Sleep. Sleep. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Forty winks.
A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
And no one appreciates it more than me. So, now that my sleep is all disrupted, I am freaking out.
Three nights. The first two nights I was awake with some vague anxiety. Nothing is wrong, I was just agitated and tense. Last night, E was puking and feverish and pathetic. The symptoms (of my sleeplessness, not his puking and cold--come on, stay focused) are becoming obvious: there's this blue vein right under my eye that is starting to show. And then, there's the eyes themselves--heavy lidded, swollen, and drooping dark circles. We are talking serious zombie eyes; walking dead, no living human should have skin that blue, blink you freaky woman, zombie eyes.
Also, I am aware as I have gotten older that there are things I should/cannot do in my sleep. And I am so conscious of those things that it becomes almost impossible to release myself into the UNconsciousness of sleep.
I habitually make a fist around my tucked-in thumb. But then I wake up with aching, swollen, disfigured thumbs. So I jam my hands under my butt when I'm sleeping flat or under the pillow if I'm sleeping on my slide.
I clench my teeth. I had a guard for the teeth clenching that the dentist made for me. Clooney chewed it. I have to wait for my insurance to forget about the last one so I can get a new one. Now, I have to physically relax my jaw, crack it open, and hope that it stays that way all night. The dentist also gave me some muscle relaxants, but they don't really seem to last as long as they should...
I cannot sleep on my right side. I have been sleeping on my right side since I was a kid, and the shoulder is starting to pay the price. Sometimes, if I magically sleep for long periods on my right arm, the nerve is pinched in the morning, and I have to wait a day or so for the tingling to stop. So left side, or flat on the back, or nothing at all.
So, given all these old lady problems, I have some solutions. I try yoga breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Feel my lungs expand, my belly not. I seek that rhythm that used to be so soothing that I'd fall asleep in yoga class. I try to consciously relax my body starting with my toes and working my way up to my neck. It doesn't always workfor me. Let's just say I'm not going to be adopted into a yogic colony anytime soon. Relaxing doesn't come easy.
I've tried self-hypnosis with some success. Starting at 1,000 and counting backwards, I think of nothing but the numbers. I visualize them in different fonts or have to start over if a stray thought crosses my mind. I usually don't make it past 950. But lately, my mind has been racing, and I can't even get in to the 990s without thinking of other things.
Chemistry usually makes life better, what's going on there? Ambien sounds interesting, but of course, I REALLY can't afford to sleep eat. I eat enough while I'm awake. Advil PM is okay, except I wake up dying of thirst. There's the Flexeril from the dentist, but because he's a dentist, and not my regular physician, I think he's wary of prescribing drugs to patients. So I get 15 for the six months between cleanings. I'm like the only person you know who rushes to the dentist for cleanings...xrays? Sure. Scraping? OK. Sand blast? Fine. Do whatever you want to my mouth for the next hour, just make sure I have that script in hand when I leave. I need my DDS fix.
I try not to get out of bed while I'm sleepless. One, I'm scared of going downstairs. Two, the dog follows me and he's noisy and could wake the children--the worst possible scenario. Three, I'm afraid I'll turn on the computer, get sucked into a Bejeweled marathon, and not move until first light.
After his intense round of vomiting followed by dry heaves, E asked me to snuggle him in his bed. He struggled with sleep as I lay there in his semi-dark room for an hour and forty five minutes. Finally, his faint, even, congestion-induced snoring convinced me that he had dozed off again. I snuck back into my own bed. And before I could reach my desperately need REM cycle, S comes in with nightmares.
I woke up this morning, in S's bed completely disoriented and confused, having slept in all 3 beds last night. My back hurts from cradling kids in unnatural positions, my eyes are sunken and dull, and if I take a nap today, everything will be ALL messed up for tonight. SO. Coffee it is. More coffee. Java. Joe. As much as I need. I'll be hitting up my nursing friends for an IV of it. Direct to the gray matter. I'll pitch toothpicks in my eyelids to keep them up, just like a cartoon cat stalking a mouse. I WILL not nap today. And tonight, I will crawl into my crisp bed, and be asleep before the left side of my face hits the pillow, with my hands under it, and my jaw as physically relaxed as I can make it.
*#(@$HFohfhaodhf8yg03e4. Sorry. That was my forehead hitting the keyboard. It's gonna be a long day. TV, anyone?
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Going back for more
Some people say the definition crazy is to repeat the same activity, expecting a different outcome. Maybe. I dunno. But if not crazy, then it as least, rather dumb.
And yet.
In July, the family will be heading out to Southern California for 10 days. Southern Cal never changes, so it's not exactly a favorite tourism spot for us, it does have the benefit of family. And FAMILY = BABYSITTERS. They're like fresh recruits. New blood.
M and I had entertained the ideas of going to Vegas for a couple of days sans kids from there, or to San Diego for a baseball game and an overnight break, we decided, in the end, to TAKE THEM WITH US.
So, now we are going overnight to San Diego with the kids. In a hotel room. Walking distance from the stadium. The night before we travel home.
As M is booking the room last night, I am thinking that we are completely nuts. Off our rockers. Are memories so short that we don't remember the acute pain and suffering of the last trip? Are we gluttons for punishment?
I have spent this morning surfing around for a nice getaway for the two of us. Maybe Santa Barbara or Cabo San Lucas? Maybe we'll revisit the Vegas issue. But, I can't just lie down and be mowed over by kids on the rampage in San Diego, can I?
I have 'sucker' tattooed on my forehead, don't I?
And yet.
In July, the family will be heading out to Southern California for 10 days. Southern Cal never changes, so it's not exactly a favorite tourism spot for us, it does have the benefit of family. And FAMILY = BABYSITTERS. They're like fresh recruits. New blood.
M and I had entertained the ideas of going to Vegas for a couple of days sans kids from there, or to San Diego for a baseball game and an overnight break, we decided, in the end, to TAKE THEM WITH US.
So, now we are going overnight to San Diego with the kids. In a hotel room. Walking distance from the stadium. The night before we travel home.
As M is booking the room last night, I am thinking that we are completely nuts. Off our rockers. Are memories so short that we don't remember the acute pain and suffering of the last trip? Are we gluttons for punishment?
I have spent this morning surfing around for a nice getaway for the two of us. Maybe Santa Barbara or Cabo San Lucas? Maybe we'll revisit the Vegas issue. But, I can't just lie down and be mowed over by kids on the rampage in San Diego, can I?
I have 'sucker' tattooed on my forehead, don't I?
Monday, June 28, 2010
I'm here. Mostly.
