.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Important Things to do Today
I don't know what I did yesterday, but my sciatic nerve is pissed about it. It's that sort of back pain where you're thinking, "I'm all right. I'm all right. I'm all right. I'm gonna die." The twinge that goes front my lower back through my butt cheek and all the way down to my toe in one leg is like fingernails down the chalk board.
And, as it turns out, pain, like decaf, unfilled scripts, cold, hot, sobriety, laundry, dinner, global tequila shortages, and children makes me cranky. And of course, once I have a pain, my children are drawn to it like magnets. Carry me. Hold me. Let me jump on you as though you had springs. So much so, that by the time I took S to school this morning, smoke was coming out of my ears like in the cartoons.
But, on the pro- side, I have very little to do today. I need to mail our holiday/Christmas/Hanukah/Festivus cards. I am out of the current value stamp. What is it now, $3.60 to mail a card? Which means I have to go to the post office if I want the cards mailed in a timely fashion. Or, I could have the post office deliver stamps, but I am sure you can predict that outcome: Festivus cards delivered in February. Sos, that's like what, 2 hours right there?Then, I absolutely must remove my nail polish. Yah, you're thinking, "we've all got problems lady. Global economic collapse, billion dollar bailouts, cholera in Africa. Go take off your nail polish." I didn't say I had an IMPORTANT day, so get off me. I had delusions of being somebody who could manage dark nail polish. But as it turns out, dishes, laundry, cleaning out files, and giving kids baths is way bad for the manicure. Back to clear post haste before some one mistakes these hands for those of some one far trashier than I. On the fun side, I am also joining MK and her daughter and Mother in law for the evening. I think it is a year end celebration of women at her church. Which means I have to move from hypothetically shaving my legs to actually shaving my legs. It's a change in philosophy for me. Actualization or something. Not that her church requires leg shaving, but if she has selected me to join the 3 generations of women in her family on this occasion, I will probably go ahead and not embarrass myself.
I also have to finish laundry, make beds, and run some stuff down to Goodwill.
So, I better get a move on. That nail polish could take a while.
And, as it turns out, pain, like decaf, unfilled scripts, cold, hot, sobriety, laundry, dinner, global tequila shortages, and children makes me cranky. And of course, once I have a pain, my children are drawn to it like magnets. Carry me. Hold me. Let me jump on you as though you had springs. So much so, that by the time I took S to school this morning, smoke was coming out of my ears like in the cartoons.
But, on the pro- side, I have very little to do today. I need to mail our holiday/Christmas/Hanukah/Festivus cards. I am out of the current value stamp. What is it now, $3.60 to mail a card? Which means I have to go to the post office if I want the cards mailed in a timely fashion. Or, I could have the post office deliver stamps, but I am sure you can predict that outcome: Festivus cards delivered in February. Sos, that's like what, 2 hours right there?Then, I absolutely must remove my nail polish. Yah, you're thinking, "we've all got problems lady. Global economic collapse, billion dollar bailouts, cholera in Africa. Go take off your nail polish." I didn't say I had an IMPORTANT day, so get off me. I had delusions of being somebody who could manage dark nail polish. But as it turns out, dishes, laundry, cleaning out files, and giving kids baths is way bad for the manicure. Back to clear post haste before some one mistakes these hands for those of some one far trashier than I. On the fun side, I am also joining MK and her daughter and Mother in law for the evening. I think it is a year end celebration of women at her church. Which means I have to move from hypothetically shaving my legs to actually shaving my legs. It's a change in philosophy for me. Actualization or something. Not that her church requires leg shaving, but if she has selected me to join the 3 generations of women in her family on this occasion, I will probably go ahead and not embarrass myself.
I also have to finish laundry, make beds, and run some stuff down to Goodwill.
So, I better get a move on. That nail polish could take a while.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Charity Guilt
You know, about the Christmas Spirit. The joy of the season, whatnot. I read another 533,000 people were added to the ranks of the unemployed last month. It's hard to have the Ho ho ho when you've got no job, money, prospects. So, I'd like to use this moment to give big love to MK, whose charity exceeds all known bounds of reason.
MK is a baker. A talented baker. She has a massive convection oven that can bake 5 sheets of 36 cookies at a time. She has a mix master that is so big, S could stand in the bowl. She is, in short, semi-pro.
Every year for Christmas, she purchases enough raw materials to make something like 7,000 cookies, 300 pounds of fudge and hundreds and hundreds of loaves of cakey breads. (You must try butter pecan and poppy seed). She sells these divine baked goods and gives every penny to charity. That is, she doesn't even cover her own costs. She gives the money to Share Our Strength, a non-profit organization committed to ending childhood hunger in America. You can visit that website at www.strength.org
If you would like to order goodies from MK for office parties, family, various others, please contact me and I will put you in touch with her. We are NOT talking fruitcake, people. We are talking, high quality, professionally wrapped loaves and bits of heaven. Yummy.
I have a renewed respect for what she does when I went over to her house to visit today. We couldn't take our weekly walk, because she is busy and my schedule was wonky and we always have such a nice visit. So, I helped some. I DO not in any way want to over play my assistance. I was mostly spectator and chatter, and sort of helper. But she made a batch of cookies. And by batch, I mean 36 dozen cookies. Three POUNDS of butter. Six POUNDS of flour. Two POUNDS of sugar. And except for my "help," her kitchen was immaculate. Zen-like, even. When I bake (hardly ever) or cook for a crowd, my kitchen looks like a grocery store exploded. Open cans, ingredients, recipe, scattered all over...dishes heaped in the sink...poofs of flour whitening my hair...chaos. Today, we chatted while her candy thermometer inched up on the 6 pounds of fudge she had boiling away. I glazed poppy seed cakes, cut butter, washed tins, and mostly just watched in awe as this tiny woman (she's tall, but a whisp) wrestled the biggest mix master I've ever seen into yielding toffee yumminess.
So, props to MK today. I've seen what she does, and I am stunned. I've tasted what she does, and I am happy. And, she gives it all away to hungry kids.
What did you do today?
MK is a baker. A talented baker. She has a massive convection oven that can bake 5 sheets of 36 cookies at a time. She has a mix master that is so big, S could stand in the bowl. She is, in short, semi-pro.
Every year for Christmas, she purchases enough raw materials to make something like 7,000 cookies, 300 pounds of fudge and hundreds and hundreds of loaves of cakey breads. (You must try butter pecan and poppy seed). She sells these divine baked goods and gives every penny to charity. That is, she doesn't even cover her own costs. She gives the money to Share Our Strength, a non-profit organization committed to ending childhood hunger in America. You can visit that website at www.strength.org
If you would like to order goodies from MK for office parties, family, various others, please contact me and I will put you in touch with her. We are NOT talking fruitcake, people. We are talking, high quality, professionally wrapped loaves and bits of heaven. Yummy.
I have a renewed respect for what she does when I went over to her house to visit today. We couldn't take our weekly walk, because she is busy and my schedule was wonky and we always have such a nice visit. So, I helped some. I DO not in any way want to over play my assistance. I was mostly spectator and chatter, and sort of helper. But she made a batch of cookies. And by batch, I mean 36 dozen cookies. Three POUNDS of butter. Six POUNDS of flour. Two POUNDS of sugar. And except for my "help," her kitchen was immaculate. Zen-like, even. When I bake (hardly ever) or cook for a crowd, my kitchen looks like a grocery store exploded. Open cans, ingredients, recipe, scattered all over...dishes heaped in the sink...poofs of flour whitening my hair...chaos. Today, we chatted while her candy thermometer inched up on the 6 pounds of fudge she had boiling away. I glazed poppy seed cakes, cut butter, washed tins, and mostly just watched in awe as this tiny woman (she's tall, but a whisp) wrestled the biggest mix master I've ever seen into yielding toffee yumminess.
So, props to MK today. I've seen what she does, and I am stunned. I've tasted what she does, and I am happy. And, she gives it all away to hungry kids.
What did you do today?
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Early 80s TV--Missing It Now
So, yeah. Apparently consensus among friends is that I AM crazy. Oh, well. I DID put my shoes in plastic shoe boxes and arrange them by color and season yesterday, so it's possible mis amigas are not far from the mark.
In light of the reruns plaguing TV right now, I was thinking about shows I used to watch, that died in rerun hell. I'm only going to include my top five, but honorable mentions include: Saved By the Bell, Happy Days, ChiPs, Emergency! and The Rockford Files.
First, natch, The Golden Girls. Was there anything better than a septuagenarian slut? Who prescribed that woman her hormone replacement? WAAAAAAAAY too much. And Bea Arthur, who was apparently put on testosterone by mistake? Ah, funny, racist, drunk women with martinis and hunky handymen. Brilliant.
2) I admit reluctantly, Knight Rider. OK, I thought Hasselhof was dreamy. Yah, yah. I know. But the fabulous curly hair and the jacket and the jeans. Sigh. It must be my German DNA.
3) Little House on the Prairie. What the hell? Calico, randomly blind sisters, Michael Landon (come to think of it, he was pretty dreamy, too), that blond rich bitch. It was like 90210 for the Pony Express set.
4) Murder, She Wrote. Have I mentioned I had a sheltered childhood? It wasn't until I was much older that I realized that this was not what Angela Lansbury is famous for. Also, the Don't Get Mad, Get Glad guy was in it. Like everyone else, I was pretty convinced Angela was the kiss of death. But much like Betty White's portrayal of the dense Minnesotan, the inhabitants of rural Cabot Cove and their disappearing accents was always worthwhile. The best thing about M,SW is that my mom watched it all the time into my teenage years. I always asked her how she could be watching the same things over and over and not remember who did it? She claims she fell asleep before the perps were ever revealed and, thus, was eternally seeking answers to whodunnit.
