On the differences between the sexes

The whole man/woman thing has been rehashed over and over. It's not just that men are able to pack for a weekend in a lunch bag, metabolize whole calorie Coke well into their 30s, and ignore a sink full of dishes for days; men are simply DIFFERENT.
I don't know if I'm more tuned into these differences lately, or if the differences are just rising to the surface, but I find myself asking "who are these creatures? Why do I live with them?"
Men are creatures of habit, that's for sure. Those ratty weekend jeans you've been seeing for the last decade? They're not going anywhere. Unless you "help" them find their way to "charity."
Dinner? Bowl of cereal & beef stew. A natural combination.
Home improvements? If it ain't broke, don't upgrade, repair, repaint, enhance, re-do, remodel, or in any way change it.
Foreplay? Boner in the back. Has that EVER worked?
Babysitting = TV.
Getting dressed up? While I'm scheduling an extra 20 minutes for hair and make up, he's adding 5 for shaving and 15 to watch the last half of the game.

And young men are just as foreign. They wrestle, play with themselves, shadow box, and mouth off in ways girls just wouldn't. They're weird. I was completely right when I thought that boys have cooties. They totally do.

Let me make it clear that I'm not complaining. Exactly. I'm certainly not leading the parade of the normal and sane.

I sometimes think it's like a language thing. I'm American English. He's completely impossible to understand New Zealand accent. He's PC and I'm Mac. From his perspective, I'm a neurotic, always cleaning something, wanting to liquidate kids' college savings for a kitchen, pestering, "Do I look fatter today than yesterday?" lunatic. I get that. I am suggesting that it's simply a matter of where the mind goes. Mine veers left, his hangs a u-turn. We're often going the wrong way on a One Way Street. We wave at each other as we proceed in different directions, equally lost.

To express this difference in a nutshell, the following anecdote:
We drive by the, ahem, Gentleman's Club. Sign says: QUARTER MANIA.

Me: wondering if it's possible to get booze for a quarter, and if so, might it be worth it to venture inside? If not that, wondering how a man would put a quarter (instead of paper money) into a performer's G String. I wonder what QUARTER MANIA is.
Him: OHHH. I thought it said QUARTER MAMA...like a midget performer.
Me: And you didn't think THAT was worth commenting on?
Him: Meh.

Midget strippers. He's thinking midget strippers? Who thinks midget strippers...and doesn't check it out?

Friends don't let friends drive with dinner

I know that it seems that I am picking on people with weight issues when I describe the cruise. But, the thing is, nearly all of us have weight issues. What and who I describe is BEYOND indulging in that extra piece of cheesecake. We're talking people who are so large that you could easily divide them into two healthy sized adults. People who are unable to move about freely, and whose health is suffering tremendously because of their weight. They are truly struggling.
These people eschew the dining room on the ship for, apparently, two reasons. One seems to be that they are physically unable to sit in the anchored-down booths in the dining room. Unlike in restaurants, the furniture is bolted to the deck, and so there is little forgiveness when one slides into the booth. Second, and more obviously, is that the portions in the dining room are rather petite. On the Lido buffet, where I found myself (and my kids) several mornings at unholy hours, I watched people eat several breakfasts at a time. People heaped food upon their trays in portions considered hefty for a rhino. I am talking plates of eggs, stacks of pancakes, and chains of sausage links. One night, I happened into the Lido for a late night coffee, and watched people eating a dinner that only barely resembled the one I had eaten some time earlier. For dinner, I had a salad, a soup, 5 grilled shrimp with a boiled potato. That, in itself, is a largish meal. But then, I caught a glimpse of what the people were eating upstairs: I saw a person with no fewer than 20 shrimp on his plate, along with several slices of ham, and 3 pieces of cake! One woman had rigged her personal mobility device (scooter) with a tray so that she could load up on food while driving through the buffet line.
But, my soon-to-be-classic tale of a scooter happened while reboarding the ship in Key West. A woman in front of us boarded on her candy apple red mobility device. She was chatting with her friend who was walking. The friend laid down their purchases (SHOPPING!) on the X-Ray conveyor belt. Ms. Scooter leaned forward, accidentally depressing the forward button on her scooter with her excess flesh, and drove maniacally into her friend, pinning her against the metal detector archway. Friend, apparently, was okay, although it would have been awkward for her to berate Ms Scooter for running her over, so she could have just been polite about it. The officer in charge if the reboarding process admonished Ms. Scooter to drive more carefully. While the whole thing could have been calamitous, it remained only only slightly alarming because no one went overboard or was hurt.
But, Ms. Audi Scooter and her friend have taught me three valuable dieting lessons: Stop eating when you can no longer be bi-pedal. Two: If you don't listen to lesson one, make sure there is a safety on the accelerator. Three: If your friend is Ms. Scooter, don't walk in front of her.

The Un-Tourists

The thing about people who cruise is that they are horrible tourists. They don't WANT to explore their destination. They don't want local food, or culture, or atmosphere. They have found their own perfect vacation: they are transported in a bubble of same-ness, to a "coach" (motor coach is one of my favorite cruise euphemisms. Greyhound Bus is more apt.) of same-ness, to a brief fish-bowl viewing of the local culture, to a coach-y return to the bubble of same-ness. The bubble where Lido buffets allow you to heap food upon your plate without embarrassment, where nearly alcohol-free girlie drinks allow you to act tipsy, and where the water is always drinkable and the bed always made.
Not that I'm complaining. An always-made bed is a novelty to me.
But the final mystery to me about cruisers is shopping. SHOPPING. It's the topic of on-board lectures and seminars, the boom of on-board stores, the heyday of port shops that earn "Cruise Line Approved" status, and the slow churn that keeps local economies afloat. What, oh what, is there to buy in Freeport, Bahamas? Shot glasses and piratey T-shirts, conch shells and starfish, diamonds of questionable provenance, and many cartons of cheap smokes. And nothing screams local like an obese man with a wedgie, wearing dark socks, sandals, and a "Show Me Your Booty" tee.
My favorite woman re-boarded the ship in front of us. Her blistered sunburn, girth, and fanny pack shouted tourist. But her new "BahamaMama" corn rows revealing her snowy scalp and jaunty pirate scarf attempted to proclaim local.
I'm glad she saw a new part of the world. She'll be able to knowledgeably explain to her friends that the Tropic of (skin) Cancer runs through the Bahamas. That latitude requires sunblock. Even in December.

Highlights from a cruise

Day 1: Boarding the ship in a total downpour. The lady at the excursion desk said she hadn't seen lightning like that in 2 years at sea. Always how one wants to start one's vacay. Oh, that and eleven hundred Saints fans pissed that the game won't be televised on board.

Day 2: FunDay at Sea. Everything on Carnival Cruise Lines is supposed to be Fun! FunCasino! FunActivities! FunShips! Fun FUN FUN, mother &*(#$. We will cram fun down your FunThroat. This is the day I spend wandering the boat, totally disoriented. I turn a corner, thinking, "this should be a dining room" and Voila! It is a bar. Fortunately, there are many bars on board and one can always stop for directions. And a drink. My bar tab, incidentally was a sizable proportion of the entire trip's total. I got lost a lot.

Day 3: Key West, Florida. S wisely made the call to stay on board at FunCamp while we went on a FunExcursion. We took a guided tour of the Hemingway Home, led by a guide named Dave who looked alarmingly like Tommy Lee Jones...with permanently tattooed eyeliner. So, more like Tommy Lee Jones and Liberace. He pronounced Hemingway like Himmminway and had this kitsch mannerism that really must be heard to be appreciated. We also visited the "Little White House," which was President Truman's retreat while he was in office. Havanese shirts, male bravado, and all. It was very informative.
I get that Key West is a tourism mecca. That nobody (Except Tour Guide Dave) actually lives there, but Duval Street is really a crime against humanity. Bar after bar, interspersed with totally foul t shirt stores (I got Duval Faced on Shit Street), and unusually named bed and breakfasts "The Love Muscle." E liked the six toed cats at Himminway's house.
Day 3: Free day in Freeport, Bahamas. A lovely day spent on a lovely beach. I always wonder what all those people are shopping for...
Day 4: Snorkeling in Nassau. Ultimate day for me: wake up, get on sail boat. Sail to reef. Snorkel on reef. Get back on boat. Sail home while drinking rum punch. Ahhhh.
Day 5 & 6: FunDays at Sea! The weather on the last day was horrible: driving rain, huge seas, strong winds. But all of that goes away with a nap. And a strong drink. I get the whole Piratey grog thing now.
Anyhoodles, thought I'd rope you in for some generalities. Stories to follow...So good to be home...Stay tuned for more.

Bah Some More

It's just that here's the thing about Christmas time. EVERYONE pretends to like it, but no one will 'fess up and say they're sick of it. Instead, they look aghast, cluck their tongues, and say "My, my. Some one doesn't have the Christmas spirit."