I know the vacation is over. Two pieces of indisputable evidence:
1. I am in my own bed and room.
2. There is a Mt. Everest of laundry to do.
The harder question: was the vacation a success? Shall we define success?
Everyone made it home. Despite overwhelming temptation, I managed not to abandon my children at a rest stop in Florida. I resisted the urge to duct tape their snarky, argumentative, nasty little selves up to the luggage rack.
On the flip side, it will be a new decade before the kids ever see the Wii again. Dessert will be a distant memory. Computer? Off limits until they're old enough to drive. Punishment or vengeance? A little of both, I admit. Vacations with kids just aren't really vacations. And I was mad, Mad MAD that they were ruining mine.
The other thing, the thing I just couldn't reconcile, is the memory I have of my childhood vacations. My sister and I, and sometimes my grandparents, rode in the station wagon for HOURS.
This morning, I mapquested some of the trips we took:
Home to Zion Canyon (new roads have been built, by the way) 6:49
Home to Yellowstone National Park 15:30
Home to Lake Tahoe 7:51
Home to Crater Lake 12:22
I know, can you BELIEVE my parents took us all those places, and more? What were they thinking? The kicker is, that once we got to those places, we hiked, explored, picnicked, read every historic plaque, stopped at every informational booth, and ate anywhere. There was NO MacDonald's on our trip. Potty stops came when the car needed gas. DVD's were futuristic sci-fi. Once I was about 11 or 12, I had my own camera and a Walkman, which helped pass the time. I remember being hot and complaining on a hike from the bottom of the Grand Canyon. But EVERYONE complains while hiking from the bottom of the Grand Canyon.
I remember taking a picture next to a sign that said "Caution: do not proceed unless you have adequate supplies of food and water" AND THEN PROCEEDING.
In Yellowstone, my dad took us fishing, and I got stuck up to my ankles in mud and a fishing hook entangled in my hair and attacked by ferocious vampire mosquitoes. NO COMPLAINING ALLOWED.
In New Mexico (Arizona?), my parents found this crazy expensive, crazy fancy five star restaurant called the Tack Room. I still remember it. We were told to behave or die, and I remember trying so hard to be grown up and polite. Maybe we weren't, it's hard to visualize what we looked like from an adult perspective, but I will say it wasn't because we weren't trying.
What I don't remember is trying to gouge out my sister's eyes in the back seat. Or plopping down on the sidewalk and refusing to take another step. Or screaming at the top of my lungs in the car. Or constantly whining about being bored. Or being rude and disrespectful to my parents. Or refusing to sleep in the hotel room. Or visibly crying that the restaurant had nothing on the menu that any human could eat.
I mean, maybe I'm wrong and my memory is as full of self-righteousness now as it was when I was a kid. Maybe I was a constant brat who fought non-stop with my sister, threatening to go to the death (or at least to the pain.) Maybe my parents sat up there in the front seats of the car contemplating a sudden swerve into oncoming traffic to end the misery of the vacation. Maybe every summer, my parents shook their heads, and said "maybe this year, they'll behave." And every year they planned the trip with optimism and enthusiasm only to have their best intentions squelched by uncooperative children. Every year.
Maybe that's how it was. Or not.
But that is how it is for me. Every spring, I suggest to M that the kids are a year older, and that we can't put our travel goals on hold for the next 14 years of our lives, and that this year will be different. And we should plan a great vacation. And then every summer on that hard-won vacation, I not only have to referee the death match between the kids, but have to listen to M shouting over the din, "I TOLD YOU SO!"
But, now we're home. The kids are happy to retreat to their own rooms, their Legos, their books. They are happy-ish to have 'regular' food and their pool, and their routine, and their lives. They are fighting, of course, but I have the recourse to send them to their rooms to achieve a temporary cease fire. I could, theoretically, retreat to my own office and post to my own blog in peace and quiet, except that the field of battle has moved down to the space immediately behind my right ear. They have armed themselves with Chinese checkers cannonballs and playing card missiles. The war rages on. It is now a civil war on domestic territory. There will be no casualties in a quiet restaurant or a neighboring hotel room. I am hostage.
There's no place like home.
1. I am in my own bed and room.
2. There is a Mt. Everest of laundry to do.
The harder question: was the vacation a success? Shall we define success?
Everyone made it home. Despite overwhelming temptation, I managed not to abandon my children at a rest stop in Florida. I resisted the urge to duct tape their snarky, argumentative, nasty little selves up to the luggage rack.
On the flip side, it will be a new decade before the kids ever see the Wii again. Dessert will be a distant memory. Computer? Off limits until they're old enough to drive. Punishment or vengeance? A little of both, I admit. Vacations with kids just aren't really vacations. And I was mad, Mad MAD that they were ruining mine.
The other thing, the thing I just couldn't reconcile, is the memory I have of my childhood vacations. My sister and I, and sometimes my grandparents, rode in the station wagon for HOURS.
This morning, I mapquested some of the trips we took:
Home to Zion Canyon (new roads have been built, by the way) 6:49
Home to Yellowstone National Park 15:30
Home to Lake Tahoe 7:51
Home to Crater Lake 12:22
I know, can you BELIEVE my parents took us all those places, and more? What were they thinking? The kicker is, that once we got to those places, we hiked, explored, picnicked, read every historic plaque, stopped at every informational booth, and ate anywhere. There was NO MacDonald's on our trip. Potty stops came when the car needed gas. DVD's were futuristic sci-fi. Once I was about 11 or 12, I had my own camera and a Walkman, which helped pass the time. I remember being hot and complaining on a hike from the bottom of the Grand Canyon. But EVERYONE complains while hiking from the bottom of the Grand Canyon.
I remember taking a picture next to a sign that said "Caution: do not proceed unless you have adequate supplies of food and water" AND THEN PROCEEDING.
In Yellowstone, my dad took us fishing, and I got stuck up to my ankles in mud and a fishing hook entangled in my hair and attacked by ferocious vampire mosquitoes. NO COMPLAINING ALLOWED.
In New Mexico (Arizona?), my parents found this crazy expensive, crazy fancy five star restaurant called the Tack Room. I still remember it. We were told to behave or die, and I remember trying so hard to be grown up and polite. Maybe we weren't, it's hard to visualize what we looked like from an adult perspective, but I will say it wasn't because we weren't trying.
What I don't remember is trying to gouge out my sister's eyes in the back seat. Or plopping down on the sidewalk and refusing to take another step. Or screaming at the top of my lungs in the car. Or constantly whining about being bored. Or being rude and disrespectful to my parents. Or refusing to sleep in the hotel room. Or visibly crying that the restaurant had nothing on the menu that any human could eat.