5) The best show I watched in syndication purgatory: Hart to Hart. I LOVED that show. Brave, perfectly fringe-haired Stephanie Powers and rich, dreamy, slightly paunchy Robert Wagner, along with their beloved yet gruff butler and their little lap dog stumbled upon bizarre mysteries and incidents. Usually the mystery centered around some new found bauble the couple bought: jewels, art, Mercedes...they had the perfect setting for any adventure. Oh, and they were so in love. And the way Wagner called her "darling," in his completely pompous, over the top, stuffed shirt way. Awesomeness. I wanted to be Mrs. Hart. I wanted to be perfectly coiffed and able to run in high heels and a torn ball gown. And have my husband who doted on me pour me whiskey out of a crystal decanter after adjusting his ascot. What a life! Oh, TV. How I miss your golden days.
In light of the reruns plaguing TV right now, I was thinking about shows I used to watch, that died in rerun hell. I'm only going to include my top five, but honorable mentions include: Saved By the Bell, Happy Days, ChiPs, Emergency! and The Rockford Files.
First, natch, The Golden Girls. Was there anything better than a septuagenarian slut? Who prescribed that woman her hormone replacement? WAAAAAAAAY too much. And Bea Arthur, who was apparently put on testosterone by mistake? Ah, funny, racist, drunk women with martinis and hunky handymen. Brilliant.
2) I admit reluctantly, Knight Rider. OK, I thought Hasselhof was dreamy. Yah, yah. I know. But the fabulous curly hair and the jacket and the jeans. Sigh. It must be my German DNA.
3) Little House on the Prairie. What the hell? Calico, randomly blind sisters, Michael Landon (come to think of it, he was pretty dreamy, too), that blond rich bitch. It was like 90210 for the Pony Express set.
4) Murder, She Wrote. Have I mentioned I had a sheltered childhood? It wasn't until I was much older that I realized that this was not what Angela Lansbury is famous for. Also, the Don't Get Mad, Get Glad guy was in it. Like everyone else, I was pretty convinced Angela was the kiss of death. But much like Betty White's portrayal of the dense Minnesotan, the inhabitants of rural Cabot Cove and their disappearing accents was always worthwhile. The best thing about M,SW is that my mom watched it all the time into my teenage years. I always asked her how she could be watching the same things over and over and not remember who did it? She claims she fell asleep before the perps were ever revealed and, thus, was eternally seeking answers to whodunnit.
5) The best show I watched in syndication purgatory: Hart to Hart. I LOVED that show. Brave, perfectly fringe-haired Stephanie Powers and rich, dreamy, slightly paunchy Robert Wagner, along with their beloved yet gruff butler and their little lap dog stumbled upon bizarre mysteries and incidents. Usually the mystery centered around some new found bauble the couple bought: jewels, art, Mercedes...they had the perfect setting for any adventure. Oh, and they were so in love. And the way Wagner called her "darling," in his completely pompous, over the top, stuffed shirt way. Awesomeness. I wanted to be Mrs. Hart. I wanted to be perfectly coiffed and able to run in high heels and a torn ball gown. And have my husband who doted on me pour me whiskey out of a crystal decanter after adjusting his ascot. What a life! Oh, TV. How I miss your golden days.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Crazy's in the rearview
OK. Wednesday flew by. It was 20 degrees warmer here today than yesterday. Clooney is mad at me for abandoning him for our cruise. The cat, like all felines, has assumed ownership of the house. I let him in for ONE night and suddenly there's a coup.
He hissed, clawed, and bit at me when I tried to evict him today. What the heck? He's a permanent fixture now? Why are the animals turning on me?
The invariable let down of November TV sweeps has begun. There is NOTHING on TV. Not even the sports were interesting tonight. I'm bored.
Today, I cooked, washed floors, did laundry, cleaned out the kids' playroom, ran errands and contemplated moving around my furniture. Which is always dangerous. The contemplation of change usually coincides with a haircut appointment or other significant event. I am hoping it's a passing phenomenon, otherwise, you'll find me at Lowe's this weekend buying a bunch of those AS SEEN ON TV move anything anywhere pads you put under the sofa so you can push it with your pinkie finger.
Things happen fast around here, what can I say?
On the good front, I apparently drew a good straw when it came to room mom committees this school year. The Christmas Party Committee Chair (really, is this an episode of The Office?) emailed me with a huge list of stuff....she's already done! Woo-hoo! All I have to do is pretty much show up. Love the control freak moms. This is why I do not chair committees. I am the control freak mom and would have done all the work. Instead, some one else's neurosis kicks in, and I just sit back and relax. If only another crazy person lived at my house.
In cleaning the kids' playroom today, I discovered a bunch of bins with old labels on them. From when E was a baby. Things like "Alphabet Cards--14 lg, 26 sm" or "Little People Train--all pieces included"
WOW! I can't find my own ass with 2 hands and a flashlight, and I used to have things organized perfectly. I can remember spraying all the toys and bins with Lysol after every playdate. Everything was organized. Clothes by season and size. Socks matched outfits. Toys were sorted, matched, put in bins. Even outgrown clothes were sorted and organized. Now? Good luck. It's like when we moved to Mobile, and finally emptied all 452 boxes, I just left everything where it fell out of the box. I was so relieved to get here and be done, and out of our temporary apartment, that I just unpacked, rather than "packing" the house. It's chaos. I need to do something. Either things need to get organized, or I need more meds. I know which is easier...which is more helpful?
He hissed, clawed, and bit at me when I tried to evict him today. What the heck? He's a permanent fixture now? Why are the animals turning on me?
The invariable let down of November TV sweeps has begun. There is NOTHING on TV. Not even the sports were interesting tonight. I'm bored.
Today, I cooked, washed floors, did laundry, cleaned out the kids' playroom, ran errands and contemplated moving around my furniture. Which is always dangerous. The contemplation of change usually coincides with a haircut appointment or other significant event. I am hoping it's a passing phenomenon, otherwise, you'll find me at Lowe's this weekend buying a bunch of those AS SEEN ON TV move anything anywhere pads you put under the sofa so you can push it with your pinkie finger.
Things happen fast around here, what can I say?
On the good front, I apparently drew a good straw when it came to room mom committees this school year. The Christmas Party Committee Chair (really, is this an episode of The Office?) emailed me with a huge list of stuff....she's already done! Woo-hoo! All I have to do is pretty much show up. Love the control freak moms. This is why I do not chair committees. I am the control freak mom and would have done all the work. Instead, some one else's neurosis kicks in, and I just sit back and relax. If only another crazy person lived at my house.
In cleaning the kids' playroom today, I discovered a bunch of bins with old labels on them. From when E was a baby. Things like "Alphabet Cards--14 lg, 26 sm" or "Little People Train--all pieces included"
WOW! I can't find my own ass with 2 hands and a flashlight, and I used to have things organized perfectly. I can remember spraying all the toys and bins with Lysol after every playdate. Everything was organized. Clothes by season and size. Socks matched outfits. Toys were sorted, matched, put in bins. Even outgrown clothes were sorted and organized. Now? Good luck. It's like when we moved to Mobile, and finally emptied all 452 boxes, I just left everything where it fell out of the box. I was so relieved to get here and be done, and out of our temporary apartment, that I just unpacked, rather than "packing" the house. It's chaos. I need to do something. Either things need to get organized, or I need more meds. I know which is easier...which is more helpful?
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Flying Dogs
I dropped a moderate bombshell on my parents this afternoon: Clooney is coming with us for our Christmas visit. He will fit under the seat in front of me, and as an added bonus, make a 9 hour trip just that much more fun. I feel bad boarding him for 8 whole days, and my friends are busy during the holidays, so we are whisking him away for his first vacay. Sadly, my parents' neigbor's Hava-Tzu (Havanese/Shih-Tzu mix) isn't going to be home (as he is also being whisked away on a doggie holiday. I wonder if there is some secret movement among lap dogs to get out and see the world...) My mom was silent. Then: sigh. My dad thought he was on Candid Camera. I said, "Clooney's good." To which the ever-astute dad responded: "he still shits and pees, though, right" So apparently, inconvenience is measured by bowel movements. ANYway, my sister, her husband, my aunt, her husband all intensely dislike animals. My sister's doormat says: "No plants, No pets, No small people" My aunt has never cared for a living organism in her house EVER. My brother in law has a hard time coping with chaos, and pets and children fall into that category. So, my dad's irritation with potty habits falls well into stride with the rest of the family's anti-canine sensibilities. Along with good will, cheer and presents, I bring little Clooney. My inner shrink wonders if I am antagonizing. My dog-loathing DNA reminds me that THIS is exactly why pets are a pain in the butt. My pragmatist says, hey, I got a dog, whatcha gonna do? (My inner pragmatist apparently speaks like Sarah Palin.)
Regardless, the dog is getting schlepped halfway across the country. I wonder how HE feels about it?
Regardless, the dog is getting schlepped halfway across the country. I wonder how HE feels about it?
A Three Hour Tour...
OK.
Just got back from family cruise to Mexico. We thought it would be fun this year to try again after our Mayan mishap from last year.
Here's a riddle: What do you get when you sign up for a discount cruise?
A: A discount cruise!
Which, in case you are wondering, is like a regular cruise except it costs less and you get less. (Which at least, is an agreeable balance.) The crew is a little less polite, the food is a little less yummy, the ammenities are a little less refined, the passengers are a little more revolting.
We sailed to Mexico on Thursday and Friday and enjoyed nice weather and relaxation. My kids had fun with the kiddie camp and I ran up a healthy bar tab. Saturday, we walked around Cozumel some, but mostly, we just sat by the pool and soaked up the beautiful weather. But after that, things went south. We sailed Saturday night, and from about bedtime Saturday to about 11 PM Sunday, we were in crappy, high seas. Unfortunately, ship building (at least of the passenger variety) didn't seem to advance much from the days of the Titanic to when the un-glamorous Holiday was built. So, I tell you, a dinghy is more stable than this bad boy. I have been on big boats, little boats, cruise ships of all varieties, Atlantic, Pacific, freshwater, rivers. I have never in my life been sea sick. Until Sunday, when I puked. I mean, there were people bootin' all over the place--stair wells, common bathrooms, I could hear people heavin from my closed cabin. Brutal.