Who has time to have the Christmas Spirit? I have 2 school holiday parties, two end of semester conferences, 3 teacher gifts to contribute to, 1 work party, and friends and friends' kids gifts to buy. Plus, there is the issue of travel, AND I don't even give M or the kids any substantial presents at all. I haven't even begun to mention the presents for my family, which is a small family so I shouldn't even complain.

Christmas Spirit? Let's all wrap ourselves in Victorian stoles and stove pipe hats and go caroling. (Can you schedule that in?) How about going down to a soup kitchen to volunteer? (Time for that?) Maybe donating gifts for a charity? (When to shop?) How about writing (gasp) a letter to some one you haven't spoken to this year? (How about one of those cheezy mass mailings, instead? If we're lucky?)

My favorite development in the course of holiday gifting is the call-and-see-what-the-other-person-wants-or-already-has maneuver. We're all so stocked full of everything under the sun, that now we have to call ahead and check if it's ok if I buy the kids Veterinarian/Super Mom/Medical School Barbie (SHE can do it all, she's plastic!) or if the darlings already have 3. OR, I can call my sister and ask her what she wants. She'll always loves clothes, but is there something she needs MORE? Is there something she WANTS? (She's thinking on it and will call me back.) My mother has called me from Target, Toys R Us, Nordstrom, and Macy's this year. Don't get me wrong--I appreciate her effort to try to get a great gift--I absolutely love it when I get people great gifts. But, the whole gift quest thing is out of control.
We should just write checks, show them to each other and destroy them. Even up. Done and done.

Bah, Hum--Oh, you know what comes next.

That's it. I have HAD it. I have had IT. I ventured out into the retail world once during this lousy holiday season and that was enough.

Spoiler: if you like Christmas and all of its accouterments of guilt, overspending, trite schlock, you're not going to want to keep reading. This means you, Mom.

I had to go to Target today. I did not want to, but a maelstrom of irritating and never-ending holiday obligations drove me there (in my car, which, according to the mechanic, needs new tires. NEW TIRES! At 15,000 miles! I am not going to elaborate on how this announcement might have shaped my mood for the Target visit, or how, when M reads this, he's going to go through the roof, but suffice to say: #%$(*&.)
So, where was I? Right. Target, in a downpour. I am on a mission. I need: small gifts for my children, some party food and alcohol, a seemingly mythical pre-rolled sugar cookie dough for S's school party, and a belt to wear with a very cute sweater dress for aforementioned party.
Pre-rolled sugar cookie dough? I have looked at every grocery store in the city, and in fact, have outsourced this job to my friends who belong to membership warehouse stores. No luck. In pre-cut Christmas shapes? Yes. Not so helpful for the synagogue preschool. Dough in the sausage tube? Yes. Dough in squares that melt to circles? Yes. Dough with reindeer? Yes. Flat dough? No effing way. Sausage tubes it is.
Belt for cute sweater dress? Dress, which is a size medium (small triumph) needs belt, for it hangs like a tent on me. I have already: cute boots, cute tights, cute jewelry. Belt? I want a skinny belt that loops around twice. Apparently, what I want is not in fashion. I settle for wide belt. In order for it to hang appropriately (fashionably?) around my waist, I must buy size...XL? Who in this city could possibly wear the small if I am wearing the XL, I ask myself. Aha, apparently no one. Belt rack is FULL of smalls and mediums. I take the last XL and skulk off.
Liquor? No problem. Love it, know it, want it. Party foods? Archer Farms has it under control.
Toy section: here is where things go horribly out of control. I am wandering through the boys aisles, wondering what-oh-what could my spoiled angels possibly need this holiday season. Do they need a build-it-yourself shoulder cannon? Nope. Do they need a $150 Lego reproduction of the Ewok-occupied Moon of Endorr? Not today. Do they need a $20 box to hold their $30 worth of Bakugan? Considering I have yet to figure out what, exactly, a Bakugan is--Nope.
In my despair, I stand at one of the end displays and ponder my next move. (board games that I will have to play if I purchase? The dread clothing aisle?) A man, who when standing on a reindeer feed bag measures 5'4" at most, wearing world's cheapest Santa outfit (the rayon beard is supershiny, the leatherette belt Velcro straining to cover his false belly, the "boot" shoe covers working about as well as they did on my kids' Halloween costumes), belting "Ho! HO HO!!" walks toward me with an elfin escort. I grab a scrap of paper out of my purse and pretend to be studying a list.
Santa walks up to me, and HOHOHOs into my personal space. I smile politely, feeling my grinchy-stone heart constrict another size too small, and avert my eyes. He offers me a candy cane. "No thanks, I have coffee." My green grinchiness or my stingy Scroogeness must have been seeping through my false smile, because he comes back with this gem:
"These are special. They have Santa dust in them and will give you the Christmas spirit."
OK. What I don't need is the stocking clerk from last night's midnight shift in a rented Santa suit pawning off cheap-ass mini candy canes loaded with Santa dust.
Annoyed, but not yet driven to total rudeness, my only response is, "I'm a grown up." I walk away.
Much like bars prepare food with extra salt to make you buy more beer, I suspect "Santa's Dust" contained some sort of impulse control inhibitor to make me want to buy the $150 Ewok Lego Extravaganza.
I DON'T LIKE CHRISTMAS.
Since when did this become a deficiency? A diagnosis? Christmas is a pale imitation of what it once was. I mean, talk about your devolution: Holy Night, Divine Baby, Santa, the general adoption of the word"holidays," and now the final insult of Stock Boy Larry and his individually wrapped candy canes?
This holiday has been foisted upon me since Halloween, I am burned out, sick of it, overwhelmed, uninterested, and over it. I want to buy my kids a couple of small, overpriced pieces of Made In China Crap and be done with it all.
Where's my freaking egg nog?

Muppets and the Electric Kool Aid Acid Test

I've written about children's TV programming before: my confusion about Oswald the Above Ocean Octopus, Wow Wow Wubzy, the giant phallus of Yo! Gabba Gabba!. Apparently, for the last seven years, a show has been stealthily lurking under my radar. A show so strange that it cowered in its early time slot, lest I discover it. A show that left me shaking my head in confusion.
Jack's Big Music Show.
Or, as I would have called it: Muppets Take Acid.
This is Ms. Piggy on drugs. The puppetry is dizzying. The lips of the puppets move so quickly, that Marlee Matlin, were she to be interested in Muppets on Acid, would be convinced they were speaking another language. And that they were on fast forward. Also, and this is something the talented Ms. Matlin would not notice, is that these crazy-fast talking puppets are SCREAMING AT ME ALL THE TIME.
I hate being screamed at. I hate it, hate it, hate it. Why can't they have a normal conversation? Why do these puppets have to jibber jabber all at the same time, all desperate to be heard over the scream of another, so that like some kind of verbal cold war, everything escalates to super loud atomic screaming? WHY, I ASK YOU?
Then, of course, are the psychedelic colors of said Muppets. All of them are multi-toned, fuschia, cobalt, electric yellow, shocking chartreuse, every color bolder and louder than the next to contribute to the overall sense of chaos on the show. And there aren't just a couple of little ratlings. Scads of puppets fill every shot, such that one wonders if they could all possibly have names and identities. I suspect that Oswald the Eight Legged Octopus and his octo-pod friends are required to be the puppeteers. How is there room under that set for 16 people and their frantically waving puppet-mittened arms? Is this why the puppets have to be centimeters away from the camera? There's just not enough room on the set, so the one who is YELLING the loudest has to be doing so directly AT the camera? Why is this androgynous Muppet up in my grill at this hour?
The background, too, is obnoxious. Bright pink walls are pasted with miniature fake musical instruments. The impression is pell-mell insanity, as though set decorations are the work of a Charles Manson and Dizzie Gillespie lovechild. Awful.
Finally, the show relies on a gimmick that is one of my (many) pet peeves. Elmo does this, too, and it has chapped my hide for years: the characters turn on their own fake TV. Really? We need the metafictive device of children watching puppet children watching TV? Holy crap, Sesame Street and this drug-infested, rat occupied tree house of Jack are some complicated fictional worlds.
So, the zany neon yellow Muppet turns on a TV that seems to be powered by accordions. (I wish I were making this up.) We are taken to some poorly digitized world where 8 or so singers (who desperately wish they HAD slept with that recording studio executive all those years ago, because maybe then their careers would not have led them to Jack's den of hallucinations) are dancing and playing a quasi-rock song. But, the thing is, the singers look like a combination of Jonas Brothers and Pussy Cat Dolls. The females are dressed in red rubberized trench coats and green wigs, and Jonas #1 is wearing human sideburns emerging from a fuscia afro. (Again, all true.) Their song, dubbed so poorly that the visual song and the auditory song are contrapuntal and disorienting, seems to be about super spies and private eyes. Which sounds like it should be a Kim Carnes Top 40 hit of the early 80s. Jonas #2 is talking about bronzing the super sleuth's shoe? And asserts that the whole place is lousy with clues? Does that rhyme with I'm so effing confused?
Anyhoodles, after that musical number within a musical number, I grew weary and left S alone with the close-talking Muppets. Never again will the TV be tuned to that station before Toot and Puddles comes on. Ever. Again. I can handle globe-trotting piglets.