I mean, maybe I'm wrong and my memory is as full of self-righteousness now as it was when I was a kid. Maybe I was a constant brat who fought non-stop with my sister, threatening to go to the death (or at least to the pain.) Maybe my parents sat up there in the front seats of the car contemplating a sudden swerve into oncoming traffic to end the misery of the vacation. Maybe every summer, my parents shook their heads, and said "maybe this year, they'll behave." And every year they planned the trip with optimism and enthusiasm only to have their best intentions squelched by uncooperative children. Every year.
Maybe that's how it was. Or not.
But that is how it is for me. Every spring, I suggest to M that the kids are a year older, and that we can't put our travel goals on hold for the next 14 years of our lives, and that this year will be different. And we should plan a great vacation. And then every summer on that hard-won vacation, I not only have to referee the death match between the kids, but have to listen to M shouting over the din, "I TOLD YOU SO!"
But, now we're home. The kids are happy to retreat to their own rooms, their Legos, their books. They are happy-ish to have 'regular' food and their pool, and their routine, and their lives. They are fighting, of course, but I have the recourse to send them to their rooms to achieve a temporary cease fire. I could, theoretically, retreat to my own office and post to my own blog in peace and quiet, except that the field of battle has moved down to the space immediately behind my right ear. They have armed themselves with Chinese checkers cannonballs and playing card missiles. The war rages on. It is now a civil war on domestic territory. There will be no casualties in a quiet restaurant or a neighboring hotel room. I am hostage.
There's no place like home.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
The accidental tourist
I suppose there are a number of ways to tell that your husband loves you. For some, love may take the form of unexpected flowers, or breakfast in bed. For others, its a romantic dinner out, or a vacation getaway, or just a great foot massage after a long day.
Love from my husband takes on forms of its own: sometimes, it's expressed more clearly than others.
For example, this spring, I was eager to plan summer family vacations. M wanted very little to do with the planning of those trips--you may think this unsupportive. But, I could plan nearly any trip I wanted--anywhere, anytime.
I put together a very cool itinerary that included a road trip to Savannah and Jekyll Island, Georgia. I researched hotels and activities and he helped me process and purchase and the trip was done!
And M loves me.
Months pass, and the eve of our vacation arrives. I pack for everyone. I plan the driving route. I download and peruse restaurant reviews. I make reservations for Clooney at Chez Chiennes. We are ready.
As a sign of solidarity, M doesn't freak when everyone is an hour later than the planned departure. I mean what are the odds that the kids would sleep in on the one day I was counting on them to be my alarm clock? We are in the car without incident. The dog is delivered. We hit the highway. Nothin' but a curling ribbon of road ahead.
And M loves me.
We only had to threaten to kill the kids twice on the trip. We had a peaceful lunch and stopped at a roadside peach stand. Everything's coming along.
And M loves me.
We get to Savannah. It's coming up on bedtime, and we are hoping to check in, drop off the junk, grab dinner and go to bed. (One of the great bonuses of sharing a room with kids on vacation, is that I get to go to bed at 8:30, whether I want to or not.)
M enters the lobby to check in. The kids and I begin to unload the car. A moment later, M comes out with a grim face: "You're going to have to put all that stuff back in the car." What the what?
"Our reservations start tomorrow. They have no rooms tonight."
I guess maybe I was a little too eager for the trip?
And M loves me?
M disappears into the lobby again. The kids start their ever-so-helpful snivelling over things they do not comprehend. "We're going to have to drive all the way back to Alabama?"
I'm sitting in the driver's seat--literally and figuratively. I brought this fate upon us, and drove us to our fate at 85 miles an hour for 8 hours on the wrong day.
Nerts!
M comes out with directions to a new hotel. He seems okay. We drive a short distance and pull up in front of the Westin Spa and Golf Club. I remember this resort from my searchings. One of the top 60 golf courses in the country.
We walk in to the fine lobby, we check in, we go up to the 10th floor, (do they put Febreeze in the air up here?) which has a lovely view of the golf course, and South Carolina beyond. Apparently, I have a voucher for the spa tomorrow. And the kids can use the pool.
Not a word. He's in good spirits. "This is just going to give us an extra day of fun!"
Nothing. No comment.
So, in short, I know my husband loves me when he has trekked through every two lane, back-ass town in Georgia for 8 hours, listened to the kids argue about which clone trooper is cooler (clones, people, consider the definition) bought an unexpected stay at a fancy resort, and STILL had enthusiasm for a cheeseburger and beer dinner.
This morning, the kids sorta slept in. They're downstairs getting breakfast.
I'm on my way to the spa. Best. Mistake. Ever.
Love from my husband takes on forms of its own: sometimes, it's expressed more clearly than others.
For example, this spring, I was eager to plan summer family vacations. M wanted very little to do with the planning of those trips--you may think this unsupportive. But, I could plan nearly any trip I wanted--anywhere, anytime.
I put together a very cool itinerary that included a road trip to Savannah and Jekyll Island, Georgia. I researched hotels and activities and he helped me process and purchase and the trip was done!
And M loves me.
Months pass, and the eve of our vacation arrives. I pack for everyone. I plan the driving route. I download and peruse restaurant reviews. I make reservations for Clooney at Chez Chiennes. We are ready.
As a sign of solidarity, M doesn't freak when everyone is an hour later than the planned departure. I mean what are the odds that the kids would sleep in on the one day I was counting on them to be my alarm clock? We are in the car without incident. The dog is delivered. We hit the highway. Nothin' but a curling ribbon of road ahead.
And M loves me.
We only had to threaten to kill the kids twice on the trip. We had a peaceful lunch and stopped at a roadside peach stand. Everything's coming along.
And M loves me.
We get to Savannah. It's coming up on bedtime, and we are hoping to check in, drop off the junk, grab dinner and go to bed. (One of the great bonuses of sharing a room with kids on vacation, is that I get to go to bed at 8:30, whether I want to or not.)
M enters the lobby to check in. The kids and I begin to unload the car. A moment later, M comes out with a grim face: "You're going to have to put all that stuff back in the car." What the what?
"Our reservations start tomorrow. They have no rooms tonight."
I guess maybe I was a little too eager for the trip?
And M loves me?
M disappears into the lobby again. The kids start their ever-so-helpful snivelling over things they do not comprehend. "We're going to have to drive all the way back to Alabama?"
I'm sitting in the driver's seat--literally and figuratively. I brought this fate upon us, and drove us to our fate at 85 miles an hour for 8 hours on the wrong day.
Nerts!
M comes out with directions to a new hotel. He seems okay. We drive a short distance and pull up in front of the Westin Spa and Golf Club. I remember this resort from my searchings. One of the top 60 golf courses in the country.