Other than that, though. My kids were good, I never got sick from the food, the overall experience a 100% improvement over last year.
In other news, I have taken pity upon the neighborhood cat. It is freezing here, and he lives outside. The cat is in the house. I am having Dr. Seuss fantasies about Thing 1 and Thing 2 leaping out and destroying the place.
Just got back from family cruise to Mexico. We thought it would be fun this year to try again after our Mayan mishap from last year.
Here's a riddle: What do you get when you sign up for a discount cruise?
A: A discount cruise!
Which, in case you are wondering, is like a regular cruise except it costs less and you get less. (Which at least, is an agreeable balance.) The crew is a little less polite, the food is a little less yummy, the ammenities are a little less refined, the passengers are a little more revolting.
We sailed to Mexico on Thursday and Friday and enjoyed nice weather and relaxation. My kids had fun with the kiddie camp and I ran up a healthy bar tab. Saturday, we walked around Cozumel some, but mostly, we just sat by the pool and soaked up the beautiful weather. But after that, things went south. We sailed Saturday night, and from about bedtime Saturday to about 11 PM Sunday, we were in crappy, high seas. Unfortunately, ship building (at least of the passenger variety) didn't seem to advance much from the days of the Titanic to when the un-glamorous Holiday was built. So, I tell you, a dinghy is more stable than this bad boy. I have been on big boats, little boats, cruise ships of all varieties, Atlantic, Pacific, freshwater, rivers. I have never in my life been sea sick. Until Sunday, when I puked. I mean, there were people bootin' all over the place--stair wells, common bathrooms, I could hear people heavin from my closed cabin. Brutal.
Other than that, though. My kids were good, I never got sick from the food, the overall experience a 100% improvement over last year.
In other news, I have taken pity upon the neighborhood cat. It is freezing here, and he lives outside. The cat is in the house. I am having Dr. Seuss fantasies about Thing 1 and Thing 2 leaping out and destroying the place.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Grooming Moment of Ew!
Do you ever find yourself doing a chore that you've done a million times before, only this time it is annoying beyond all reason?
I was vacuuming, but that is only the middle of the story. First, Sam was up at 5. I ushered him back to bed only to have Clooney join the fracas at 5:45. So, I was up. Came down, let dog out, fed S, fed Clooney, read news online, checked email, and sat. It was only 6:30. At 6:30, E comes down and so everyone except Dad is up now. I figure, day starts now! The cord is too long, it gets tangled, I give it a firm FWAP! so that it will get moving and knock over my coffee. Now, I have to go back and clean up the coffee. S is whining, and running over all my nice work with his construction truck whose only job is to run over my toes. Now, the actual chore begins. I started to Floor mate my floors. No, not obscene breeding program for hardwood...my upright floor scrubber (LOVE IT!) I am cleaning up the roughly 6 tons of dust, powder, sawdust and crap left in the house during the laying of the bamboo upstairs. My feet have been filthy all week. People tracking in and out of the house, up and down the stairs. Blech.
So, I am cleaning all the downstairs floors, then run the vacuum over all the area rugs. M comes down and asks "Was there an accident? An emergency?" I get it. He was annoyed by the Hoover wake up call.
But now, it's only 7:30 and ALL of my downstairs floors are clean. I can move on to the upstairs and be done before I have to take S to school. Great. Then, I can run and have all the yucky jobs done by 10. Then, groceries, cook dinner, make beds, and do the rest of the not so yucky jobs. All by 2:30 so as to get E from carpool. And everything will be shiny, happy clean! Ta-Dah!
Wait.
I just realized I am wearing the same shirt that I went to bed in night before last. That can't be good.
I was vacuuming, but that is only the middle of the story. First, Sam was up at 5. I ushered him back to bed only to have Clooney join the fracas at 5:45. So, I was up. Came down, let dog out, fed S, fed Clooney, read news online, checked email, and sat. It was only 6:30. At 6:30, E comes down and so everyone except Dad is up now. I figure, day starts now! The cord is too long, it gets tangled, I give it a firm FWAP! so that it will get moving and knock over my coffee. Now, I have to go back and clean up the coffee. S is whining, and running over all my nice work with his construction truck whose only job is to run over my toes. Now, the actual chore begins. I started to Floor mate my floors. No, not obscene breeding program for hardwood...my upright floor scrubber (LOVE IT!) I am cleaning up the roughly 6 tons of dust, powder, sawdust and crap left in the house during the laying of the bamboo upstairs. My feet have been filthy all week. People tracking in and out of the house, up and down the stairs. Blech.
So, I am cleaning all the downstairs floors, then run the vacuum over all the area rugs. M comes down and asks "Was there an accident? An emergency?" I get it. He was annoyed by the Hoover wake up call.
But now, it's only 7:30 and ALL of my downstairs floors are clean. I can move on to the upstairs and be done before I have to take S to school. Great. Then, I can run and have all the yucky jobs done by 10. Then, groceries, cook dinner, make beds, and do the rest of the not so yucky jobs. All by 2:30 so as to get E from carpool. And everything will be shiny, happy clean! Ta-Dah!
Wait.
I just realized I am wearing the same shirt that I went to bed in night before last. That can't be good.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
No Good Deed
Christmas is the season of giving. Of charity. Of helping those in need. With that beautiful sentiment in my heart, I decided to help one of Salvation Army's "Angels." The kids ask for a gift, the Salvation Army prints the kid's name and wish on a card, we fulfill the wish, and the Salvation Army delivers it to the family. Instant Karma. Instant happy child. Christmas is saved.
I thought it would be positive to include my children in this anonymous act of charity. I thought they could go through a store with no hope of anything for themselves and be excited for a little girl who only wants a tea set for Christmas. I thought this would be a glimpse for them into their life of privilege and plenty.
E is in the car asking me questions about our Angel. What's her name? How old is she--things I could answer. Where does she live? Why doesn't she have any money? How did she get on the Salvation Army's list--things I couldn't answer.
Then, a rare silence in the car. We 're driving to Target. I was feeling good about myself. I was thinking that I'd reached the heart of my precious boy. That modeling charity was going to change his life in some profound way. Then, a crisis:
"Why won't she have Christmas just because her parents are poor? Won't Santa bring her gifts?"
Oh, crap. I should have seen this coming. From like ten miles off. I have no answer. My heart is pounding. I have visions of a mob of angry school moms coming to get me because my kid denied Santa to their kids. I am groping for answers. I can't think. Traffic. Where is a red light when you need one? Vague. I have to be vague. Belief. Magic. Wonder. I can do this.
"Well, when you are down on your luck, and you have no money and everything in your life is just about survival, it's hard to believe in magical things. And Santa, of course, is a magical person. If you don't or can't believe in magic, then the magic doesn't happen to you."
Ah. That was good. I have a knack for improv. I'm feeling safe now. Chew on that, you precocious six year old.
Silence. Wheels are turning.
Then:
"Shouldn't the magic happen when you need it the most?"
Is my kid Tiny Tim Cratchitt or what? Has he been watching sappy Hallmark movies on TV? Do we even get the Lifetime Network? Where is this going?
Finally:
"Santa's crap, right? It's all parents."
That's it. My days in the PTA are over. My kid and I are going to be run out of school by moms with pitchforks and torches. Inspector Poirot wouldn't have come to this conclusion this fast. Where the hell is Target?
"I didn't get a guide book that told me to pretend to be Santa."
"MOOOOM," annoyed, slightly amused.
"Honey. Like all magical things in the world, you have to believe. If you believe in Santa, then he, and everything about him is real. That's why people love Christmas so much. Everything is possible."
Target. Thank God. "Everybody out. What kind of tea set are we buying?"
"Probably something dumb with princesses on it."
Holy crap. I killed Santa.
I thought it would be positive to include my children in this anonymous act of charity. I thought they could go through a store with no hope of anything for themselves and be excited for a little girl who only wants a tea set for Christmas. I thought this would be a glimpse for them into their life of privilege and plenty.
E is in the car asking me questions about our Angel. What's her name? How old is she--things I could answer. Where does she live? Why doesn't she have any money? How did she get on the Salvation Army's list--things I couldn't answer.
Then, a rare silence in the car. We 're driving to Target. I was feeling good about myself. I was thinking that I'd reached the heart of my precious boy. That modeling charity was going to change his life in some profound way. Then, a crisis:
"Why won't she have Christmas just because her parents are poor? Won't Santa bring her gifts?"
Oh, crap. I should have seen this coming. From like ten miles off. I have no answer. My heart is pounding. I have visions of a mob of angry school moms coming to get me because my kid denied Santa to their kids. I am groping for answers. I can't think. Traffic. Where is a red light when you need one? Vague. I have to be vague. Belief. Magic. Wonder. I can do this.
"Well, when you are down on your luck, and you have no money and everything in your life is just about survival, it's hard to believe in magical things. And Santa, of course, is a magical person. If you don't or can't believe in magic, then the magic doesn't happen to you."
Ah. That was good. I have a knack for improv. I'm feeling safe now. Chew on that, you precocious six year old.
Silence. Wheels are turning.
Then:
"Shouldn't the magic happen when you need it the most?"
Is my kid Tiny Tim Cratchitt or what? Has he been watching sappy Hallmark movies on TV? Do we even get the Lifetime Network? Where is this going?
Finally:
"Santa's crap, right? It's all parents."