Butter's Good

Every August, the Discovery Channel airs Shark Week. Invariably, the producers of a show do something absolutely ridiculous, like pulverize an entire herd of sheep and dump the chum into the water to see what happens. Generally, an armada of bullet-headed sharks arrive out of nowhere and turn the camera man's shark cage into a frothing, chaotic feeding frenzy. The narrator describes how the sharks go out of control, occasionally chomping at steel fragments of the shark cage or fiberglass sections of the research vessel, completely disoriented and eating everything in a fantastic orgy of food.
Every November, there is Thanksgiving. Americans, already fattened to the brink of physical boundaries find themselves at tables laden with more food than most countries will ever see. Passing, grabbing, stuffing, gorging on food that barely registers on the taste buds. I am pretty sure that at our table, some one passed the butter, and while it was temporarily in his hands on the way to the naked dinner roll, he just went ahead and ate some of the butter. Plain. Because, hey, it was there, and this is the day we eat, dammit.
But, my parents were here. And that is a first for us. In all the years of my marriage, we have always gone to my parents' house. Although my sister and her husband were at his family's house this year (hehe), my kids were here, my husband was here, my parents were here. It was Thanksgiving Dinner at Our House. Things are always different at my house when my parents are here.
This was an ACTUAL conversation between my kids and my mother last night:
Scene: family room, Hot Wheels strewn all over, nearly comatose adults watching football, kids actively playing and begging for dessert. Adults represent a chorus as in the tradition of the Greek Theater.
S: Can we have dessert? I'm hungry.
Adults: Moan. Don't talk about food.
E: What do we have for dessert?
Grandma: Lemon cake.
S: Ew. I hate lemon cake. (S hates everything right now, and has not even had lemon cake. For the record.)
Adults: Too much food. Don't talk about food. Was that pass interference?
G: There is rainbow sherbet in the fridge.
S: Oooh. Yum.
Grandma rises and serves ice cream to the children. Children go off to kitchen to eat ice cream.
One Adult to the next: I think I might have eaten butter. Like plain. Off the butter dish.
Adult #2 responds: Yeah, I heard about that.
Grandma, from family room: Kids!?!? Please hurry and eat your ice cream so I can clean up your cars.
Kids: But what about the lemon cake?!!?
Grandma: You can have the lemon cake after you help me clean up your mess.
Kids: Oh, man. That's not fair.
Grandma cleans family room.
Kids watch.
Adults: First Down! Off sides! Penalty! Kick! Score!
Kids return to kitchen to eat lemon cake.
Grandma retreats to kitchen to serve it to them.
Adults remain on couch.
Grandfather: You know, the kids have been fairly well behaved this week.
Parents: It's tough for them when grandma is around. What with having to supervise the cleaning in between desserts. The Pilgrims had it easy compared to my kids.
Adult #1: Was that butter or some kind of margarine? I'm just asking, what with my cholesterol.
Adult #2: Nope. Butter.
Adults, as one: Too much food. Stop talking about food.
Curtain.

Update

NotCinnamon will be taking this week before Thanksgiving off. But don't worry. My family is visiting, so there should be PLENTY of new stuff on Friday. Thanks!

Catalogue Season

'Tis the season to be buried under a deluge of catalogs each day at the mailbox. All I can think about when I open the box is, !!The beautiful forests!!

But, of course, I go inside and pore over the "magazines" with the greatest attention. I thought I'd save you the trouble and identify some of this season's sure-to-be-best sellers, as well as let a few close friends get a glimpse of what they might expect to receive from me this holiday season.


From Wireless:

"The Complete Writer's Kit" Step by step directions, inspiration and advice. Contains a guideline to be published in Six Months or Less (caps theirs) and a 52 card deck for fighting writers block.

As I am married to a writer, and became friends with many writers during his six years of training to hone his writing skills, I thought this would be a hoot to send to him and all his writers friends who are supremely talented and struggling to get their voices heard during this time of economic downturn and vampire fetishism.



From Fresh Finds:

I am torn between the Snuggie and the Slanket. "The Slanket combines the warmth of a plush and cozy blanet and the comfort of your favorite robe. Eat read write...all without the Slanket slipping off!" The Snuggie, on the other hand, "is the best way to relax without feeling restricted...it boasts over sized sleeves that leaves hands free to use a laptop, talk on the phone, read...even enjoy a snack. One size fits most." Most? What gargantuan hippo cannot fit into a Snuggie?

And if I ever want to know why one size only fits most, I have only to look through the rest of the catalogue: specially designed pans create edible bowls (from the Cookie Monster school of etiquette), Hershey's s'more maker (when the fireplace and/or microwave won't do the job), automatic cookie press, edible dessert bowls, devilled egg transporter, 101 Things to do with a Tortilla cookbook, dumpling mold and recipe book, microwave bacon cooker, scone maker, 32 ounce cereal bowls (I wish I were kidding), a bagel guillotine (sadistic French), and a cereal server that promises to serve cereal faster (than the open the box and pour into 32 ounce bowl technique that I've been using all these years?). Indeed, a veritable cornucopia of useless things that will make us fat (ter).

Of course, I got my Heifer International catalogue. This, couple with the World Wildlife Fund catalogue make me feel even guiltier for browsing through the crapalogues. I can adopt a goat in sub-Saharan Africa in your name that will provide milk and income for a small village....or I can get your dog a Slanket. Hmmm. The thing is, goats are a bitch to wrap.

From the luxury end markets, I got a Tiffany's holiday catalog. This year's Tiffany's gifts seem remarkably fiscally responsible. Even Tiffany's is subject to the economic whims of the time: the most expensive item I could find in it this year was a $23,000 watch. Although, I concede this is a pricey timepiece considering the band is leather.
Grandinroad offers holiday decorations with "decorator looks." You can get thematically unified fake trees. This year, bright pink trees with turquoise balls seem very popular. SO natural. $15 will get you gift wrap for a bottle of wine. I especially like the half-trees for sale: faux trees are cut in half vertically and save space, while remaining the room's centerpiece. Ah, nothing says Christmas like half a fake tree. For $59 more, you can buy a bag to store it in.

From Solutions: a clever way to wrap money gifts. (Apparently, stuffing cash in a card was to easy) A kit for $7.95 includes 2 buttons, a fake 2 dollar bill, and instructions for folding a bill into the shape of a shirt. Go ahead and give the person the extra $7.95 shoved in the card. For dog lovers, there is a board game for dogs: "Funagle is the interactive game that asks the question, 'what can you get your dog to do?'" Unless the answer is, "my laundry," then I am not interested in what my dog can do.

Don't get me wrong. I WILL be doing my holiday shopping online. I WILL probably buy something from one of these catalogues.

BEWARE.

Blogspot and I are having difficulties. Itt won't let me correctmi stakes or edit right now. I will try to post later.

My vacuum bites the dust

Apparently, my current infatuation with my pressure washer has angered my other home appliances. Their jealousy prompts them to act out in outrageous ways: burnt Eggos, leaky fridge, shrunken pants. Bummer.
But one appliance has taken this way too far.
I have a beloved vacuum. Its purchase represented the first time I didn't go to Target and buy the cheapest vacuum on the shelf. It was a Significant Purchase. Dyson Animal. It just sounds fierce. Plus, its purple and turquoise fun-ness puts me in the Miami Vice mood every time I use it. I can do that Phil Collins drum move from the theme song with the cleaning wand.
Its genealogy of 1000 prototypes has served it well. Distinguished British heritage, never loses suction, distinctive cousin of the highly effective Airblade hand dryer, all well tested and proven.
My Dyson has been through it all--dumped out houseplants, coffee grounds, spilled baby talc, disemboweled stuffed animals--and yet it still sucks up Legos with no trouble.
Until yesterday.
Yesterday, I was changing the filter (a very necessary part of maintenance and use, per my manual) and a deceptively important piece of the vacuum broke off. Now, the filter doesn't lock into place, and when its never lose suction five cyclone sucker turns on, the crap it sucks blows right out the side.
That's not good.
This is tragedy. Now, I don't know what to do. Do I rebuild the built in vac for my house at God knows what price? Do I buy a new Dyson Animal? Do I invest money in getting this one fixed since it has served me well for nearly a decade? Is it time to move on? Oh, appliance gods of the world, help me seek the answer to my question!
I am setting up a poll. Please vote to help me decide what to do.
http://www.dyson.com/store/product.asp?product=DC28-ANIMAL
Fare thee well, you served me loyally, and I shall miss you.