We walk in to the fine lobby, we check in, we go up to the 10th floor, (do they put Febreeze in the air up here?) which has a lovely view of the golf course, and South Carolina beyond. Apparently, I have a voucher for the spa tomorrow. And the kids can use the pool.
Not a word. He's in good spirits. "This is just going to give us an extra day of fun!"
Nothing. No comment.
So, in short, I know my husband loves me when he has trekked through every two lane, back-ass town in Georgia for 8 hours, listened to the kids argue about which clone trooper is cooler (clones, people, consider the definition) bought an unexpected stay at a fancy resort, and STILL had enthusiasm for a cheeseburger and beer dinner.
This morning, the kids sorta slept in. They're downstairs getting breakfast.
I'm on my way to the spa. Best. Mistake. Ever.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Catharsis by force
I am a horrible thrower-outer. I keep random crap and lots of it. In fact, when we moved from Missouri, we had an ENTIRE moving van all to ourselves. Over 450 boxes. Of crap! Crap! CRAP!
I am in a cathartic mood, and have been going through cupboards and closets in a vast purging of stuff. I'm not very good at it, though. A stuffed animal somebody bought for E when he was born, but that he never grew attached to? Out! But it's so cute. And it was only our third gift. From people who vaguely knew our parents. Awww. Let's keep it.
Shoes two inches too short? Look how cute they are! So itty bitty! We can't give away shoes that cute!
A 100 piece puzzle with only 99 pieces? But the challenge lies in figuring out which piece is missing! Can you guess before you assemble?
Despite my shortcomings, I try, which is what's important. I got the kids' closets to the point where I can see actual floor. I have two bags of clothing to give away. Two bags of stuffed animals for the fire department. A whole heap of trash. When I go in the bedroom to kiss the kids goodnight, I turn on the closet light so they won't be in the dark. Now that the closets are all clean, I stick my head in there and bask in the order. It feels good.
One thing I am not good at, and as a result, am not in charge of, is paper. The amount of paper that comes in to run a household is remarkable....bills, statements, insurance paperwork, health care paperwork, animal care, home improvement, warranties, guarantees, receipts, tax returns...the list goes on and on.
M has undertaken the paperwork heap. He processes it, sorts it, and organizes it in three ring binders. All very efficient. All so NOT my thing. Very diligently. And I'm not complaining, because I couldn't do it myself. BUT. We have three ring binders from 1999. We have animal care receipts from the dog who is NO LONGER ALIVE. We have utility receipts from houses we no longer own.
Now, don't get me wrong. In a pinch, M has come up with some obscure warranty, receipt or paperwork which has bailed us out of a jam. On the other hand, we have enough paper to provide a high fiber diet to an army of cockroaches up in the attic. It's a fine line. With clothes, or stuffed animals, or toys, it's really hard to mess up when throwing out stuff. In a WORST case scenario, I throw out a pair of pants that seems hopelessly out of fashion, only to to see it reemerge on the scene a half decade later. So, I buy the updated version. But, when I go on a paper shredding binge, I invariably shred something of national security and we're lost. The validity of a purchase agreement is nullified, and we have to pay $10 million to get the floors repaired. Or whatever.
So I don't get involved in the paperwork. I don't try to pitch it or save it or anything. I just leave it. But I want anyone to know that if the attic collapses under the weight of three ring binders full of utility bills from Toronto, that I wasn't in charge of that. Moving boxes 375 to 400 were NOT my doing.
In the end, I am recruiting good thrower outers. I need help getting rid of crap. I don't want to end up like the hoarders on TV, navigating my house through towering heaps of junk. If you want to come help me, the big jobs left are my closet, (Ms and my halves) and the kitchen. I need a ruthless cutter. I need a harsh eye to say that indeed, those skinny jeans are never going to fit.
Bring trash bags, bring boxes. Come armed. I will fight you for those comfy sweats I've had since college. But, come soon. I wanna get this done. Mostly. Sorta.
I am in a cathartic mood, and have been going through cupboards and closets in a vast purging of stuff. I'm not very good at it, though. A stuffed animal somebody bought for E when he was born, but that he never grew attached to? Out! But it's so cute. And it was only our third gift. From people who vaguely knew our parents. Awww. Let's keep it.
Shoes two inches too short? Look how cute they are! So itty bitty! We can't give away shoes that cute!
A 100 piece puzzle with only 99 pieces? But the challenge lies in figuring out which piece is missing! Can you guess before you assemble?
Despite my shortcomings, I try, which is what's important. I got the kids' closets to the point where I can see actual floor. I have two bags of clothing to give away. Two bags of stuffed animals for the fire department. A whole heap of trash. When I go in the bedroom to kiss the kids goodnight, I turn on the closet light so they won't be in the dark. Now that the closets are all clean, I stick my head in there and bask in the order. It feels good.
One thing I am not good at, and as a result, am not in charge of, is paper. The amount of paper that comes in to run a household is remarkable....bills, statements, insurance paperwork, health care paperwork, animal care, home improvement, warranties, guarantees, receipts, tax returns...the list goes on and on.
M has undertaken the paperwork heap. He processes it, sorts it, and organizes it in three ring binders. All very efficient. All so NOT my thing. Very diligently. And I'm not complaining, because I couldn't do it myself. BUT. We have three ring binders from 1999. We have animal care receipts from the dog who is NO LONGER ALIVE. We have utility receipts from houses we no longer own.
Now, don't get me wrong. In a pinch, M has come up with some obscure warranty, receipt or paperwork which has bailed us out of a jam. On the other hand, we have enough paper to provide a high fiber diet to an army of cockroaches up in the attic. It's a fine line. With clothes, or stuffed animals, or toys, it's really hard to mess up when throwing out stuff. In a WORST case scenario, I throw out a pair of pants that seems hopelessly out of fashion, only to to see it reemerge on the scene a half decade later. So, I buy the updated version. But, when I go on a paper shredding binge, I invariably shred something of national security and we're lost. The validity of a purchase agreement is nullified, and we have to pay $10 million to get the floors repaired. Or whatever.
So I don't get involved in the paperwork. I don't try to pitch it or save it or anything. I just leave it. But I want anyone to know that if the attic collapses under the weight of three ring binders full of utility bills from Toronto, that I wasn't in charge of that. Moving boxes 375 to 400 were NOT my doing.
In the end, I am recruiting good thrower outers. I need help getting rid of crap. I don't want to end up like the hoarders on TV, navigating my house through towering heaps of junk. If you want to come help me, the big jobs left are my closet, (Ms and my halves) and the kitchen. I need a ruthless cutter. I need a harsh eye to say that indeed, those skinny jeans are never going to fit.