That's it. My days in the PTA are over. My kid and I are going to be run out of school by moms with pitchforks and torches. Inspector Poirot wouldn't have come to this conclusion this fast. Where the hell is Target?
"I didn't get a guide book that told me to pretend to be Santa."
"MOOOOM," annoyed, slightly amused.
"Honey. Like all magical things in the world, you have to believe. If you believe in Santa, then he, and everything about him is real. That's why people love Christmas so much. Everything is possible."
Target. Thank God. "Everybody out. What kind of tea set are we buying?"
"Probably something dumb with princesses on it."
Holy crap. I killed Santa.
Monday, November 17, 2008
A Flooring Fable
OK. Some of you have been wondering what E did to merit punishment so severe as to leave him snivelling at 5 AM. Well, to put it simply, he ran away. Once upon a time, there was a 6 year old boy who was too big for his britches. He decided he was NOT excited about bamboo flooring that his parents had generously decided to install in his room to replace the rotten and worn out carpet, stomped off, and left the house. I THOUGHT he was in the closed off guest bedroom, only to find him skulking into the house 15 minutes later.
"Where were you?" "Driveway. I'm mad that you're tearing up the carpet." "I'm sorry. I'm glad you were able to cool off."
Next thing I know, the phone is ringing. My next door neighbor asks if I have E. "Why of course, who else would have my beloved, but bamboo-grass intolerant son?" "Well, Mrs. P, I just saw him walking down the road with no shoes and no sweatshirt. I sent him home and told him to have you phone me to be sure he got there safely."
"Well thank you for this informative yet humiliating phone conversation. We must chat again soon."
(What ensues next is unfit for publication. Suffice to say, E is grounded like a drunk pilot. He is going nowhere. EVER. EVER EVER.)
So, that is the fable about the child and the bamboo flooring. Let this be a lesson for all you boys and girls out there: If you don't like the flooring choice your parents have made, shut it and deal. Otherwise, you will be NAILED TO IT.
The End
"Where were you?" "Driveway. I'm mad that you're tearing up the carpet." "I'm sorry. I'm glad you were able to cool off."
Next thing I know, the phone is ringing. My next door neighbor asks if I have E. "Why of course, who else would have my beloved, but bamboo-grass intolerant son?" "Well, Mrs. P, I just saw him walking down the road with no shoes and no sweatshirt. I sent him home and told him to have you phone me to be sure he got there safely."
"Well thank you for this informative yet humiliating phone conversation. We must chat again soon."
(What ensues next is unfit for publication. Suffice to say, E is grounded like a drunk pilot. He is going nowhere. EVER. EVER EVER.)
So, that is the fable about the child and the bamboo flooring. Let this be a lesson for all you boys and girls out there: If you don't like the flooring choice your parents have made, shut it and deal. Otherwise, you will be NAILED TO IT.
The End
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Sunday School
This morning, karma came home to roost. I'd like to quote my friend T, who forecast bad things:
...bragging in your blog about your perfectly acceptable day on Friday. It's like
when I'm working in the hospital...the moment anyone talks about how quiet it
is, all hell breaks loose: there's a code, a family member of a patient shows up
drunk, some woman comes in delivering twins who didn't know she was pregnant, someone calls in a bomb threat, 5 nurses call in sick for the next shift, we have 27 admissions from the emergency room, you name it. It's the law...a well known one to us healthcare types. Never speak of how great things are
because the moment you do, WHAM! Next time you have a lovely day, silently count your blessings and SHUT IT!! :)
So, my nice Friday coupled with my Northwestern vicory over Michigan, partnered with a girls' night out on Saturday probably sent the fairness gods into a snit. Therefore, they punished me with Sunday.
E had a fever and woke up all wonky in the middle of the night. Twice. I hooked him up with some Tylenol and sent him on his way. Then, at five, S comes crying into my room. I head him back into the hallway to ask what is wrong. "Sniff. I pooped my pants." "There, there." I coo. We go into the bathroom, and he hasn't so much pooped as had a fart go awry. It's happened to the best of us. I kiss him, wash him, re-drawer him, and tuck him back in. I am not barely back into my bed when he comes back, "I pooped again." "There, there." I coo. We go into the bathroom, and clearly, the same event has occurred. We clean, kiss, and re-pant. This time, I snuggle into bed with him, knowing we are getting dangerously close to that time in the morning when it will be too late to go to sleep again: when he will realize it is closer to wake-up than to middle of the night. I cuddle. A hideous stench wafts up. We get up again. Five times. A sharting outbreak.
Then, E has issues. He is sad that he is still under punishment and therefore not allowed on the Sunday Waffle House Outing with Dad. In his most pathetic voice, through sniffles and crocodile tears, he asks if I would please, PLEASE have Dad bring him a chocolate milk from Waffle House. They do so have the best chocolate milk ever.
Forget it. S isn't going anywhere with his unreliable flatulence. E isn't getting off the punishment hook, and Dad isn't going to Waffle House for his own health. I try to explain to E. He joins me and S in S's bed. Now, the first rays of dawn have broken through the trees. Hurry, close their eyes. Don't let them see. NOOOOOOOOOOOO! (Insert slow motion close-up of scream with vibrating uvula in the back of my throat)
So, it's 5:40. Clooney has heard the action from his crate in the kitchen. He wants in on the dysfunction extravaganza. The boys come down with me, I take out the dog in 30 something weather in my tee shirt. Come in, crack open a Mountain Dew (brewing coffee at this juncture would involve grinding the beans, pouring the water, washing the caraffe, throwing out yesterday's grounds. Too much to process). I would take my caffeine intravenously at this point.
The day has begun. By 6, I have imparted useful learning to my children.
S and E have both learned valuable lessons. E has learned that punishment stings. S has learned to never trust a toot.
...bragging in your blog about your perfectly acceptable day on Friday. It's like
when I'm working in the hospital...the moment anyone talks about how quiet it
is, all hell breaks loose: there's a code, a family member of a patient shows up
drunk, some woman comes in delivering twins who didn't know she was pregnant, someone calls in a bomb threat, 5 nurses call in sick for the next shift, we have 27 admissions from the emergency room, you name it. It's the law...a well known one to us healthcare types. Never speak of how great things are
because the moment you do, WHAM! Next time you have a lovely day, silently count your blessings and SHUT IT!! :)
So, my nice Friday coupled with my Northwestern vicory over Michigan, partnered with a girls' night out on Saturday probably sent the fairness gods into a snit. Therefore, they punished me with Sunday.
E had a fever and woke up all wonky in the middle of the night. Twice. I hooked him up with some Tylenol and sent him on his way. Then, at five, S comes crying into my room. I head him back into the hallway to ask what is wrong. "Sniff. I pooped my pants." "There, there." I coo. We go into the bathroom, and he hasn't so much pooped as had a fart go awry. It's happened to the best of us. I kiss him, wash him, re-drawer him, and tuck him back in. I am not barely back into my bed when he comes back, "I pooped again." "There, there." I coo. We go into the bathroom, and clearly, the same event has occurred. We clean, kiss, and re-pant. This time, I snuggle into bed with him, knowing we are getting dangerously close to that time in the morning when it will be too late to go to sleep again: when he will realize it is closer to wake-up than to middle of the night. I cuddle. A hideous stench wafts up. We get up again. Five times. A sharting outbreak.
Then, E has issues. He is sad that he is still under punishment and therefore not allowed on the Sunday Waffle House Outing with Dad. In his most pathetic voice, through sniffles and crocodile tears, he asks if I would please, PLEASE have Dad bring him a chocolate milk from Waffle House. They do so have the best chocolate milk ever.
Forget it. S isn't going anywhere with his unreliable flatulence. E isn't getting off the punishment hook, and Dad isn't going to Waffle House for his own health. I try to explain to E. He joins me and S in S's bed. Now, the first rays of dawn have broken through the trees. Hurry, close their eyes. Don't let them see. NOOOOOOOOOOOO! (Insert slow motion close-up of scream with vibrating uvula in the back of my throat)
So, it's 5:40. Clooney has heard the action from his crate in the kitchen. He wants in on the dysfunction extravaganza. The boys come down with me, I take out the dog in 30 something weather in my tee shirt. Come in, crack open a Mountain Dew (brewing coffee at this juncture would involve grinding the beans, pouring the water, washing the caraffe, throwing out yesterday's grounds. Too much to process). I would take my caffeine intravenously at this point.
The day has begun. By 6, I have imparted useful learning to my children.
S and E have both learned valuable lessons. E has learned that punishment stings. S has learned to never trust a toot.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
A perfectly Acceptable Day
Ok. Today was fun. First, I didn't have to drive E to school. Love that carpool. Second, my worker guys came to tear up my nasty carpet. That carpet was so threadbare. It was practically burlap stretched across padding. Plus, I am told that the previous homeowner had the carpeting steam cleaned every other month. There was no pile left! After pulling up some one else's carpet, I will never put it down again. There were pet stains that had supposedly been "cleaned" and just tons of dust poured out whenever a section of it was rolled up and lifted out. It was gross, gross, gross.
Then, I practiced my running. As I told my friend, MK this morning, I am all set if I am ever chased by an octogenarian mugger. All I am saying is, that if I hope to keep my purse and avoid a trip to the DMV to replace my driver's license, my mugger better not be able to run faster than 5.2 miles an hour for 3 miles.
Otherwise, I'm doomed.
Afterwards, I showered, wolfed down some food, and headed off for a culinary adventure. MK and I went to a company called Bayside Dinners (shameless plug) which is (apparently a term for the industry) a meal assembly place. I made three dinners for the family. Which was great. Because, hey, fun to cook with friends, and three fewer dinners to make in the next few weeks. We ate one dinner tonight, in fact. Yummers.