As we progress out of mourning, here are some other options:
Canister Vacuum (medium grade)
http://www.dyson.com/store/product.asp?product=DC23-MOTORHEAD-US

Or, replace with a more compact model since I no longer have a lot of carpeting:
http://www.dyson.com/store/product.asp?product=DC25-ALLFLOORS

Or, replace with same model we are mourning.

Please vote and help me commune with the appliance gods.

Power tool porn

Sometimes, the fantasy doesn't live up to the reality.
For instance, I am sure George Clooney would cheat on me, and despite our fantastic good looks and fame, we would be miserably unhappy and I would have to sneak cookies past my Pilates instructor, chef, and nutritionist, and then I would feel guilty, and I'd have to go shopping in Italy to assuage my guilt, and then, I would have to buy something for George to make up for the enormous amount of money I'd spent, so I would jauntily jet back to the Villa at Lake Como with a beautiful gift like a Doucati, and have to apologize for my naughtiness and he would forgive me and we would spend the evening together admiring our beauty and watching reruns of Bones on TV in our deliciously soft hotel quality linens.
OK. So, maybe that fantasy has some possibilities.
But there are other disappointments. The fantasy of children is nowhere near the reality. The children don't just drop by in their perfect pajamas, smelling sweet, to kiss us goodnight. They're here all the frickin' time. And they're noisy and want stuff, and ew.
I read today in the Wall Street Journal, courtesy of a posting on Facebook, that bamboo fabric is basically rayon viscose. It is chemically engineered, and must undergo an incredibly toxic process to become a fiber, and is not ecological at all, or biodegradable, or even luxurious. It's pretty much the same stuff as my pretty pink Barbie nightie from when I was four. Disappointment. (Thanks, MS, for the reference).
Porn, too doesn't always work out as planned. In theory, your man is going to find it hot, and you are going to find it hot, and there you'll be, all bothered and desperate for each other and suddenly your sex life will be invigorated and perfect. But what really happens is that the plot is ridiculous and the dialogue so hideously bad that you take turns mocking it. And then, in a close-up, the high def TV reveals the worst complexion any woman has ever had, and all you can think of is the horrific rashes that STDs cause, and then you're both revolted, and turned off, and you turn on football, put your fuzzy socks back on, and try to forget the whole thing ever happened.
Running is a fantasy I occasionally indulge. I'll be all lithe and smooth while out there running in my (of course, new) running clothes. And this time will be different than the last, because I'm in the right place for running. And, I take my ipod and whip my hair into a stubby little pony tail, and take off down the street. And like 200 yards later, I have a stitch, and I've tripped like 4 times on cracks on the sidewalk in front of a crowded stoplight, and I run something like Phoebe from Friends, and the whole thing is best done in private on the treadmill at a speed more approximating a walk.
But today, TODAY. I pressure washed the carport, and oh, it was as good as I imagined. I broke down and bought an electric washer, which is inferior to gas in terms of psi, but superior in terms of storage and loudness, and I put it to use. I washed and bleached the trash can, the recycle bins, the kids plastic outside toys, the steps, the concrete, the decomposing hot tub, EVERYTHING. It's all gleaming. A terrific success. Nothing is stinky or dustbunnied, or leafy, or spiderwebby. It's all just clean. And my feet are pruny, and my pants are soaked, but lo, the carport is clean. And the magical washer has found its place in the shed for the next time I need it to work its wonders of cleanliness. My pressure washing fantasy has been fulfilled.

Thank a veteran, send your kid to school

Well, fake Hurricane Ida breezed through. And I got rid of one child--I mean one of my angels went back to school today (sniff.) The other one is home in honor of Veterans' Day. This day, while clearly only a token of appreciation to everyone who serves in the military, is a mystery to me.
First, it is mispunctuated to the point of ridicule. Veterans' Day=day to honor all veterans. Veteran's Day=day to honor one veteran. The entire universe needs a refresher on the use of the apostrophe, and how a) to use it with plural/singular agreement and b) it has nothing AT ALL to do with plurals.
Second, veterans everywhere have most often transitioned to non-military jobs. They are doctors, lawyers, firefighters, engineers, professionals and non professionals alike. MOST OF THOSE PEOPLE ARE WORKING TODAY. A few veterans who went into the Postal Service are stoked, and those who became bankers are good, but the rest of them are WORKING. What the hell kind of holiday is that? S is not in school (he's too young to even enlist, although I have considered compulsory service in a military academy). How does sitting at home and watching cartoons today honor veterans? M is working, and many of his non-traditional students have served in the armed forces. They're going to school.
Don't get me wrong. I am all about honoring veterans. But is canceling school and offering free breakfast at restaurant chains what we had in mind?
Before I digress into a totally political tirade (of which most would agree, so why preach to the choir?) let me just say, I would like to honor veterans by sending BOTH of my children to school. Watching a giant-headed octopus trying to catch a firefly with his tremendously stumpy and disproportionate arms really isn't a salute to the ultimate sacrifice. (Translation for non-parents: S is watching Oswald, an "educational" cartoon voiced by Fred Savage.)
Unless today is ALSO International Parents' Day. Which of course, would never be celebrated by allowing children home from school. Instead, it would involve hordes of babysitters in everyone's homes, chauffering services, launderers and work substitutes, and lots and lots of martinis. Which, come to think of it would be a nice way to let vets take the day off, too.
Don your poppies and your yellow ribbons, and hug a veteran today.
Even if you have your kids in tow.

Weather Day Rules

Unexpected days home are even worse than weekend. First, kids expect everything to be a giant amusement park. I should relax all rules, guidelines and expectations. Second, I have no plans for them. I was taken off guard, don't want them here, and can't send them outside. Even if it has completely stopped raining, I think it is poor form to allow children to play outside if school has been canceled due to weather.
In fact, the rules are more stringent on unexpected days off: I am adopting a punish first, ask questions second policy.
There will be no:
bickering
poking
pestering
bothering
whining
wrestling
fighting
needling
throwing
running
arguing
disobeying
disrupting
sassing
ignoring
touching
groping
yelling
skipping
screaming
being uncooperative
confronting
debating
OR
in any other way annoying me today.

Any infractions will result in death.
Immediately.

From WeatherChannel

Weathergirl, NotCinnamon: I'm standing here in the rain, Anchorman Joe. It's raining.
Anchorman Joe: So, WNC, is it raining there?
WNC: Yes, Joe. It IS raining here. And it is also supposed to be windy.
AJ: IS it windy?
WNC: No, Joe. It is raining.
AJ: It sounds awful.
WNC: It IS awful. Mobile is canceling schools because it is raining.
AJ: That sounds like a good precaution, WNC. I mean, you never know WHAT can happen when you mix children and rain.
WNC: You betcha, Joe. Kids could get wet. Or splash in puddles. Or get wet. And I bet there's a tie-in to Swine Flu somewhere here, Joe.
AJ: So, to summarize, it's raining and schools are closed.
WNC: Yup.
AJ: Thank you for that information. What will children be doing since there is no school on Tuesday now, WNC?
WNC: Well, I suspect they will be driving their mothers insane. They won't be able to play outside because of aforementioned rain, and cable may be out because of the (you know) RAIN, and those houses with DirecTV will be absolutely screwed. And, of course, those children who are ALSO out for Veterans' Day will be driving their parents insane for a midweek weekend, as it were.
AJ: Surely, that sounds like a plan, WNC. Those children are resourceful, and thank goodness they won't have to sit in dry classrooms when it is raining out.
WNC: Indeed, Joe.
AJ: So, what will mothers be doing while the remnants of the remnants of Ida rain down upon us?
WNC: Well, Joe, according to my sources, the mothers will be drinking heavily, regardless of the time of day. Indeed, since it is dark and cloudy, it might as well be 5 PM.
AJ: Mothers certainly aren't as resourceful as children. But, let's hope that plan works for them. I mean rain isn't something to be taken lightly.
WNC: Sure isn't, Joe. It is both wet and wet.
AJ: Well, we hope for everyone's sake, that everyone survives the rain.
WNC: We have heard from our sources that it is very likely that everyone will survive the rain, but that it is entirely possible that children and/or their mothers might not survive being inside for the next two days.
AJ: Indeed. Thank you for mentioning that, WNC. That is certainly one of the under-mentioned tragedies of rain.
WNC: Indeed, Joe. Tragic.
AJ (shaking his head): Tragic. Rain. Remnants of remnants of a hurricane. Tragic.