Bring trash bags, bring boxes. Come armed. I will fight you for those comfy sweats I've had since college. But, come soon. I wanna get this done. Mostly. Sorta.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
A brief anatomy lesson
By and large, I have taught my children facts. The true kind. I haven't sugar coated too much, or fibbed or fudged. I mostly explain their world in their vocabulary in the most straightforward way possible. Example: Boys have penises. Girls do not. However, everyone pees and poops.
Here in Mobile, more so than in other places, parents use nonsense and euphemisms to describe their children's worlds. Such that: Boys have wee wees, girls do not. However, everyone tee tees and potties.
I'm a big grammar aficionado, however it is difficult to determine just how letters and nouns became verbs and pronouns came to represent nouns to which they are unrelated. It's all very confusing.
But, since we live here, I have discouraged the kids from shouting penis. So, the word for genitalia in daily usage (and because we have boys, there is ALWAYS a daily usage) has become tenders. While I am no expert, it seems as though the name seems apt, as men's genitalia do seem pretty tender, and also, it's nicer than nuts or whatever.
So, "MOM! He hit me in the tenders!" or "MOM! I fell on my bike and hurt my tenders!" or "MOM! Don't look at my tenders!" (The last invariably as the speaker is standing on his head nude in the kitchen while I'm making dinner.)
Now, to move the story forward, the only thing that preschool boys are obsessed with more than their tenders is junk food. And since their birth, the boys have eaten nothing but macaroni and cheese, peanut butter and jelly, and chicken nuggets. Thank you, by the way, to Ronald MacDonald who coined the vague term nugget for the equally vague ingredients of whatever goes in a chicken 'food product.' Now, all unidentifiable fried chicken bits are universally known as nuggets.
Except at this one restaurant. That called them chicken tenders. It said it right on the menu, "chicken tenders." And I made the mistake of failing to translate "tender" into "nugget" for S.
You see where this is going, right?
"So, do you want the hot dog, the macaroni, or the chicken tenders?"
*Snicker* *Snort* "Tenders. Heh heh."
"Chicken NUGGETS. Do you want the chicken nuggets?"
"Are chicken nuggets REALLY chickens' tenders?"
"No. They're part of the chickens' breast meat."
"BREAST?!? Heheh."
"No, dopey. Breast meat is muscle. Like this part on you." *poke*
"Have you ever seen a chicken's tenders?"
"No. Have YOU ever seen a chicken's NUGGETS? No. They're different words for the same piece of cut up chicken meat. Do you want the chicken nuggets or not?"
"Fine. Chicken nuggets."
"An excellent choice."
I am quiet for a moment, wondering if I should resuscitate this now defunct subject. I decide to just lob one out there for him:
"By the way. Only roosters have tenders."
Here in Mobile, more so than in other places, parents use nonsense and euphemisms to describe their children's worlds. Such that: Boys have wee wees, girls do not. However, everyone tee tees and potties.
I'm a big grammar aficionado, however it is difficult to determine just how letters and nouns became verbs and pronouns came to represent nouns to which they are unrelated. It's all very confusing.
But, since we live here, I have discouraged the kids from shouting penis. So, the word for genitalia in daily usage (and because we have boys, there is ALWAYS a daily usage) has become tenders. While I am no expert, it seems as though the name seems apt, as men's genitalia do seem pretty tender, and also, it's nicer than nuts or whatever.
So, "MOM! He hit me in the tenders!" or "MOM! I fell on my bike and hurt my tenders!" or "MOM! Don't look at my tenders!" (The last invariably as the speaker is standing on his head nude in the kitchen while I'm making dinner.)
Now, to move the story forward, the only thing that preschool boys are obsessed with more than their tenders is junk food. And since their birth, the boys have eaten nothing but macaroni and cheese, peanut butter and jelly, and chicken nuggets. Thank you, by the way, to Ronald MacDonald who coined the vague term nugget for the equally vague ingredients of whatever goes in a chicken 'food product.' Now, all unidentifiable fried chicken bits are universally known as nuggets.
Except at this one restaurant. That called them chicken tenders. It said it right on the menu, "chicken tenders." And I made the mistake of failing to translate "tender" into "nugget" for S.
You see where this is going, right?
"So, do you want the hot dog, the macaroni, or the chicken tenders?"
*Snicker* *Snort* "Tenders. Heh heh."
"Chicken NUGGETS. Do you want the chicken nuggets?"
"Are chicken nuggets REALLY chickens' tenders?"
"No. They're part of the chickens' breast meat."
"BREAST?!? Heheh."
"No, dopey. Breast meat is muscle. Like this part on you." *poke*
"Have you ever seen a chicken's tenders?"
"No. Have YOU ever seen a chicken's NUGGETS? No. They're different words for the same piece of cut up chicken meat. Do you want the chicken nuggets or not?"
"Fine. Chicken nuggets."
"An excellent choice."
I am quiet for a moment, wondering if I should resuscitate this now defunct subject. I decide to just lob one out there for him:
"By the way. Only roosters have tenders."
Monday, June 14, 2010
There's Lazy and then there's LAZY.
In my eternal quest to lose weight, I found this completely shady quack of a doctor who runs a 'weight loss clinic.'
Ironically, said physician is obese. He has a nurse who takes vitals, and calculates BMI. He meets with each patient for the initial visit, and if the BMI is above 'normal' will prescribe any legal weight loss drug, which he keeps in his office, already packaged. All in exchange for a nice crisp $100 bill. Cash.
Perfectly on the up and up, no?
So, around February, I went for a refill. Which, amazingly, I got from the nurse! Awesome. Hopped up on the scale, got my refill, paid my money and went on my way.
But now, I'm out. And, like a junkie, am thinking of new ways to get my fix. According to the scale, I fall under the parameters of "normal." I was thinking about finding a friend to go, and get the script for me, but then I realize, I would be telling her that she's fat enough to get a drug, while I am not. And I can't really think of any one who would go do that for me after I've called them fat.
So, I'm telling CC my predicament. (If only CC weighed 100 pounds more, she could go get me a refill.) And I tell her I have a new plan: I have these ankle weights...
CC, an exercise buff and Skinny Minnie gets all excited. "Hooray! You could walk early in the morning before it gets hot. That would be great for you."
Sorry to disappoint, but I was thinking more like putting the weights on under my jeans and drinking a gallon of water so that my BMI was pushed out of 'normal' for the weigh-in.
CC's eyes register the cheat. The energy I have spent calculating an easy fix could easily have gone towards legitimate exercise or healthier menu planning. She shakes her head upon its slender neck. "You're nuts." she says.