So, after that, I spent the afternoon with S. M came home early. We all enjoyed the very bare planks of wood upstairs and ate dinner. E was delivered home after school. Love that carpool. The martini at 5 really helped me pull through the early evening. The kids will be in bed in 20 minutes (if all goes according to plan), I will watch last week's TiVo'd CSI and be in bed by 9:30.
Perfecto.
Then, I practiced my running. As I told my friend, MK this morning, I am all set if I am ever chased by an octogenarian mugger. All I am saying is, that if I hope to keep my purse and avoid a trip to the DMV to replace my driver's license, my mugger better not be able to run faster than 5.2 miles an hour for 3 miles.
Otherwise, I'm doomed.
Afterwards, I showered, wolfed down some food, and headed off for a culinary adventure. MK and I went to a company called Bayside Dinners (shameless plug) which is (apparently a term for the industry) a meal assembly place. I made three dinners for the family. Which was great. Because, hey, fun to cook with friends, and three fewer dinners to make in the next few weeks. We ate one dinner tonight, in fact. Yummers.
So, after that, I spent the afternoon with S. M came home early. We all enjoyed the very bare planks of wood upstairs and ate dinner. E was delivered home after school. Love that carpool. The martini at 5 really helped me pull through the early evening. The kids will be in bed in 20 minutes (if all goes according to plan), I will watch last week's TiVo'd CSI and be in bed by 9:30.
Perfecto.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
The Clock is Ticking
Okay people, it's crunch time. You all have to buck up here with me. We survived the election. We endured Halloween. Hold my hands, this is the tough part. The holidays are upon us. While I have outlined my fondness for Thanksgiving, the extended weekend that surrounds it poses its own problems. And of course, the confluence of Hanukkah and Christmas and New Year's just about takes psychosis into the realm of The Cuckoo's Nest.
My sister, who has been through a rough month--her car was totalled (not her fault), her husband took a job 3 hours away, she hates Halloween more than I do--has married into a gargantuan family. A gargantuan half Jewish family, might I add. There are holiday obligations coming out of nowhere. Where to spend Xmas Eve, Xmas Day, New Year's Eve and Day, Hanukkah, and she's a teacher, so of course she will be in SoCal for all of these blessed events. She's completely overwhelmed and in high level negotiations with her husband.
Me? As I am slightly more fortunate than my sister, I married into a small Jewish Canadian family. So, the Thanksgiving issue is moot. On the upside, we never have a conflict. On the downside, we never have a Thanksgiving feast. Also, none of that Xmas Eve/Day stress. That being said, my family antes up the pot a little with their very tight adhesion to tradition.
So, we are flying in to SoCal on Xmas Eve. I expected all the festivities to be fested so we could drag our jet lagged, tired of our kids, nasty airport food digesting selves into my parents' house, have a VERY stiff drink and sit on our butts for the night. But apparently, tradition requires that my extended family celebrate Xmas Eve at the time my flight lands. So, off I go. I will skip the disgusting airport food, drink the stiff drink on the plane, and bring my jetlagged self into my parents' home with smile on, ready to exchange the familial niceties of the Night Before Xmas.
Yes I can.
I can be buffeted from all sides. M freaks out at me over my family's sale-a-bration of Christmas because of the overwhelming amount of money spent on spoiling our children. More toys than any child could want/need/use.
Yes I can.
I can shop extensively for all of my family, although effectively, we could all write checks, swap them, and shred them.
Yes I can.
I can wrestle my children into photogenic clothes despite all protest.
Yes I can.
I can fly across the country on a series of probably-delayed, ebola-infested planes during the busiest travel season of the year in a time when fuel and baggage surcharges are added just to make everything a little more fun.
Yes I can.
Because this is the land of opportunity. The opportunity to celebrate holy days of diverse faiths together whether we like it or not.
Because this is the land of hope. We can hope it will be easier than it has been the last 6 times we've done it.
Because this is the land of family values. Grinning and bearing it. Spoiling our children. Buying stuff we can't afford because of AIG bailouts or gas prices.
Because this is the f'in holidays, people. Because this is what we do.
We can celebrate the guiding star and the baby in the manger.
We can celebrate the mystically long lasting oil in the temple.
We can welcome peace on Earth.
Put on your Santa hat and smile. The insanity starts.....
NOW.
My sister, who has been through a rough month--her car was totalled (not her fault), her husband took a job 3 hours away, she hates Halloween more than I do--has married into a gargantuan family. A gargantuan half Jewish family, might I add. There are holiday obligations coming out of nowhere. Where to spend Xmas Eve, Xmas Day, New Year's Eve and Day, Hanukkah, and she's a teacher, so of course she will be in SoCal for all of these blessed events. She's completely overwhelmed and in high level negotiations with her husband.
Me? As I am slightly more fortunate than my sister, I married into a small Jewish Canadian family. So, the Thanksgiving issue is moot. On the upside, we never have a conflict. On the downside, we never have a Thanksgiving feast. Also, none of that Xmas Eve/Day stress. That being said, my family antes up the pot a little with their very tight adhesion to tradition.
So, we are flying in to SoCal on Xmas Eve. I expected all the festivities to be fested so we could drag our jet lagged, tired of our kids, nasty airport food digesting selves into my parents' house, have a VERY stiff drink and sit on our butts for the night. But apparently, tradition requires that my extended family celebrate Xmas Eve at the time my flight lands. So, off I go. I will skip the disgusting airport food, drink the stiff drink on the plane, and bring my jetlagged self into my parents' home with smile on, ready to exchange the familial niceties of the Night Before Xmas.
Yes I can.
I can be buffeted from all sides. M freaks out at me over my family's sale-a-bration of Christmas because of the overwhelming amount of money spent on spoiling our children. More toys than any child could want/need/use.
Yes I can.
I can shop extensively for all of my family, although effectively, we could all write checks, swap them, and shred them.
Yes I can.
I can wrestle my children into photogenic clothes despite all protest.
Yes I can.
I can fly across the country on a series of probably-delayed, ebola-infested planes during the busiest travel season of the year in a time when fuel and baggage surcharges are added just to make everything a little more fun.
Yes I can.
Because this is the land of opportunity. The opportunity to celebrate holy days of diverse faiths together whether we like it or not.
Because this is the land of hope. We can hope it will be easier than it has been the last 6 times we've done it.
Because this is the land of family values. Grinning and bearing it. Spoiling our children. Buying stuff we can't afford because of AIG bailouts or gas prices.
Because this is the f'in holidays, people. Because this is what we do.
We can celebrate the guiding star and the baby in the manger.
We can celebrate the mystically long lasting oil in the temple.
We can welcome peace on Earth.
Put on your Santa hat and smile. The insanity starts.....
NOW.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Survivor: Weekend Edition
Sometimes I just wonder how it is that my parents made it through weekends. I think back to when I was a kid and sure, they "let" me spend every Saturday night with my Grandma and Grandpa. But there was a lot of stuff we did Saturday mornings and then all day Sundays. We went to the ocean, we did yard work (man, a lot of yard work. I remember not being able to hold the big black trash bags open properly). We took little day trips. But, come Saturday nights, my parents always knew I was out of the picture.
Grandma's house was great. I think I've written of it before. We watched Love Boat, Diff'rent Strokes, Golden Girls, The Facts of Life (ah, my first memories of George Clooney). Grandpa made popcorn and gave us Eskimo Pies. My aunt would come on Sunday mornings for biscuits and gravy. We'd roller skate, bike, jump rope. My grandma's house was in a real neighborhood, and there was a HUGE park and a great walking trail. I had these awesome roller skates--they were white boots with purple pom poms and purple wheels that sparked when I went really fast--we'd skate while my grandma and aunt walked. I also had a pink bike with a big banana seat and a white basket with plastic daisies on it. I had a scooter and a pedal race car. We played outside and waited for the ice cream truck. In the back yard, grandpa had a garden of tomatoes and peppers and onions that we "helped" take care of. It was all about my sister and me all the time. We ruled at Grandma's house.
But now I get it. It wasn't about us. It was about my parents. It was a big dump off! No WONDER they never punished us by taking away a weekend at Grandma's. The light goes on now that I am a parent. I want someplace to dump off the kids EVERY Saturday night! Like Nebraska's Safe Haven Law...only not so permanent.
One of my girlfriends got a dump off this weekend. Off her little kids went, unsuspecting of their status. Thinking they were getting a special treat. When in fact, it was their parents' treat. Woohoo-ing all the way. Giving each other secret high-fives. Craving that next morning of silence. Quietly boogie-ing down their hallways. Knowing those kids were gone, outta there, MIA, for 24 hours.
I'm so jealous. Well, it's Monday now. School. Woohoo!
Grandma's house was great. I think I've written of it before. We watched Love Boat, Diff'rent Strokes, Golden Girls, The Facts of Life (ah, my first memories of George Clooney). Grandpa made popcorn and gave us Eskimo Pies. My aunt would come on Sunday mornings for biscuits and gravy. We'd roller skate, bike, jump rope. My grandma's house was in a real neighborhood, and there was a HUGE park and a great walking trail. I had these awesome roller skates--they were white boots with purple pom poms and purple wheels that sparked when I went really fast--we'd skate while my grandma and aunt walked. I also had a pink bike with a big banana seat and a white basket with plastic daisies on it. I had a scooter and a pedal race car. We played outside and waited for the ice cream truck. In the back yard, grandpa had a garden of tomatoes and peppers and onions that we "helped" take care of. It was all about my sister and me all the time. We ruled at Grandma's house.
But now I get it. It wasn't about us. It was about my parents. It was a big dump off! No WONDER they never punished us by taking away a weekend at Grandma's. The light goes on now that I am a parent. I want someplace to dump off the kids EVERY Saturday night! Like Nebraska's Safe Haven Law...only not so permanent.
