Wednesday, October 28, 2009

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.

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

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?

Saturday, October 24, 2009

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?

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

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.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

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.

Monday, October 19, 2009

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.

Friday, October 16, 2009

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.

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

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.

Saturday, October 10, 2009

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?

Thursday, October 8, 2009

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?

Monday, October 5, 2009

Mom Plays Video Game (in related news, Mom sucks at video game)

So, E celebrated his birthday in high fashion yesterday. We rocked the Exploreum, tore through presents and dessert, and feasted like kings.
My mom and aunt bought E a Wii, finally bringing my older child into the technology of these 21st century kids. Until now, my children were living in the dark ages of analog toys and games. Our only forays into the digital realm were DVDs and the completely endearing games of the Leapster. The Wii is hard core. This little hub of digital information represents a giant leap in video entertainment at our house.
When I was a child, back in the day of the Apple IIc, and the 5 1/4 inch floppy disc, we had 2 video game systems. And we had about two games for each system. First, we had Intellivision, because my parents (probably thinking like I do now) figured, "hey, they put Intelligent into the name of the product--it must have some educational value." My favorite game on this system was an asteroid-shooting game whose name escapes me. The rinky-dink, highly pixellated little shooter raced horizontally across the screen to fire at different sized asteroids. If it failed, an unimpressive explosion filled the screen. In retrospect, this game rivals only pong in its visual and skill simplicity, although I suspect even then we had an inkling of how lame it was. We also had a Nintendo game with Mario Brothers. That game was light years ahead of the Intellivision, though still very rectangular and linear in play style. Everyone in my generation had that game and system. Later, we had a baseball game of some kind for that system, and my Brett Saberhagen square-body could pitch this crazy, giant baseball that no square-body hitter could come near. In fact, in real life, some pitchers in the major leagues have pitches with so much action on them they're known as Nintendo pitches.
Regardless, video games were never intuitive for me, and despite years of attempts, I don't think I ever passed level 3 of Mario Brothers. I was a video game failure.
Anyhow, M set up the Wii yesterday before the party, so that when the kids came home, they did not have to wait impatiently for battery installation or cable sorting. Everything would be practically plug and play.
We got the kids Lego-themed video games, as they seem age-appropriate and less violent than other games. When Lego Obi-Wan Kenobi wields his light saber, bad guys simply break up into little Lego bricks. It's kind of cute, really.
So, after the kids got frustrated with their inability to INSTANTLY master the game, M and I gave it a go. (We were just 'showing them how,' we weren't monopolizing the unit or anything.)
As it turns out, I am still a video game failure.
E kept screaming at me to assemble broken Lego bricks into tools or weapons or droids or something. Per the directions, I held the Wii nunchuk and stick in my hands, and moved my arms in a running motion.
However.
Instead of assembling the bricks into something useful, the running motion sent my Obi Wan on a murderous rampage. I killed hapless plants, bad guy droids, M's QuiGon Jin, and friendly JarJar Binks alike. My Obi Wan also managed to do this fierce jump and stab thing that struck terror into the hearts of my "allies."
I laughed so hard I had to sit down. E is yelling at me to assemble bricks using the Force, M is yelling at me to stop trying to kill his guy, and the game is ranking me as an unimpressive 2% Jedi. I kept falling off of bridges, running into walls, getting left behind, murdering my allies, and dismembering C3P0. Poor little Lego c3P0, one-legged and no-armed hopped behind me loyally, dreading in his little Lego brain the next time I lost control of my nunchuk and turned around to chop at him.
The best part about this game is that it is geared for children, so that no matter how painfully bad I am at it, my character never actually dies to end the game. He simply loses points. M finished the level with an impressive 22,732 points. I had 20. Seriously. 20.
Of course, now with the Wii, I am sure there will be arguments over whose turn, how long, when, and why the kids get to play. I am also sure that no one, EVER, is going to want me to be on his team.
I think my total ineptness has made it pretty clear that Wii Fit would be a physical and technological failure of epic proportions. I mean combining my physical prowess and my video game mad skills is a recipe for disaster. The treadmill is probably as advanced as I want to get when it comes to exercise.
Any one want to come practice Lego Indiana Jones today while the kids are in school? Otherwise, I will probably be whipping everyone to death the next time I show the kids "how to play it."

Thursday, October 1, 2009

Small Gifts

Sometimes, in the crazy, runaround lives we lead, it is important to stop and consider the little blessings. This morning, ever so briefly, while unloading the laundry, making lunch, searching for sweatshirts, I experienced such a little blessing.
We have a neighbor, and I shall call him Joe. I call him Joe, not because I am trying to conceal his identity, because let's be honest, after you read this, you will know exactly who I am talking about. But, the fact is, I do not know Joe's name. He is, I suppose, a handsome man, by sexagenarian standards. He has a full head of pure white hair, a gentle face, and it looks like the man knows how to party--he has a bit of a beer belly. He lives in the kind of strange house on our street--every street has a strange house--with his sexagenarian girlfriend, who has one of those southern nicknames like Honey or Bitty, or Bebe and resembles the famous Ms. Frizzle of the Magic School Bus book series.
Joe and Bitty are not often home, they seem to own other strange homes on other streets around the Gulf. But when they are home, they take walks together around the cul de sac of our street. It's nice, actually. A lot of people on our street take advantage of the early morning and evening cool, and walk around the circle. And since most of the people on our street are older, it's very cute to me to see these couples holding hands as they take a little exercise in the shady path of our street.
This, of course, being the same street that E refuses to play on. He feels that he should be supervised at all times, and when I suggest that our 87 year old neighbor is NOT going to run him over with his walker, E remains unamused. If these slow pedestrians feel safe, surely a child on a bicycle would be ok, but no, E prudently remains on the driveway.
Oh, right. I forgot to mention the fundamental detail of Joe and Bitty's daily walk: he doesn't wear any clothes. Yup. He wears what very much appear to be boxer shorts or sometimes, a bathing suit. Socks. Shoes. That is what he wears. Beer belly and man breasts out for all to see. Thankfully, he must spend a lot of time au naturel, because he has a decent tan. But, please. It's so early in the morning, and I come down and turn on the sink, look out my window, and watch semi naked walker doing his laps, and I wish I had mini blinds.
But, this morning, my little blessing came in the form of a poly-cotton blend. The cooling fall weather prompted Joe to don a sweatshirt and pants. Hooray! Go, Joe!