Which is true. Do you think there's a quack out there running a 'psyciatric clinic?'
Ironically, said physician is obese. He has a nurse who takes vitals, and calculates BMI. He meets with each patient for the initial visit, and if the BMI is above 'normal' will prescribe any legal weight loss drug, which he keeps in his office, already packaged. All in exchange for a nice crisp $100 bill. Cash.
Perfectly on the up and up, no?
So, around February, I went for a refill. Which, amazingly, I got from the nurse! Awesome. Hopped up on the scale, got my refill, paid my money and went on my way.
But now, I'm out. And, like a junkie, am thinking of new ways to get my fix. According to the scale, I fall under the parameters of "normal." I was thinking about finding a friend to go, and get the script for me, but then I realize, I would be telling her that she's fat enough to get a drug, while I am not. And I can't really think of any one who would go do that for me after I've called them fat.
So, I'm telling CC my predicament. (If only CC weighed 100 pounds more, she could go get me a refill.) And I tell her I have a new plan: I have these ankle weights...
CC, an exercise buff and Skinny Minnie gets all excited. "Hooray! You could walk early in the morning before it gets hot. That would be great for you."
Sorry to disappoint, but I was thinking more like putting the weights on under my jeans and drinking a gallon of water so that my BMI was pushed out of 'normal' for the weigh-in.
CC's eyes register the cheat. The energy I have spent calculating an easy fix could easily have gone towards legitimate exercise or healthier menu planning. She shakes her head upon its slender neck. "You're nuts." she says.
Which is true. Do you think there's a quack out there running a 'psyciatric clinic?'
Friday, June 11, 2010
Has the tide turned? I'll eat to that!
So, it's possible, maybe. That summer may not be out of control just yet. The kids have hit their stride in a nice, easy schedule. They've been punished strictly for the last couple of days, so maybe I've laid some nice groundwork about fighting, kicking, hitting, mangling, and otherwise harassing one another and me. I'm giving them lots of fun time on the TV, Wii, and playing together.
Everything's coming up Julie.
IN FACT, yesterday, M came with us to look at a kitchen table...and we found one. It's not the dream kitchen table, but that seemed unobtainable.
See, I found the dream table in a catalog:
http://www.crateandbarrel.com/family.aspx?c=14228&f=28562
There's an audible hiss, the sound of my heart's fantasy deflating.
Everything's coming up Julie.
IN FACT, yesterday, M came with us to look at a kitchen table...and we found one. It's not the dream kitchen table, but that seemed unobtainable.
See, I found the dream table in a catalog:
http://www.crateandbarrel.com/family.aspx?c=14228&f=28562
It's gorgeous. I LOVE it. I called Crate and Barrel to see about delivery and to ask a couple of questions.
The woman who answered the phone was wonderful, and I am eternally grateful for her candor. She said that she had the coordinating credenza and loved it, and thought it was so natural, so zen, so clean looking.
I'm thinking, "yup. Zen and clean, that's what I'm going for!"
She goes on about natural oils, sustainable teak, blah blah....and then, then she says something that makes my ears perk up: "Did you read about the cleaning and caring for this table?"
Wait. Hold it right there. There's a cleaning and caring section? For a table?
There's an audible hiss, the sound of my heart's fantasy deflating.
I explain that I had not, in fact, seen that section, and in fact, have 2 kids. Then, dreading the answer--"is this going to be at odds with my love for zen and clean lines?"
"Ohhh. With two kids, I would reconsider buying this table."
The saleslady is talking me out of a sale? This has gotta be bad.
Just like in the cartoons, the little cloud of my dream with the zen table goes poof.
"Hmmm? Why?"
"Well, because this is a natural, unsealed wood, it is going to absorb oil. So, for example, if you set a pizza box down on the table, and it has a greasy bottom, then the table's going to soak that up. To clean it, you will have to sprinkle talc or baking soda on the grease, let it stay overnight, and then give it a light sand the next day."
"A light sand?"
"Yes, a fine grit sandpaper will remove the outermost layer of the grease stain."
"..from a pizza box."
"Well, anything with oil really. Salad dressing, cheese, anything fried."
"So, what you're telling me, is if by chance, a chicken nugget, or a french fry were to accidentally fall off a plate and alight upon the table or the bench, a grease stain will form and be impossible to remove without an overnight cleaning process that involves a trip to Lowe's?"
"Yes. See? It's not really a table for families."
"Yes. See? It's not really a table for families."
"So, let me see. By the end of the second week of ownership, I will have four chairs sitting around a heap of sawdust and sanding residue. My table will be sanded away. And yet, the catalog suggests years of use?"
"Not really for families."
No. Not really. Or for people with thumbs. Or people with homework, crafts, school projects. Or for people who eat food, except for raw vegetables and salads without dips or dressings. Or people with skin, whose natural oils MAY leave fingerprints on the table.
"In fact, the credenza that I use in my home office is deeply worn and stained where my hands touch it every day. I like the worn look, but that may not be what you're going for."
What the hell happened to zen and clean? Now we're looking at worn and stained?!
Needless to say, the zen kitchen table porn turned out much like all porn when viewed in high-def: kinda blemished, overly made-up, and disappointing. So, after the remarkably candid conversation with the Crate and Barrel woman a few weeks ago, I gave up.
Until two days ago at the fountains on the other side of the bay. I went with friend MT to look for a desk chair for her new home office area. We walked in, and lo, there was a table: half the price of the catalog porn. Capable of handling greasy fingers. Not quite the heavenly vision, draped in halos and golden robes, but feasible. Possible. Real.
Yesterday, I took M back to survey the table. Price? Better. Not screaming at the kids when they spill? Much better. I got him signed on.
The biggest problem was, of course, that said table could not possibly fit in my car. I abandoned M and E at the store, and ran over to Lowe's (again with the hardware!) and bought webbing tie-downs. Came back over, and Brian, the style consultant and Wade, his sidekick, ratcheted that sucker down on top of my car.
Of course, everyone dreaded the trip back over the bay with a 200 pound table strapped to the car, but we made it without incident. (Great job Brian and Wade!) Legs secured, painters (here to repair the damage from the flood) helped to carry it in, and voila:
Low-def kitchen table porn. Suitable for life. Families. Grilled cheese.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Forecast
My biorhythms are off. There's a whole lot of evidence that points to my being out of synch. Including the fact that I had to retype rhythms like 15 times because I couldn't spell it correctly.
Everything is off today. My ears are all echo-y. The kids are squirrely and it's pissing me off in a disproportionate fashion. M snuck up on the kids and me at breakfast and BOO!'d us. It actually just pissed me off.