One of my girlfriends got a dump off this weekend. Off her little kids went, unsuspecting of their status. Thinking they were getting a special treat. When in fact, it was their parents' treat. Woohoo-ing all the way. Giving each other secret high-fives. Craving that next morning of silence. Quietly boogie-ing down their hallways. Knowing those kids were gone, outta there, MIA, for 24 hours.
I'm so jealous. Well, it's Monday now. School. Woohoo!
Friday, November 7, 2008
Clowns and Grocery Stores
Have you ever been in a situation where you think, if I had to explain this to some one right now, they would think I'm nuts? When, in fact, everything leading up to that one moment was logical or at least reasonable right up until they converged in an explosion of weird?
Last night, M came home to find E sword fighting an imaginary clone trooper with a balloon sword. Then, S was under an overturned laundry basket with Clooney saying he was fishing. He was fishing with a balloon animal fish attached to a phallus, I mean balloon fishing rod. Then, Clooney popped half the fish and all pandamonium broke out.
So, under what circumstances does S come to be fishing with a balloon under a laundry basket?
First, we went to the grocery where there was a clown. Then, S was hiding from the sword-wielding E under the basket. Which Clooney wanted in on, naturally.
It's like one of those hallucination dreams you have that when you try to recapture verbally falls apart.
But, in any event. That was yesterday.
The Terminix guy is an hour and a half late. My mom has her tinsel in a tangle over my sister's and my holiday plans. Clooney is chasing his tail. I burned popcorn during family movie night last night and I can't get the stink out. It's going to rain today. I'm a wee bit flustered. Irked, really.
In any event, I am looking forward to the weekend. TiVo is full of things I've been too busy to watch, Northwestern is playing OSU tomorrow, and I have no plans. Phew. Three weeks to Turkey Day. Where has this year gone?
J
Last night, M came home to find E sword fighting an imaginary clone trooper with a balloon sword. Then, S was under an overturned laundry basket with Clooney saying he was fishing. He was fishing with a balloon animal fish attached to a phallus, I mean balloon fishing rod. Then, Clooney popped half the fish and all pandamonium broke out.
So, under what circumstances does S come to be fishing with a balloon under a laundry basket?
First, we went to the grocery where there was a clown. Then, S was hiding from the sword-wielding E under the basket. Which Clooney wanted in on, naturally.
It's like one of those hallucination dreams you have that when you try to recapture verbally falls apart.
But, in any event. That was yesterday.
The Terminix guy is an hour and a half late. My mom has her tinsel in a tangle over my sister's and my holiday plans. Clooney is chasing his tail. I burned popcorn during family movie night last night and I can't get the stink out. It's going to rain today. I'm a wee bit flustered. Irked, really.
In any event, I am looking forward to the weekend. TiVo is full of things I've been too busy to watch, Northwestern is playing OSU tomorrow, and I have no plans. Phew. Three weeks to Turkey Day. Where has this year gone?
J
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
November 5, 2008
Wow.
Regardless of how you voted, how sick you were of the election (very), how very much you want the words "maverick" and "change" taken out of the American lexicon, how jaded, cynical or bored you were of the American political process, I challenge you to admit that you didn't have goose bumps last night during Obama's rally in Chicago.
I had shivers. Really, truly.
Regardless of how you voted, how sick you were of the election (very), how very much you want the words "maverick" and "change" taken out of the American lexicon, how jaded, cynical or bored you were of the American political process, I challenge you to admit that you didn't have goose bumps last night during Obama's rally in Chicago.
I had shivers. Really, truly.
Monday, November 3, 2008
24 Hours
Yes, as it turns out, Clooney's eyes do APPEAR to be different colors. They are not, in real life, different colors. Freaky, though.
So, Halloween is OVER. For another year. All of my decorations (ugh) are packed up and happily back in the attic. The boys now play dress up in their costumes, and I give them another week before they are torn or filthy.
My mom has been a big help this week. M and I spent a very relaxing 24 hours in Biloxi. I ran, sat in the steam room (I so love the steam room), dressed nicely, had drinks, a lovely dinner, and lost only $2 on the nickel slots. This is a tremendous success. M had better luck at the tables, and I think the whole weekend was a welcome break for both of us.
Plus, Northwestern pulled some magic out of their hats and gave us an unexpected win. AND you know, we were without our kids for 24 whole hours. Awesomeness.
I finished my gardening project with mom's help, too. I also cleaned out the fridge, the kitchen cabinets, and did MOUNTAINS of laundry...even going so far as to put it all away.
My kids got to eat out with their grandma, pick out toys at Target, and be spoiled rotten for a week. Nice for them.
Tomorrow, all this election hell will be over. And I hope it IS actually over tomorrow. Those Floridians better figure out how to push the buttons this time. If I have to hear about ONE dangling chad, some one is going to get hurt. Enjoy your last day of political ads. I know you'll miss them come Wednesday. You'll be sitting there, watching Oprah and eating bon bons and wonder, where is my daily dose of lying and hatred? I know. Try to think happy thoughts. About how, in some amount of time, depending on what political officer is speaking, you will get to hear how THEY, in turn failed you, and some one else is going to do the job "differently."
Buck up. In just 4 years, we get to do this again! @#(*&%(T^
So, Halloween is OVER. For another year. All of my decorations (ugh) are packed up and happily back in the attic. The boys now play dress up in their costumes, and I give them another week before they are torn or filthy.
My mom has been a big help this week. M and I spent a very relaxing 24 hours in Biloxi. I ran, sat in the steam room (I so love the steam room), dressed nicely, had drinks, a lovely dinner, and lost only $2 on the nickel slots. This is a tremendous success. M had better luck at the tables, and I think the whole weekend was a welcome break for both of us.
Plus, Northwestern pulled some magic out of their hats and gave us an unexpected win. AND you know, we were without our kids for 24 whole hours. Awesomeness.
I finished my gardening project with mom's help, too. I also cleaned out the fridge, the kitchen cabinets, and did MOUNTAINS of laundry...even going so far as to put it all away.
My kids got to eat out with their grandma, pick out toys at Target, and be spoiled rotten for a week. Nice for them.
Tomorrow, all this election hell will be over. And I hope it IS actually over tomorrow. Those Floridians better figure out how to push the buttons this time. If I have to hear about ONE dangling chad, some one is going to get hurt. Enjoy your last day of political ads. I know you'll miss them come Wednesday. You'll be sitting there, watching Oprah and eating bon bons and wonder, where is my daily dose of lying and hatred? I know. Try to think happy thoughts. About how, in some amount of time, depending on what political officer is speaking, you will get to hear how THEY, in turn failed you, and some one else is going to do the job "differently."
Buck up. In just 4 years, we get to do this again! @#(*&%(T^
Friday, October 31, 2008
Peeka-Tzu, I see you!
Clooney wishes you a Happy Halloween. Despite the pumpkin bows. Really. Happy barkin' Halloween.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Things that go Blah! in the night.
What the hell? Today is being strange. I had all these big pre-mom visit plans, and they are steadily running down the toilet. It's already 10 AM. I was supposed to have (per my list) washed the floors, done laundry, mailed my sister's birthday present, cleaned out the fridge, and run. None. Zero. Zilch. Nada. Not done.
But, I have been sitting here, rocking out to Neil Diamond (Do NOT judge me) and thinking about Halloweens past.
I freaking hate Halloween. More than any other holiday, religious or otherwise. I hate it. Loathe. Detest. Abhor. Even more than all the pepto bismol pink of Valentine's Day and overly commercial Christmas. More than jingoist Fourth of July or intoxicated St. Pat's. More than the overly important Hannukah, and the only recently added Kwanzaa. More than the frilly, floppy Easter, or the age-old Passover.
Actually, apparently, I only like Thanksgiving, for the record. Which is true. I love Thanksgiving. I loved watching football with all the men in the family while my mom and grandma washed a million dishes. I loved sitting at the kiddie table with my uncle. I loved stuffing. I love mashed potatoes. I love dark meat on the turkey. I love the rolls my grandma used to make for us. I love the smell. I love the no-gift, no-problem experience. I love that every one is welcome anywhere. That's there's always enough. And more. For almost every one. On one day, there is enough for everyone.
Anyway, sorry for the rather sappy aside. Halloween is a problem for me. For one thing, I never had the right imagination for costumes. Like sometimes, not enough imagination: the year I wore the plastic Garfield costume. Sometimes, too much: the year I wore a black leotard with adhesive stars and was The Universe. Sometimes, misplaced: the year I was a 'punker' and everyone thought I was a hooker. Sometimes, overly executed: too-creepy witch when all my friends were good witches. Anyway. Almost every year, hell. I hated picking a costume. I hated whatever my mom bought. (Even if it was what I wanted). I hated trying to make a costume (how did that one kid make Storm Trooper so awesome out of TP rolls?) I hated that never in my entire childhood did we have one trick-or-treater at our house. We lived at the top of this steep hill that was unlit and spooky on the best of nights. Somebody REALLY had to want to come up there. No mini Milky Way was worth the trip, believe me.
We sometimes went trick or treating at a friend's neighborhood. Once in my grandma's neighborhood. But my parents had this (completely accurate) argument that we could have candy whenever we wanted. Why go beg for it? True. How to counter that? It all went bad anyway. We forgot about it, or my mom ate the ones with the nuts, or whatever. After we had it, we didn't care. So we traipsed around the neighborhood in the cold and the dark, begging for candy we didn't eat all of, or lame ass stickers we didn't want. I can NOT buy into the Halloween experience. Even now, I want my kids to have the perfect costumes. (They are Red Power Ranger and Buzz Lightyear). I want them to enjoy it. But with M. He'll take them out. Meh.
The only good costume, in my entire life--EVER--was when I was pregnant with one of the kids. I bought a cheerleader costume that you could iron on whatever school name you wanted on the shirt. My cheerleader costume was WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY too small. My giant belly hung out. My shirt said "SLUT." That costume rocked. One. In thirty something years.