Don't move it like that, or, Why I have so few friends

Cici calls me today and tells me this horrible saga about a near-accident in the Megamart parking lot today. And she tells me (me, of all people!) that she worries she lacked compassion for the party involved in the story.
Compassion. Clearly, Cici calls me because she subconsciously wants reaffirmation in the lack of compassion department. She could have called Hitler and received lessons in compassion. But, no. She called me.
I consider my weakness in compassion to be genetic. Ironically, I would say, my sister and I have adopted a zero tolerance policy toward humanity. No Three Strikes. No mulligans. No exceptions. If you somehow demonstrate weakness, frailty, or incompetence you might as well forget it. If you can't accept your failure with grace and a martini, well then, we're not interested in your story. Don't come to us for compassion. Being the daughters of a shrink, I think I speak for both of us when I say our lack of compassion can be traced back to childhood. My parents, polar opposites on the compassion scale, treated us with either doting love or a shrug and a word about gumption. "If it hurts when you go like this, don't go like this." (I am not sure if this is related to my sister's subsequent hypochondria, but it would be an interesting sideline.)
So Cici's freaked out driver was traumatized by a non-near-accident, and couldn't pull herself together. Now, I say. You don't need to call the woman's family. She accepts potential risks of driving by driving. No one was hurt, nearly hurt, or even sort of nearly hurt and neither were their vehicles. So. Pull yourself together, woman, and move on.
Everyone feels as though they are the center of their own universe. And here we are, carrying our giant universes around like bubbles around us. And if that disproportionately huge universe receives a nick (maybe because it was soo huge), everyone freaks. We need to reduce our universes to solar systems, and insulate ourselves a little less. There are plenty of people on this planet who need our compassion, I'm thinking that some one owning an automobile and driving through the MegaMart parking lot is not high on the global list. And yes, I think compassion should be meted out on a relative amount. Compassion is related to deep sorrow and tragedy.
Now, the next time I come whining to you about how I gained four pounds, hand me a martini and say, "stop eating."

Ten reasons why parenting bugs me today

I'm not what I would call vain. Especially. Or maybe I am, but no more so than before I had kids. Obviously, I've let some things slide. My size 4s are in the rear view mirror, as are perfectly retouched highlights. Make up? Oh, that stuff I put on before going out to dinner with grown ups. Or to the OB appointment. Blow dryer? Yeah, I own it, but it smells like fire when I turn it on, so I never get a total 'do.
But things have reached rock bottom. And tonight I draw the line. My pedicure is an abomination. The paint is all peely and chipped. The cuticles are dry and flaky. My heels? I could probably walk on hot coals these days. Bad, bad news.
I don't know what happened. Back when time was mine, dinner did not have the prefix Mac-, and the only thing that woke me on the weekends was lunch, my pedicure would NEVER have gotten this bad. I would have a pro do it on my lunch breaks, or I would do it during a football game on the weekend.
I used to do so many things, back when I had time. M and I would buy books about walks to take in our region. When we lived in Baltimore, we would go to Amish Country, or to Washington, or to Annapolis. We tried new restaurants. When we lived in Toronto, we took Maddie to the parks, go apple picking in the fall, go antique-ing, try new restaurants. And way, way, back, in Evanston, we'd go to football games, long campus walks, and try new restaurants.
A new franchise of Chic-Fil-A does not count as a new restaurant, the kids whine after one lap around the cul de sac, and I can't think of my last day trip adventure (that didn't involve a zoo, or a themed musical number, or a kids' museum). What the hell happened?
My toes are just a symptom of the invasive and corrosive nature of parenting. My time, gnawed and nibbled upon, is a fraction of what it once was. My thought process, once linear and coherent, now rambles and zig zags depending on who is demanding what loudly in to which ear. I move to abolish the phrase "can I?" from my children's lexicon. My ability to recall names, dates, events--poof. Gone. I need a Garmin Navigator for my own brain.
Is my time filled with the wonder and charm of childhood? Sadly, no. Surely, there are adorable moments. And I hold on to those like Kate Winslet to a floatie. Those moments sustain us, because the bulk of the time is filled with "don't touch your brother." "Keep your hands to yourself." "Don't push your brother" and then, at full volume "I TOLD YOU TO KEEP YOUR HANDS TO YOURSELF!!!!!!!" And then they cry. Like it's my fault! I asked nicely. Three times. And then, then they look at me with those giant Puss-N-Boots eyes, one giant tear streaming down their cheeks, and say, "you don't have to yell, Mommy."
Crap. I just can't win.
It's not that a perfect pedicure would fix this. In fact, no one ever even sees my toes because all I ever do is shuttle the kids around in the car. BUT, just the IDEA of a pedicure matters at this juncture. The idea of having the time to carefully tend to myself seems like a bigger luxury than it actually is. (Let's be honest, the cardboard diet still hasn't flattened my stomach enough to let me see my own toes, so I could ignore them). But, the idea of warm water, soaking feet, scented lotions. Ahh.
I could be doing that right now. But instead, I am going to spell check this, and then go up to bed. Luxury Smuxury.

Ten days on the radar

I don't want to alarm you, but Friday, among the discounted Halloween bins, there was (brace yourself) a whole lotta Christmas crap.
My sister and her husband, Type A Extraordinaires, phoned me from an actual store (not their office, in front of the computer) to verify Hanukah gifts for my kids.
The grocery store had a sign urging me to order holiday hams now.
No.
I refuse.
I decline to be shuttled from holiday to holiday by the retail Powers That Be. I don't want to be immersed in the list-making, last minute shopping, teacher gift forgetting chaos that is the holidays. IN NOVEMBER.
I don't want anything ahead of me except Veteran's Day. That is 10 days from now. I will put on a poppy, tie a yellow ribbon, and pay respect to the honorable veterans of this and other countries. I can do that. I can feel in control for a ten day plan ahead schedule.
I might even go so far as to be able to look to November 19th, when my parents come to town. I can think of the things that need cleaning, and the organizing to do.
That's it. My limit. 2 weeks and 4 days.
Damn you, stock market expectations for retailers. Stupid shop-ahead-and-save sales. Ridiculous buy buy buy mentality. There are literally shelves full of Snuggies for Pets with signs plastered everywhere: makes a great gift!!!!!! (Exclamation marks not mine.)
Just to let you know, if you ARE going to the stupid shop-ahead-and-save sales, or ARE of the buy buy buy mentality: don't buy me a Snuggie for Clooney. He has fur, like all lovable pets (who wants a bald chihuahua?), and doesn't need a blanket, much less a blanket with sleeves, since he doesn't read, or do crosswords, or use the remote control, and therefore doesn't need his paws free.
Snuggies DO NOT make great gifts!!!!!! (Exclamation marks mine.)
SO. I am breaking out my inner Scrooge in concert with the ever-earlier Christmas Marketing Extravaganza. I will not be proceeding into the holiday melee until Hanukah or Christmas (whichever comes first) is 2 weeks and 4 days away.
Until then, have an emotionally appropriate Veteran's Day.

All Hallow's Over

Halloween is theoretically a holiday for children. We know this because it is a holiday set up with a two sided power structure. Us vs. Them. Kids vs. grown ups. Pros vs. Cons. It is the only holiday that comes with built in arguments.
Can I wear this ghoulish freaky costumes with weeping wounds and dangling eyeballs?
No.
Can I arm myself to the teeth and bring 45 different types of knives, assault weapons, scythes, lasers, swords, blasters, and daggers to school for the costume parade?
No.
Can I roam the streets of this town at night, clad entirely in black knocking on strangers' doors by myself?
No.
Can I eat my weight in candy, including the disgusting year-old Werther Originals that the octogenarian neighbor fished out of the candy dish on her coffee table because she forgot to turn out the lights on the front porch and therefore wasn't expecting trick-or-treaters?
No.
So, we go around and 'round over the freaking Halloween crap. And I realize that only a child could get excited about this stupid holiday. But, no.
I've seen grown adults with glow in the dark skeleton earrings. Not small ones, either. Giant, shoulder-grazing skeleton earrings.
Patchwork sweatshirts. My Christmas favorite, theme clothing, also seems to have a significant Halloween constituency. Black gingham cats on purple t-shirts. Embroidered witches with witticisms like, "just wait 'til I get my broom!" Knitted sweaters with pockets. Flashing necklaces.
This doesn't even begin to cover the issue of adult costumes. Which I refuse to address because of my denial.
But the thing is, last night I got 3 trick-or-treaters. THREE! So, if this is a holiday for kids, and their grown ups are equally enthusiastic, where the hell were all the kids? Next year, I am going to tell my boys that trick or treat has been canceled, and I'll give them the giant bag of candy I usually buy for trick-or-treaters, we'll watch TV, hang a black sheet over the door so no one knows we're home, and just be done with the whole damn thing.
Argument over. Thankfully, so is the holiday. And I don't have to worry about it again until the costume catalogs come in the mail next August.