I've gone through the usual suspects. But I've taken my medication. I'm not hungover. I don't think I have a cold. Which leaves only one possibility.
Oh, no.
Dread.
Crap.
PMS.
Perfect Month, Shot.
I think for a while, doctors were prescribing Yaz (or another medication with an X or a Z) for people with severe PMS. But I think they found that caused people's hearts to explode or something. They actually have a term for severe PMS, (though doctors have a term for everything) which is PMDD. Pre Menstrual Dysphoric Disorder.
I love that. PMDD. Because BFH (bitch from hell) just doesn't have the same clinical ring to it, does it?
Well, my PMDD is flaring up. And like other things that flare up--herpes, hemorrhoids, shingles--my self-diagnosed PMDD is making me cranky. I can't even stand myself. Lesser humans might as well start beating themselves with shovels when they see me. Save me the trouble of having to go get my shovel.
I'm very very intolerant. And mean. OOOOOO-WEEEEE. Mean. Like one of those horrible rodent things...badgers or wolverines. Snarly, even.
Today's plan was to:
Everything is off today. My ears are all echo-y. The kids are squirrely and it's pissing me off in a disproportionate fashion. M snuck up on the kids and me at breakfast and BOO!'d us. It actually just pissed me off.
I've gone through the usual suspects. But I've taken my medication. I'm not hungover. I don't think I have a cold. Which leaves only one possibility.
Oh, no.
Dread.
Crap.
PMS.
Perfect Month, Shot.
I think for a while, doctors were prescribing Yaz (or another medication with an X or a Z) for people with severe PMS. But I think they found that caused people's hearts to explode or something. They actually have a term for severe PMS, (though doctors have a term for everything) which is PMDD. Pre Menstrual Dysphoric Disorder.
I love that. PMDD. Because BFH (bitch from hell) just doesn't have the same clinical ring to it, does it?
Well, my PMDD is flaring up. And like other things that flare up--herpes, hemorrhoids, shingles--my self-diagnosed PMDD is making me cranky. I can't even stand myself. Lesser humans might as well start beating themselves with shovels when they see me. Save me the trouble of having to go get my shovel.
I'm very very intolerant. And mean. OOOOOO-WEEEEE. Mean. Like one of those horrible rodent things...badgers or wolverines. Snarly, even.
Today's plan was to:
- Wait for the painters who have come to fix the flood (finally)
- Pick up the house just a bit
- Run a load of laundry
- Shower
- Head over to the Eastern Shore to let the kids play with friends in the fountains there
- Pick up something easy to make for dinner
- Make dinner
- Go to bed
Today's plan has been amended to suit the shift in my mood:
- Where the hell are the painters? It's 9:20. I went down to the paint store in the Loop at 6:40 this morning to make sure they had paint to use. The least they could do is get here during business hours.
- The housekeeper was here YESTERDAY, for chrissakes. How could there be crap to pick up already? We weren't even HOME for most of the day. Ingrates. Slobs. They should pick up after themselves.
- Heaps. Mounds of laundry. I'll run some towels. At least they don't need to be ironed.
- Ugh. Shower means hair wash. Hair wash means blow dry. Blow dry means actually taking cool air, heating it, and then blowing it back into the house where we pay to have it cooled back down again. When it's a million and half degrees outside. Sounds like a BRILLIANT idea. But, of course, if I don't blow dry, I go outside looking like a homeless person or Courtney Love. And since I already have a face breakout rivaling that of a hormone-riddled teenager, I should probably stay away from the whole grunge ensemble. I'll look like a meth addict.
- Herd the little ingrates into the car. Pack the little ingrates' clothing. Make sure there's sunblock so the little ingrates don't get skin cancer. Pack food so the little ingrates don't starve. Haul them across the bay while listening to them bicker and squabble in the back seat. Listen to them complain about how cold the water is/how hot the sun is/too many kids to play in the fountain/not enough kids to play with. Drive ingrates home. Listen to them bicker and snipe in the back seat.
- Pick up something easy for dinner. "I don't like that. I won't eat this. I want to eat bubble gum ice cream with cookies for dinner." Bring food home. Make dinner. Beg and bribe ingrates to eat dinner. Clean up dinner.
- Drink. Alcoholic beverage consumption does not actually need to be put on the To-Do list of a non-alcoholic. However, as I am beastly unpleasant to be with (even for myself) a cocktail is an imperative. There might even be more than one. Drink is definitely on the To-Do list of some one suffering from self-diagnosed PMDD.
- Go to bed. With a heating pad, no doubt. By 9. Yell at the kids who won't be asleep before me. Toss and turn with nightmares generated by the foul vapours of my own body chemistry. Hope for the best.
Tomorrow's forecast: ominous, dark, unpredictable thunderstorms of illogical ranting and raving. Followed by irritability and crankiness for the next 5 to 7 days. Then, clearing. Partly sunny. But only partly--did you expect miracles?
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Dear Pool Man,
I realize you are probably reading this on your laptop with wireless Internet while sipping margaritas by your pool. Is the glare off the screen harsh? Perhaps you should check the messages on your cell. I think my husband has left several. Hundred. Thousand.
Is the pool water refreshing? It was 97 degrees here yesterday. Very hot. Humid, too, especially for June. I imagine that by July, the heat will be nearly unbearable. Did your kids enjoy the pool? Do they have cool inflatable toys? I saw these hammocks that you can attach to the foam noodles and sit comfortably in the water. I notice some of them even have cupholders! That would be terrific, wouldn't it? Sipping margaritas in the pool!? Wow.
Having a pool REALLY is a luxury in this climate. And, sure, the maintenance is kind of a pain. But, being a pool man, you can probably zip through those chemical tests really quickly. I bet your pool water is sparkling clear. Unless you have a pool man, which would be funny. Although, I suspect you have time to tend to your marine refuge.
Yesterday, a friend invited us to their swim club for the day. The boys spent hours in the water, diving, splashing, playing like little otters. They really enjoyed the refreshing, cool oasis. We had a snack and everything. The pool club is very nice, although packing all the stuff is kind of a pain. What would be easier is to have a big bin with towels and sunblock and goggles and swim toys right by the pool. But, you probably have that at your house. For your kids.
I, too, have a bin right by the pool. I also have an over-sized umbrella and lounge chairs. I bought an outdoor fan with a mister, because the heat is really harsh in the backyard. We don't have any shade back there. But, fortunately, we haven't had to endure the harsh sun on the back pool deck yet this summer.
BECAUSE WE DON'T HAVE A MOTHER #&(!*& POOL.
Do you know why we don't have a MOTHER *&(&^% pool yet?