So, trick or treat, y'all.
Bah, Humbug.
But, I have been sitting here, rocking out to Neil Diamond (Do NOT judge me) and thinking about Halloweens past.
I freaking hate Halloween. More than any other holiday, religious or otherwise. I hate it. Loathe. Detest. Abhor. Even more than all the pepto bismol pink of Valentine's Day and overly commercial Christmas. More than jingoist Fourth of July or intoxicated St. Pat's. More than the overly important Hannukah, and the only recently added Kwanzaa. More than the frilly, floppy Easter, or the age-old Passover.
Actually, apparently, I only like Thanksgiving, for the record. Which is true. I love Thanksgiving. I loved watching football with all the men in the family while my mom and grandma washed a million dishes. I loved sitting at the kiddie table with my uncle. I loved stuffing. I love mashed potatoes. I love dark meat on the turkey. I love the rolls my grandma used to make for us. I love the smell. I love the no-gift, no-problem experience. I love that every one is welcome anywhere. That's there's always enough. And more. For almost every one. On one day, there is enough for everyone.
Anyway, sorry for the rather sappy aside. Halloween is a problem for me. For one thing, I never had the right imagination for costumes. Like sometimes, not enough imagination: the year I wore the plastic Garfield costume. Sometimes, too much: the year I wore a black leotard with adhesive stars and was The Universe. Sometimes, misplaced: the year I was a 'punker' and everyone thought I was a hooker. Sometimes, overly executed: too-creepy witch when all my friends were good witches. Anyway. Almost every year, hell. I hated picking a costume. I hated whatever my mom bought. (Even if it was what I wanted). I hated trying to make a costume (how did that one kid make Storm Trooper so awesome out of TP rolls?) I hated that never in my entire childhood did we have one trick-or-treater at our house. We lived at the top of this steep hill that was unlit and spooky on the best of nights. Somebody REALLY had to want to come up there. No mini Milky Way was worth the trip, believe me.
We sometimes went trick or treating at a friend's neighborhood. Once in my grandma's neighborhood. But my parents had this (completely accurate) argument that we could have candy whenever we wanted. Why go beg for it? True. How to counter that? It all went bad anyway. We forgot about it, or my mom ate the ones with the nuts, or whatever. After we had it, we didn't care. So we traipsed around the neighborhood in the cold and the dark, begging for candy we didn't eat all of, or lame ass stickers we didn't want. I can NOT buy into the Halloween experience. Even now, I want my kids to have the perfect costumes. (They are Red Power Ranger and Buzz Lightyear). I want them to enjoy it. But with M. He'll take them out. Meh.
The only good costume, in my entire life--EVER--was when I was pregnant with one of the kids. I bought a cheerleader costume that you could iron on whatever school name you wanted on the shirt. My cheerleader costume was WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY too small. My giant belly hung out. My shirt said "SLUT." That costume rocked. One. In thirty something years.
So, trick or treat, y'all.
Bah, Humbug.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Two if By Land
So, I ran around the house today in "parents are coming" mode. Again. My mom is (and I say this without irony) graciously coming to spend Halloween with the boys. Which is nice because, you know, kids grow out of Halloween fast, and they're cute all dressed up, and this way I don't have to eat all the candy by myself.
On the flip side, OnStar clean-up is still a dream, and my house just isn't up to par. Nor is my garden. Or my laundry. Or my car. Or, let's be honest, me or my children. With this cold,I sound like Kathleen Turner. And not kinda foxy War of the Roses Kathleen Turner. More like transgendered Chandler's dad Kathleen Turner from Friends. My head hurts from screaming all the time just to make myself heard, and I'm down to the really old underwear in my drawer because I haven't put away the BASKETS full of clean laundry. (Is that better or worse than having no underwear because it's all dirty?)
My kids are excited to see grandma, but in a spoiled, annoying kind of way. My car smells like Chinese food and spoiled milk sippy cup. My kids seem to generate more laundry than Elton John. And, honestly, I have piles of crap randomly growing around the house.
Additionally, I'm beat. The reason the house isn't all spic and span is because I walked three miles this morning in the freezing cold, which actually took something out of me. I had a beer with dinner, which is having its desired narcoleptic effects, and everyone relevant at my house is either sleeping or at work. So, I'm going to bed at 8:15. I could stay up. But it won't come to that.
So, my mom is coming. But I feel guilty when she comes and does work. Except for babysitting. I do NOT feel guilty about that. So, I won't want to work in front of her, because she wants to help, and I won't let her work, so scratch another week of getting anything done OFF the list.
On the upside, since she is here, M and I are running away to Biloxi for the weekend. It's not Monaco. Hell, it's not even Vegas, but it's away. And child-free. And relaxing. So, I am excited about that. Also, and this is in no way personal, but E and S can go to their fourteen-millionth birthday party this month without me. Grandma can go. I will provide present, wrapped and ready and Grandma can go. I have no desire to go to yet ANOTHER party. There is an endless stream of aging children out there, people. Somebody needs to FIX IT!
So, come Saturday, I will be footloose and fancy free. Must make it to Saturday. Must make it to Saturday....
And only the hideousness of Halloween stands in my way. I can hear the MWAAHAHAHAH of Dracula now. Spooky.
On the flip side, OnStar clean-up is still a dream, and my house just isn't up to par. Nor is my garden. Or my laundry. Or my car. Or, let's be honest, me or my children. With this cold,I sound like Kathleen Turner. And not kinda foxy War of the Roses Kathleen Turner. More like transgendered Chandler's dad Kathleen Turner from Friends. My head hurts from screaming all the time just to make myself heard, and I'm down to the really old underwear in my drawer because I haven't put away the BASKETS full of clean laundry. (Is that better or worse than having no underwear because it's all dirty?)
My kids are excited to see grandma, but in a spoiled, annoying kind of way. My car smells like Chinese food and spoiled milk sippy cup. My kids seem to generate more laundry than Elton John. And, honestly, I have piles of crap randomly growing around the house.
Additionally, I'm beat. The reason the house isn't all spic and span is because I walked three miles this morning in the freezing cold, which actually took something out of me. I had a beer with dinner, which is having its desired narcoleptic effects, and everyone relevant at my house is either sleeping or at work. So, I'm going to bed at 8:15. I could stay up. But it won't come to that.
So, my mom is coming. But I feel guilty when she comes and does work. Except for babysitting. I do NOT feel guilty about that. So, I won't want to work in front of her, because she wants to help, and I won't let her work, so scratch another week of getting anything done OFF the list.
On the upside, since she is here, M and I are running away to Biloxi for the weekend. It's not Monaco. Hell, it's not even Vegas, but it's away. And child-free. And relaxing. So, I am excited about that. Also, and this is in no way personal, but E and S can go to their fourteen-millionth birthday party this month without me. Grandma can go. I will provide present, wrapped and ready and Grandma can go. I have no desire to go to yet ANOTHER party. There is an endless stream of aging children out there, people. Somebody needs to FIX IT!
So, come Saturday, I will be footloose and fancy free. Must make it to Saturday. Must make it to Saturday....
And only the hideousness of Halloween stands in my way. I can hear the MWAAHAHAHAH of Dracula now. Spooky.
Monday, October 27, 2008
This is OnStar. How May I Help You?
I have an invention. Now I need engineers and big thinkers to make it happen. Actually, it's an improvement on the existing technology of OnStar. Have you heard the ads for OnStar? The car wrecks, and a pleasant voice is beamed into the car, "are you hurt? Emergency vehicles are on the way. I will stay with you until they arrive."
As I left the house today, all the beds unmade, breakfast dishes in the sink, toys on the floor, laundry in Himalayan peaks in the hall, I thought, I could be in a serious accident. This is what my house will look like when I'm bleeding on the side of the road. So, enter my invention. When my car hits a tree, a soothing voice will be beamed into the car. "Are you hurt? Emergency crews are on their way. Maids will be arriving at your house shortly to tidy, wash, take out your trash, put your dirty undies in the hamper, and wipe out your sinks. They will handle the worn pull ups in the bathroom, and make all your beds. Don't worry. I will stay with you."
Otherwise, when the CSI enter my house (the lesser known series CSI: Mobile starring Andy Griffith as chief) this would be the conversation:
CSI Griffith: What do you think?
CSI Delta Burke: Looks like she left in a hurry.
CSI Griffith: Yup, maybe some one else was here. They tore the place up looking for something.
CSI Delta Burke: We got a mystery, dahlin.
CSI Griffith: Or a MYSTERIOUSLY bad housekeeper. (Looks at camera and removes sunglasses)
(Dum de dum.)
So, my new OnStar device will spare me from that embarrassment. I would seriously rather bleed from a nasty head wound than have police see my house as it is now. AND I CLEANED YESTERDAY. No one picks up. E's room look like a bomb went off at the Comic Book Convention. There are Marvel, Transformer, Star Wars, and assorted Other body parts, action figures, and accessories all over. S's room has used (but not dirty) pull ups from yesterday and today on the floor. My room has laundry (clean and dirty) in sorted heaps ready to be washed/put away. My kitchen has suffered from this morning's oatmeal feast and lunch packing activities. Plus, there was a cockroach in my flour this morning, which necessitated an emptying out of that cabinet. As if wiping it all down removes the memory of that giant bug walking around in a nearly-sealed ziploc. *Shiver*
"Ma'am, the maids were wondering if you'd like them to iron. Also, we have contacted Stanley Steamer. Apparently, your carpet is excessively dirty. Do not worry. The nearest Stanley Steamer is only 4 blocks from the site. I will take care of that for you."
Oh. blissful technology.