This plan does nothing to relieve me of a giant bag of candy that is specifically not permitted on the cardboard diet. Milk Duds, anyone?

May the Force (and dryer sheets) be with you

Just before bedtime tonight, S came running down the stairs in clothes completely different than a) the ones he wore to school b) the ones he changed into after school (why?) or c) the pajamas he was supposed to have put on for bed.
He was wearing a brown Chewbacca shirt with brown sweats, and desperately searching for his lightsaber. He blew by me, as I was folding laundry, headed for the playroom. He ignored the heaps of crap on the floor and humped on to the couch, removed one of the cushions, peered into the behind-the-sofa-cushion chasm of mystery and looked disappointed. "What's up?" I ask, suspiciously. "Where's my lightsaber?" S asks, accusingly. First of all, what do I want with a lightsaber. Second of all, what kind of psycho specific memory recalls that a lightsaber was at one point between the sofa cushions and the place where popcorn kernels go to die? Third of all, why does a third costume change of the day require lightsabers?
This development will require more questioning.
"Um. Why do you need a lightsaber?"
"OK. If you don't have the lightsaber, do you have a brown marker?"
Trying to squelch the panic in my voice, I start mental math. Brown outfit, brown marker, lightsaber. What do these things have in common? Brown....outfit....lightsaber....marker? Outfit...lightsaber...brown...marker? Is he a Jedi UPS delivery guy? What the hell was going on here?
"Why do you need a brown marker?"
"I need to draw a beard."
Alarm sounding.
"On what?"
"Me."
"OK. You see, we SO don't need to be doing that. Why do you need a beard?"
"Who am I?"
Trick question. Jedi UPS delivery guy is probably not the answer. But Jedi has to be right. Nobody but comic book nerds and Jedi carry lightsaber. And poor S hasn't figured out just how not far Star Wars is going to take him with the ladies.
"A Jedi?"
"Which Jedi?"
Jedi with a beard. Not Samuel L. Jackson. Alec Guiness? Beard. Ewan Macgregor? Beard. Liam Neeson? Beard. Shit. No help here. Random guess.
"Obi Wan?"
"Yes. The brown is like the cape and the pants. And I need a beard and my lightsaber. I want to show E and Dad."
"Great costume. They'll love it. Without the brown marker, right?" Slight threat in the voice. "And after they see it, the costume goes back in the drawer because it's clean, right?"
"Yah, yah. ya...." the voice trails off as he goes racing through the kitchen in search of brother, dad, and lightsaber.
I go back to folding laundry, and realize that tomorrow I will be folding Obi Wan's worn for 2 minutes sweatpants and teeshirt. Because there is no Force in the galaxy that is going to get that outfit back in the drawer.

Reach out and touch some one

Yesterday, I talked with a couple who were our best friends from Columbia, MO and are now our best long distance friends.
Not really significant in and of itself, but the conversation was striking to me in a couple of ways. First, I realized what great phone etiquette WB has. Not only did he ask about us, listen earnestly, and laugh at my jokes (perhaps most important of all), he put his wife, EI on the phone to speak as well. It seemed old fashioned sort-of. Like in the black and white TV shows when the whole family huddled around the rotary phone to participate in the rare long distance call. But it was lovely, and a rarity that I could chat with both partners of a couple. In this world of caller ID and personal cell phones, I never call some one's house and talk to the members of the household. My sister, who doesn't have a landline, often talks about this. If her husband's father calls, he calls her husband, they chat and they hang up. She could go weeks without talking to him. However, if there were a landline, most times, she would pick it up, chat for a moment and then put her husband on the line. With caller ID, we NEVER talk to people we don't want to, or people who we assume are calling for other members of our household. So, I chatted with both EI and WB about their individual careers, their individual relationships with their new pets, and I enjoyed it very much.
The second thing that really struck me was how misled we are by social networking sites. EI and WB post daily to their Facebook pages, and WB maintains a very compelling blog. I feel as though I'm pretty au courant about their goings on. And yet, talking to them in person was like looking through a clearer lens. I realize how inadequate FB is. Certainly, it is a great advance in keeping tabs on friends, and will probably (thankfully) obviate the need for live high school reunions, (Will this singlehandedly kill the diet products industry?) but isn't true social interaction. It doesn't offer the richness of some one's conversation. LOL doesn't cover WB's hearty laugh, which has always been one of my favorites or EI's perfect diction and grammar (which are art form in this day and age). Social networks are certainly a well-covered topic in the media and blogosphere, but this one little incident reminds me to pick up the phone, call a friend and make an actual appointment for lunch or coffee.
And though it wasn't really my favorite part of the film, the second half of Wall-E really does present us with life dominated by social networking. Rather than devolve down that road, I'm going to look out the window, make a phone call, write a letter, and reach out to my friends in real ways. A pre-new year's resolution. Coffee, anyone?

The Perfect Storm

A confluence. A merging of all things evil in my current reality. A convergence in the Force. An assembly of assailants. An unholy throng of cruel mini-tragedies.
There is only so much one person, under-medicated, hungry, and sober, can withstand.
Friday, in desperation, I ate real food. Small quantities, so as to not be crippled with guilt. Still, an official departure from my diet. But, oh, sweet delicious freshness. Texture and flavors performed Swan Lake on my palate. For lunch, I had grilled chicken with carrots, lettuce and tomatoes. Not long ago, this would have been an ordinary experience. But on Friday, it was a delightful culinary experience. And Friday evening, given that M had to work later than expected, and had firmly declared a "no-pizza" night, we met at Longhorn Steakhouse for dinner. I ordered with my dinner, a take out box, and promptly put half of everything in it before I even started to eat. But, oh, the salty, meaty, Caesar salad-y, mashed potato taste explosion in my mouth. The sensual texture of silky potatoes and tender red meat and oh, how everything had its own flavor and color. The sweet, gorgeous color of it all! Nothing was vaguely gray. So fresh and delicious. The famed Harry and Sally scene from the diner came to mind. Only I wasn't faking.
So, Saturday morning came and the cereal that bears a striking resemblance to playground mulch returned. But this Saturday brought with it trials of my patience and mental fortitude that might have exceeded my limit.
We had soccer this morning. S kicked a ball so slowly, I thought maybe I was suffering from a cardboard-induced coma. The ball crawled along and came to a halt right before the goal line. It was comical. But, typical family sporting performances aside, we had to go to CiCi's Pizza Buffet afterwards for the team's end-of-season celebration. The bad pizza temptation. The crappy crust with cheese and salty goodness. With overly-processed toppings. Ooooh. Even that looked yummy. And the little girl next to S finger painted with her alfredo sauce. I was disgraced by the waste of it all. The first temptation of Julie.
I should mention at this point that the script for my craziness meds ran out on Thursday. At some point, I had the phone, but not the bottle to call in a refill. And then, later had the bottle, but not the phone. And it took until today to call in the refill, by which point, I was on an emotional roller coaster, and mere millimeters from total breakdown. I did this thing in the car while the kids were "elbow fighting," (is this something kids do these days? They said that as though I should have heard of it.) and I turned around at a red light, and it must have been like in horror movies where the psycho alien emerges from its human disguise, and is slobbery and fanged and terrifyingly loud, and screamed at them to stop. (The look on their faces reminded me to phone in my script right away.)
THEN. I wanted to take the kids to the pumpkin patch and corn maze tomorrow, but it's closed on Sundays. Which would have been fine. Except that it's also closed Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday.
AFTER THAT. I saw this cool catalog and wanted to pursue information about a product in it for my sister for the holidays. The website was by far the least user-friendly site I've seen since the Internet evolved past glowing green lines of DOS programming. It was baffling, and inexplicably thrifty with actual facts and information. (How big is it, how much does it cost, what is the price of the accessories) and other things a consumer might want to know.
THEN. I remembered that Bellingrath has a fun Halloween thing to do, and the kids and M's dad might enjoy doing that Friday night. So, I look THAT up online. Brilliantly, the octogenarian volunteers who plan that organization's events planned it for Saturday night, actually Halloween. I know my kids would rather walk around a botanical garden than get candy from neighbors. Yet another bust.
FINALLY, the dinner hour comes along. The kids get Wendy's for movie night. I drive with extra concentration as the enticing aroma of fast food burger and fries wafts through the car. I keep an eye out for the sweet, creamy frosties so they don't melt. (A big sip of them would have stopped that, you know.) I stop and pick up my script. We come home and I heat a meal claiming to be beef with noodles. Two tablespoonfuls later, it's gone, and I'm simultaneously revolted by the food and wishing there were more. And the kids leave the table, announcing that they are finished eating.
And in a final tease to my willpower, E has left three-fourths of his cheeseburger on the table. I take it over to the trash can, and see that S has left a bunch of fries in there. I actually reached into the can and pulled out a fry. I actually contemplated putting it in my mouth. M sees me, realizes my imminent fall into ignominy, grabs the remaining cheeseburger, runs it under the faucet, and dumps the runny mess into the trashcan. The fries are soaked, and everything is a ketchup-y, mustard-y, soggy mess. I snap out of it. I realize what I was about to do. I skulk off.
I sit down at my computer and bitch about it.
Do you think that taking 2 anti-crazy pills at once is a good idea?