As I left the house today, all the beds unmade, breakfast dishes in the sink, toys on the floor, laundry in Himalayan peaks in the hall, I thought, I could be in a serious accident. This is what my house will look like when I'm bleeding on the side of the road. So, enter my invention. When my car hits a tree, a soothing voice will be beamed into the car. "Are you hurt? Emergency crews are on their way. Maids will be arriving at your house shortly to tidy, wash, take out your trash, put your dirty undies in the hamper, and wipe out your sinks. They will handle the worn pull ups in the bathroom, and make all your beds. Don't worry. I will stay with you."
Otherwise, when the CSI enter my house (the lesser known series CSI: Mobile starring Andy Griffith as chief) this would be the conversation:
CSI Griffith: What do you think?
CSI Delta Burke: Looks like she left in a hurry.
CSI Griffith: Yup, maybe some one else was here. They tore the place up looking for something.
CSI Delta Burke: We got a mystery, dahlin.
CSI Griffith: Or a MYSTERIOUSLY bad housekeeper. (Looks at camera and removes sunglasses)
(Dum de dum.)
So, my new OnStar device will spare me from that embarrassment. I would seriously rather bleed from a nasty head wound than have police see my house as it is now. AND I CLEANED YESTERDAY. No one picks up. E's room look like a bomb went off at the Comic Book Convention. There are Marvel, Transformer, Star Wars, and assorted Other body parts, action figures, and accessories all over. S's room has used (but not dirty) pull ups from yesterday and today on the floor. My room has laundry (clean and dirty) in sorted heaps ready to be washed/put away. My kitchen has suffered from this morning's oatmeal feast and lunch packing activities. Plus, there was a cockroach in my flour this morning, which necessitated an emptying out of that cabinet. As if wiping it all down removes the memory of that giant bug walking around in a nearly-sealed ziploc. *Shiver*
"Ma'am, the maids were wondering if you'd like them to iron. Also, we have contacted Stanley Steamer. Apparently, your carpet is excessively dirty. Do not worry. The nearest Stanley Steamer is only 4 blocks from the site. I will take care of that for you."
Oh. blissful technology.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
This Week in Mobile
Phew! It's been a crazy week. In short:
Clooney got neutered. He's been miserable, as he also has a yeast infection in his ears and has to wear the stupid cone collar. He had a total system shutdown on Thursday, let out this weird yelp and collapsed. He couldn't lick his crotch OR scratch his ears, and had just given up.
S had two days off school last week. The Jewish Holidays were brutal this year. Too many days off the little synagogue school he goes to. We went to paint a piggy bank at the pottery painting place, we ate out at Wendy's, we ran errands, we were together NONSTOP for two whole days.
E had two early dismissal days. He had parent conferences (which were positive) and a very exciting fall festival at his school. We got to eat lunch together twice also, and had a lot of fun at the school Friday night. Plus, today, he had a birthday party to go to in costume.
I have laryngitis AGAIN. This time is way worse than last week's. I can't speak above a whisper, and that's annoying. I can't even yell at my kids.
Saturday, we had nearly 40 people over at our house for a Halloween party. My kids had a lot of fun, as did we. I hope all of our guests did, too. I was so anxious about it. It's hard for me because I want everything to be so perfect, that I over extend. Should do fewer things better than try to do all the things. Oh, well. I think it was good, in spite of myself. Too bad we had a stinky football day around here.
Yesterday, we carved our pumpkins:
This is E's. It has the Decepticon and Autobot images on it.
Clooney got neutered. He's been miserable, as he also has a yeast infection in his ears and has to wear the stupid cone collar. He had a total system shutdown on Thursday, let out this weird yelp and collapsed. He couldn't lick his crotch OR scratch his ears, and had just given up.
S had two days off school last week. The Jewish Holidays were brutal this year. Too many days off the little synagogue school he goes to. We went to paint a piggy bank at the pottery painting place, we ate out at Wendy's, we ran errands, we were together NONSTOP for two whole days.
E had two early dismissal days. He had parent conferences (which were positive) and a very exciting fall festival at his school. We got to eat lunch together twice also, and had a lot of fun at the school Friday night. Plus, today, he had a birthday party to go to in costume.
I have laryngitis AGAIN. This time is way worse than last week's. I can't speak above a whisper, and that's annoying. I can't even yell at my kids.
Saturday, we had nearly 40 people over at our house for a Halloween party. My kids had a lot of fun, as did we. I hope all of our guests did, too. I was so anxious about it. It's hard for me because I want everything to be so perfect, that I over extend. Should do fewer things better than try to do all the things. Oh, well. I think it was good, in spite of myself. Too bad we had a stinky football day around here.
Yesterday, we carved our pumpkins:
This is E's. It has the Decepticon and Autobot images on it.
This is S's: It has Uniqua and Pablo from the Backyardigans.
They turned out cute. They looked great for the party, but alas, won't last until Halloween. S has a field trip tomorrow to a pumpkin patch and Daddy and I might have to carve again!
We are very lucky that still, in the waning days of October, the temps are in the low to mid 70s and in the full glory of the tropical dry season. The weather is gorgeous every day now. Interestingly, Mobile is one of the wettest (if not THE wettest) city in the United States. Almost all of that average five FEET of water comes in the months from May to November (hurricane season, the wet season). From now until next May, most days will be in the 60s to 70s and sunny and clear. Perfect for the hot tub in the evenings, and light jackets in the mornings. It is the karmic return for sweating through summer.
My mom is coming to visit on Tuesday. Hurray! The boys are excited to see their grandma, Grandma is excited to see her boys, and I am excited! M and are going to spend the weekend in Biloxi. (The economy needs our help. We will be depositing some money in the Beau Rivage casino.) We will get to go out with our friends. Grandma gets to go to the Halloween parade at school, trick or treating, and of course, play with Hot Wheels at 6 AM. Awesome.
I am going to try to return to regular posts. October has been a thin month, I apologize. Hopefully, I will be sending some daily notcinnamon to you starting tomorrow.
By the way, if you did not catch Amy Poehler's (presumably last number. Congrats to her and Will Arnett on arrival of Archie. Perhaps due to this musical number?) last appearance on SNL, you must watch her rap on Sarah Palin.
http://www.hulu.com/watch/39808/saturday-night-live-update-palin-rap
All you Mavericks in the house, raise your hands...
Saturday, October 18, 2008
It's Not Like PreSchool on TV
Ok. Something scary happened to me yesterday. I woke up exceptionally sore from Thursday's work in the garden, which turned out beautiful, by the way:
Hooray! No more weeds. Anywhoosles, I drove the kids to school, washed the car, got Sam dressed, and let him watch the first fifteen minutes of The Wonder Pets. I took him to school, came home, cleaned up, did some laundry, and got ready to shower. I went upstairs, and plopped myself down on the bed to file off a torn fingernail. Filing away, I absently watched Ni-Hao, Kai Lan, which was on Noggin. Here's the scary part--after I finished with my fingers, I sat there and watched the end of the episode. Alone in my room. And wait for it, I had SEEN the episode BEFORE.
So that is frightening, right? Not as scary as if I had actually enjoyed it. But, still. Little Rintoo was not feeling special. I started wondering if I make my kids feel special. And then I was wondering if telling a kid he's special is the same as making him feel special. And then some rhinoceros with a balloon was on the screen, and I was lost. All kinds of big-headed, talking animals populate that show. And Kai Lan has the maturity of a grandma inside a doe-eyed, smartly dressed 3 year old. Then, I was wondering if shows like Kai Lan promote and embrace diversity as much as they purport to. And then, I thought, yes, they probably do: My kids really enjoy Diego and Dora and have learned some Spanish words, and learned about quincineras, and a compassion for animals. And that's diverse, right?
And then I started wondering about Yo! Gabba Gabba! and what blackmail or indiscretion went on to get that show on the air. There is a cycloptic phallus (I wish were joking), a pink thing, a robot, and a green poof. With names like Tofu, Beepob and Solee. There is our host, Lance, a flamboyant guy with a bearskin cap like the guards at Buckingham Palace, only his is yellow, and he wears fake glasses. And a shiny jumpsuit. And we all know why men should not wear jumpsuits. Especially shiny ones.
Even my kids think that show is stupid. How could the same network with Little Bear and its sedate music, and charming stories produce Yo! Gabba Gabba! I mean sure, Little Bear is a little Eurocentric. What with the Victorian costuming, and the nuclear family, and the single bear-family income and conventional maternal role of housekeeping. BUT! I propose that a dancing phallus, a yellow (horribly puppetted) robot and friends who are always screaming at me, who change scenes every fifteen seconds, and have no continuity or transition cannot be good for any child. Do these negative aspects make up for a positive black gay role model? I don't think so. Its messages of diversity and uniqueness are good. The messengers need to be beaten with their own costumes.
Does every show have to have a message? Can't we just entertain ourselves if we watch TV in moderation? I loathe that woman at the beginning of every Noggin show. "This show promotes self awareness, phonics awareness, numeral awareness, animation awareness, and after your child watches it, s/he will be ready for college." If we don't treat Noggin like "preschool on TV" and only watch, say one show per day, does it really HAVE to be a meaningful half hour? Can't it just be a fun half hour?
So, I turn to the Backyardigans. I love the Backyardigans. Pablo, Uniqua, Tyrone, and Tasha play outside with fantastic imaginations, and very little squabbling. They teach us things about the past without being didactic, they have no parental struggles, they are happy in their charming backyards, and have without a doubt, the best lyrics and music of any children's show. There's the memorable number about Pirattitude, or when the Viking-yardigans get stuck in maelstrom and have to hold on tight with all of their Viking-might. Or when they go to ancient Japan and ninjas try to steal their Samurai Pie. Or their terrific rock opera set in medieval times. Or the very entertaining James Bond Super Spy episode (Agent Pablo likes his juice boxes shaken, not stirred). They're great. I love them. Why are there so few episodes? I would not be embarrassed to be found watching them alone. And singing along. Maybe.
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