Why food does not belong in a box.

I promised myself that I wouldn't relentlessly report on the agonizing day by day process of Nutri System. And if I ever decide to go pro with the blogging thing, Nutri System will not be signing up to be my first sponsor, but I can say this: if you like food, you'll lose weight on Nutri System.
This morning's packet o' breakfast was a "chocolate chip scone." And the person who created it has never had tea in England. Not that I have, but I am sure that even the British (not the world's most discerning palate) would not make such a big deal over tea if scones were like the lump in this morning's packet. First of all, the thing was so dense, you could execute some one by stoning with this bad boy. Second, the consistency was some where between cookie dough and slimy brownie. Third, the taste was an unholy melange of protein bar, chewed multivitamin, and artificial flavor. I choked it down with as much coffee as I could drink.
The thing is, I like food. Which is what got me into this weight dilemma in the first place. I didn't gain weight eating McDonald's (another sponsor I will no longer presumably get) or junk food or candy, or cheap frozen dinners. I gained weight eating home made food that is yummy: smashed parmesean potatoes, schnitzel, pasta, blue cheese dressing, pork chops. I'm not trying to be a food snob. I love the Golden Arches' french fries with the best of them. But that's not how I gained weight. I just eat too much of relatively healthy foods. It's one of life's cosmic unfairnesses.
For lunch, I had reconstituted "homestyle cheesy potatoes." Actual potatoes would not have recognized these potatoes. Fortunately, I got to add a salad (no dressing allowed, so I used vinegar straight) and a vegetable (broccoli, my old standby) and a tablespoon of fat free cottage cheese. Which somehow made everything a little more palatable. But those potatoes are a crime against nature.
And of course, I ate it all so fast (hard to eat while holding your nose)that now I have to burp, which just brings that hideousness right back to me. I would rather have eaten the paper cup the potatoes came in. For real.
All I have to say is this: if I haven't amputated my taste buds by the end of 56 days, it will be a miracle.

Tender Thoughts

Living with kids is much like reading a stream of consciousness novel, and I try to stimulate my brain by seeking meaning in the flow of verbal diarrhea. He likes to play with rhyming words, alliteration ("that frickin' frog is freakin' me out"), multiple meanings. It's a Jeopardy Potpourri category, Alex. And it's a humorous hiatus from the heinous havoc for now.
Right now, S is obsessed with his genitalia. His tenders, privates, bits, junk, whatever. Freud would have a freaking field day with this kid. He is convinced some one is going to shoot off, laser off, sword off, pull off, or in some other way, remove his tenders, privates, bits, junk, whatever. When he gets in the tub, he says I'm boiling his tenders. When I dry him off, he says I'm fluffing his tenders (for people in the porn industry, that has a completely different meaning). When he and his brother wrestle and fight, there are no-tenders pulling rules. When we were in Arizona, every other word out of the kid's mouth was tenders. And worst of all, he violated the no-tenders rule while horsing around with his uncle, and delivered a swift blow to HIS tenders.
Then, I start thinking about the word association with tenders. Chicken tenders. Tenders on cruises that shuttle people to shore and back. Tendering money. Meat tenderizer. Legal tender. The next time I see "tender, juicy steak" on a menu, I'll probably barf.
But, this has only been one aspect of his verbal concentration. Yesterday, S was playing with his Star Wars figures. He had them hurrying to escape an exploding ship: "run to the escape pod" he says in action figure voice. "The ipod?" action figure two queries. "No, the pea pod!" says another. "NOOO! The escape pod! The shuttle!" screams the first figurine. "OH! Shut the door. I got it" says the second. "No. Don't shut it...the shuttle, the space shuttle" says the third.
He's like a living dictionary, blurting out all the multiple definitions of a word his little brain can conjure. It's fun, because of course, I am the queen of puns and wordplay and LOVE that sort of humor. But, as always, it's a noisy monologue that streams from his mouth constantly. It's a littany of language to make James Joyce proud. On the other hand, living with it is somewhat like reading Finnegan's Wake: an impossibility best aspired to, and never undertaken.
This phase will undoubtedly end shortly, and we will be on to some other form of Guantanamo-esque torture, but in the mean time, you might want to cover your ears. Nears. Fears. Gears. Tears.

Diet Plan #459

So, I finally broke down. I got so taken with Marie Osmond's skinny new self, I decided I, too needed a big ol' chunk of that Mormon happiness and started the Nutri System diet. Actually, I didn't do it. I asked M to do it, as if the act of ordering on line was like viewing porn. It's like buying an As Seen On TV product. I just couldn't press the Purchase button in case the Dick Cheney of skinny people was watching me, and would swoop in and chastise me for buying into a diet gimmick such as Nutri System.
Nonetheless, M pressed the Purchase Now button, and on my doorstep several days later arrived a giant box. A box big enough to hold S. Inside were a jillion packages, color coded by meal, and boasting photographs of relatively yummy looking food inside. This, of course, is when the first realization hits me. I hold up a microwavable "bowl" of chicken pasta and think, this can't POSSIBLY be one serving! Clearly, my biggest issue with weight loss is portion control, because if that scrawny bowl is one serving, I've been eating for me and the rest of my family. Then, the second realization hits me. This assortment of green, red, and blue packaged food spread across my dining room table is what I am going to be eating for the next 28, possibly 56, days of my life. To paraphrase Brent Musberger, there isn't a lot of food there, folks. And NONE of it looks like a giant batch of fresh-baked cookies.
This morning, I ate Nutri System's cinnamon cereal for breakfast with the designated 4 oz. of milk. For those of you who eat Seinfeld-sized bowls of cereal for breakfast, or dinner, or dessert, that apparently is 27 servings of cereal. I ate my out of a coffee mug this morning, so it looked less pathetic. That fiber stuck with me, though. For lunch, I had chicken in a cacciatore sauce that was edible, though puny. And I was reminded of a one liner my father in law often mentions, "this food is awful, and the portions are so small." So, I would say that I wolfed that portion down, except that I ate it all with one scoop of a tablespoon.
Could that possibly have been lunch?
Finally, I am sorting through the boxes that represent my dinner options. There is something that resembles pizza on a cracker, something involving black beans and ham (it won't come to that), and another pasta-ish looking concoction. I review the "results kit" that came with my order, and notice the asterisk that says "For best results, do not consume alcohol on this program." I pull out a Sharpie and draw a line right through "not" and "best". I replace with "reasonable." There is no way that I am putting freeze dried lima beans in this mouth without a gin and (diet) tonic to wash them down.
During carpool today, another realization: something in the Nutri System food makes me mean. Or impatient. Or just the idea of it makes me cranky. But something was leaving me ornery. Perhaps it is the stuff that is NOT in Nutri System that makes me irritable: cookies, cupcakes, potato chips, heaping mounds of schnitzel and spaetzle.
I can forecast this for you, gentle reader--that while my fantasies this month may still include George Clooney (who has a movie coming out soon), he will be covered in whipped potatoes, chocolate covered strawberries, and other delicious morsels creeping into my subconscious. Regardless, I will be updating the diet module on notcinnamon regularly again.
If you see me cheating on my diet and eating real-life food, smack me. But do so gently, and with pity, for I will be desperate.

Learning Opportunities

How mortifying would it be to be the mother of Falcon, the balloon boy? That right there is MY worst nightmare. A kid's prank gone horribly public on a slow news day?
Falcon absolutely should have gone MIA when Ms. Snowe decided to take her day in the spotlight last week. But, no, the only thing that happened yesterday was a presidential visit to New Orleans, which the whole country has forgotten about anyway, and so was riveted to CNN footage of a giant mylar balloon drifting across the countryside with a kid or not in it.
We happened to be at a layover in Dallas when we first espied the Identified Flying Object on CNN. The kids heard the story, and of course, I told them that the young boy had failed to follow his parents' instructions about NOT TOUCHING THE BALLOON, and had touched it anyway, and now had the police, the Air Force, and every other government agency in the country looking for him and how he was going to be in big, Big, BIG trouble when they found him.
Thankfully, God decided not to call my bluff, and the kid was found alive in a box in his garage. Otherwise of course, I would have had to say the kid was following directions and that some one bad had taken him out of the front yard, which would undo the months of coaching my kids to the out of doors to play.
Of course, I put myself in these parents' positions. But only relatively, because this family is freakish from the get-go. Who keeps a mini UFO in the backyard and goes on Wife Swap anyway? Which of those is stranger? But, I can imagine freaking out over my missing kid, imagining the silver poof whisking him into the lower atmosphere, calling everyone short of the Marines, and demanding his return. S would do this to me. And laugh his ass off, too.
As I was trapped in my own silver aircraft yesterday, after hour long delays, and cramped conditions and a total S meltdown over the inflight beverage service, I was kind of thinking about sneaking off into a refrigerator box for a day or two. Happily, no one would call in the Feds or the Marines. They'd turn on the TV and wait for me to come on in. Unless some one needed a snack or clean underwear, or their homework, or a shoe tied, or ....
In any event, it was gratifying to hear S and E keep asking me questions about the "boy who didn't follow instructions." This woman next to me was laughing when I said that President Obama would be very unhappy that his advisers had to interrupt his trip to tell him there was an interstate incident going on because of this one naughty little boy. I said that the President knows when something like this goes on live TV, and that he would be very very angry. Both boys got very serious. Obama would know? Yes, he would. And don't ever forget it.

The Green, Green Grass

On my vacation at my sister and brother in law's house, I've been thinking a lot about life without children. My sister and BIL always have some degree of shock when hanging out with kids. This time, in their house, on their fall break, kids seem especially alien to them. Though I have to say...
...their house is spotless. Everything is tidy, and there are no scuffs on the paint, piles of crap on the desks, toys jammed in closets, or massive piles of laundry.
...their garage is spotless. There are no flat soccer balls, outgrown motorized ride-ons, soccer goals, bicycles, or a decade of marriage's worth of old junk.
...there would never be anything to argue about. I forget about life BC, that it is possible to have individual identities that come together to form your marriage. Life doesn't have to be kid-centric.
...they have a whole hell of a lot of free time. Damn, I'm jealous.
...did I mention the free time? Working out, small gardening projects, reading books, cooking huge meals, watching Dancing With the Stars (fine, I would never do that last one, but still), puttering around.
...they live in near silence. I can't believe, when my kids are at the park here, or out with grandma, how quiet a house is. No dog, no responsibilities at all, and the house is totally still. I can hear the keys on the keyboard instead of straining to hear myself think.
...everything is where they put it. Keys? Have a home. Refrigerator? Nobody rifles through it looking for one last Capri Sun. Closets? Drawers? All the clothes still inside. Where they're supposed to be.
...when you turn on the TV, it is not this morning's episode of Oswald screaming at you. I really like that.
And while everything in their house is not new or perfect or exactly how I am sure they want it, it is clean, and tidy, and belongs only to them. It is not shared with fingerprints on all the windows, greasy smudges on all the faucet handles, cookie crumbs under the table.
It's certainly a different life. Would I trade back to life BC? Probably for a month. Just to remember what it's like to wake up when I want to.

Industry Leaders

So, in the world of American business, there are certainly companies I don't like. There are also companies I don't understand. And there are companies that I can't believe actually exist.
So, as I see it here is the history of the airline industry: Wright Brothers (no passengers, very short routes), Hindenburg (luxury liner, wrong gas), The Titanic (prompted people to really consider other means of transport across the Atlantic), Continental Airlines (classy style, cute flight attendant outfits, rich people traveling in their Sunday best), Spruce Goose (potentially many passengers, crazy pilot) TWA, Eastern, United (multiple carriers bring air travel to the masses, suddenly a family vacation is within reach for millions), all those airlines go broke. Southwest Airlines (happy consumers, reasonable prices, limited market), American, United, Continental, all come back in various reincarnations and mergers, (crowded planes, crappy routes, pissed off consumers, sky high prices.)
So, here we arrive at the current state of pleasure travel in the US. This industry represents one of the few in which a company may extract heaps of money from the consumer, may or may not deliver the service for which the consumer paid, blame weather, mechanics, tardy pilots, or any other reason for their failure, refuse to offer compensation for any deficiency on their part. THEN, if they actually do manage to put you on the plane (you lucky duck), offer you 16 1/2" seats behind morbidly obese women with a sweat gland issue, use a crow bar to wedge your children in seats next to you, offer you 4 1/2 ounces of carbonated sugar water, no food, pillows or other comfort amenities. Then they employ a 54 year old woman whose face is as pinched as can be, whose attitude's enormous bitterness is rivaled only by the giant shoulder pads she sports and who is supposed to make your flight more comfortable. Under no emergency circumstance is Cruella d'stewardess there going to help anyone out of the fuselage of death nor is she going to bring me a free packet of 12 pretzels in a foil baggie to help me out with a kid with an ear infection. She even has a put-out expression while going through the cabin to check that seat belts are fastened--as if she secretly hopes she misses a few and she can cull the herd out in the event of turbulence.
Then, if you are lucky enough to make it on the plane, survive Cruella d'stewardess, and arrive at your destination within 3 hours of the promised landing time, you then have a layover long enough to read War and Peace. But, don't worry, because you can purchase horrifically disgusting fast food for a mere twice the price of what you'd pay for it in the real world. Or, you could go to a bare-bones version of your favorite chain restaurant and sit down for an expensive order of chicken fingers that you can eat with a plastic spork doled out to diners who might later have an urge to hijack a plane with their stolen cutlery. But of course, no one could ever hijack a plane with the sporks they give you at the behind-security restaurants because those sporks collapse and bend the moment you stick them in applesauce. Really makes you feel like your getting a high end meal, that.
So, after a layover that is without exaggeration, longer than the two legs of flights you've purchased, you can board another jammed airplane that is running late. For whatever reason, this plane is late and the flight attendant starts berating the poor souls boarding the plane. "Please move it along. Stow your bags quickly, as you can see our departure time has come and gone, and we would like to get going."
REALLY, bitch? Really? Your botoxed lips have finally connected to a brain cell, and this is the news you deliver? We, on the other hand, lowly travellers, were cooling our jets watching (what I eventually figured out to be a rerun) of the baseball playoffs in super cozy metal chairs, sharing an armrest with some H1N1 infected stranger who thinks it's appropriate to bring her own Finding Nemo pillow with her on the airplane like a giant security blankie (I hope she collects some bed bugs) and standing around talking about how much we would like to continue to wait in the beautiful environs of Gate A21 and keep you, our beautiful flight attendant waiting a little longer. Some kind of nerve. Also, as soon as my children fall asleep, I'd really appreciate it if you could run over one's legs, and scream into the PA system about the cocktails that EVERYONE knows are for sale, and the WiFi which I am sure is not free that people can log on to. I love it when you do that because what 4 year old could really use sleep at midnight on a godforsaken tin can at 35,000 feet?
And thanks, I'll have a rum and diet since you're asking. Where the hell did I put that spork?

Stress Test--Failed

When I was in high school,my parents always planned family trips for the breaks immediately following the end of terms. Later, in college, I would travel cross country to come home for Thanksgiving or winter break, or spring break--right after midterms or finals.
And invariably, after late night studying, snacking, and post-exam celebrating I would be exhausted, and ultimately, sick.
My freshman year at Northwestern, especially, I remember coming home at Thanksgiving. (as the years went on, I decided that chaotic weekend was probably not worth the stress of an 1800 mile journey). I clearly remember laying on the floor, feverish, achy, and convinced of imminent death. My body never has coped well with stress, whether emotional, physical, or mental. I also have a tendency to push through events with unreasonable zeal only to literally collapse when events wind down.
Last week, there was not a single night where all four of us were home for dinner. I spent Tuesday in the car (from 7:20 AM to 6:15 PM), I wanted very much for E's birthday party to be perfect, S's school open house to be memorable, I had somehow tweaked my back and was unable to sleep at night and, and and...Until Tuesday morning, I woke up miserable. Well, waking up would probably be an exaggeration. My throat hurt, my head hurt, my body ached, and my eyelids insisted on drooping. Yesterday, I slept away S's entire school day. And went to bed at 9. Loser? Yes.
But what really strikes me is how much LESS stress I am able to cope with now than I was eight, ten or (gulp) fifteen years ago. In high school, I was taking 7 classes, running the school newspaper, working on college applications, and NEVER sleeping at night. In college, I was taking 3 or 4 courses, writing lengthy papers, and (ahem) socializing heavily. When I was married and kid less, I was working as much as seventy hours a week, running a franchise virtually alone, and traveling on the weekends.
And now? Now, I'm planning how many cookies to deliver to a 7 year old's party and I am beat, fried, frizzled.
What happened? Is it practice? Is the background stress of being a grown-up so intense that it goes on all the time and I don't even recognize it anymore? If that's true, can I stop being a grown up? NOW? Is it nap time yet?