Because YOU haven't finished your MOTHER (&@#(&^ job.
In March, you came by our house and measured the pool liner for a replacement. You've stopped by unpredictably and intermittently since then. We had the pool all full for about 8 hours, but the liner you installed was torn. And all the expensive water ran out of the pool bottom. Now, we have about 8 inches of water in the deep end. Sadly, that is not even enough water to cool poor, hot Clooney. Even if the water weren't all cloudy and disgusting.
If at all possible, could you please leave your poolside chaise lounge, take your adult Ritalin and get your self to my backyard? I would so appreciate having a pool sometime this summer. I mean, having to go outside in the middle of the icy night to make sure the filter was running so that water wouldn't freeze and rupture the whole pipe system was one way to enjoy the pool this past winter. But, right now, I'm feeling that an EVEN BETTER way to enjoy the pool would be to sip margaritas while floating blissfully around. I'm sure that you feel the same way about YOUR pool.
So, in conclusion, dear Pool Man, I am asking that when you get a chance, if you could, maybe, possibly, consider coming over and fixing my pool so that we could fill it up and swim in it, I would TOTALLY appreciate that.
Sincerely,
Julie
I realize you are probably reading this on your laptop with wireless Internet while sipping margaritas by your pool. Is the glare off the screen harsh? Perhaps you should check the messages on your cell. I think my husband has left several. Hundred. Thousand.
Is the pool water refreshing? It was 97 degrees here yesterday. Very hot. Humid, too, especially for June. I imagine that by July, the heat will be nearly unbearable. Did your kids enjoy the pool? Do they have cool inflatable toys? I saw these hammocks that you can attach to the foam noodles and sit comfortably in the water. I notice some of them even have cupholders! That would be terrific, wouldn't it? Sipping margaritas in the pool!? Wow.
Having a pool REALLY is a luxury in this climate. And, sure, the maintenance is kind of a pain. But, being a pool man, you can probably zip through those chemical tests really quickly. I bet your pool water is sparkling clear. Unless you have a pool man, which would be funny. Although, I suspect you have time to tend to your marine refuge.
Yesterday, a friend invited us to their swim club for the day. The boys spent hours in the water, diving, splashing, playing like little otters. They really enjoyed the refreshing, cool oasis. We had a snack and everything. The pool club is very nice, although packing all the stuff is kind of a pain. What would be easier is to have a big bin with towels and sunblock and goggles and swim toys right by the pool. But, you probably have that at your house. For your kids.
I, too, have a bin right by the pool. I also have an over-sized umbrella and lounge chairs. I bought an outdoor fan with a mister, because the heat is really harsh in the backyard. We don't have any shade back there. But, fortunately, we haven't had to endure the harsh sun on the back pool deck yet this summer.
BECAUSE WE DON'T HAVE A MOTHER #&(!*& POOL.
Do you know why we don't have a MOTHER *&(&^% pool yet?
Because YOU haven't finished your MOTHER (&@#(&^ job.
In March, you came by our house and measured the pool liner for a replacement. You've stopped by unpredictably and intermittently since then. We had the pool all full for about 8 hours, but the liner you installed was torn. And all the expensive water ran out of the pool bottom. Now, we have about 8 inches of water in the deep end. Sadly, that is not even enough water to cool poor, hot Clooney. Even if the water weren't all cloudy and disgusting.
If at all possible, could you please leave your poolside chaise lounge, take your adult Ritalin and get your self to my backyard? I would so appreciate having a pool sometime this summer. I mean, having to go outside in the middle of the icy night to make sure the filter was running so that water wouldn't freeze and rupture the whole pipe system was one way to enjoy the pool this past winter. But, right now, I'm feeling that an EVEN BETTER way to enjoy the pool would be to sip margaritas while floating blissfully around. I'm sure that you feel the same way about YOUR pool.
So, in conclusion, dear Pool Man, I am asking that when you get a chance, if you could, maybe, possibly, consider coming over and fixing my pool so that we could fill it up and swim in it, I would TOTALLY appreciate that.
Sincerely,
Julie
Monday, June 7, 2010
Let's do THAT again
You know how when you watch something weird on TV, you think, "that's weird. Why would any one spend their time on that? Like rhythmic gymnastics? Or synchronised swimming? OK. The effect is cool, but wtf?"
Those women spent hours in sequined, ride-up swimsuits with noseplugs and swimcaps so they could tread water at the same time? Wha?
This is how I feel about family vacations. We spent hours planning, cajoling, begging, bribing, rewarding, so we could take the kids to see stuff we hope they'll like/learn from/enjoy. Wha?
The trip to New York began with hours on the Internet and Google Maps. How far from here to here? How long can we spend there? What is the rating for this attraction? Is this age appropriate? Is this too far to walk? M spent time poring over the subway map. Which train? Which transfer? How long to get there? Yankees tickets or Mets? Afternoon or evening? Weather forecast? Seat map? Seat costs? Subway? Cab?
Suicide or Homicide? Both?
While, from an objective point of view, my kids were well behaved on the entire trip, the amount of energy required to generate that result was completely ridiculous. In the same way humans can tread water without sequined suits and lipstick, can't children just enjoy zoos and restaurants and cool museums? Why did we need to rehearse, explain, map out, and BEG (LITERALLY BEG!?!) for cooperation?
Would I, on my own have gone to see the Museum of Natural History? (Well, subtract for the moment that would I, on my own, have gone to NYC?) No. Would I have gone to the petri dish of a hands-on technology center? No. Would I have gone to places that guaranteed hot dog/chicken fingers/ mac and cheese on the menu? No. Can my kids appreciate that while this trip is a family endeavor, it also represents a great deal of sacrifice on the part of the parents?
Hell, no.
So, here M and I are. In our sparkly leotards, dragging a foil ribbon on a stick behind us. Practicing a somersaults. Twirling, spinning, dancing like little gymnasts. Trying desperately to entertain our children and open their eyes to the world.
And they're too busy punching each other's nuts in the hotel room to notice.
Those women spent hours in sequined, ride-up swimsuits with noseplugs and swimcaps so they could tread water at the same time? Wha?
This is how I feel about family vacations. We spent hours planning, cajoling, begging, bribing, rewarding, so we could take the kids to see stuff we hope they'll like/learn from/enjoy. Wha?
The trip to New York began with hours on the Internet and Google Maps. How far from here to here? How long can we spend there? What is the rating for this attraction? Is this age appropriate? Is this too far to walk? M spent time poring over the subway map. Which train? Which transfer? How long to get there? Yankees tickets or Mets? Afternoon or evening? Weather forecast? Seat map? Seat costs? Subway? Cab?
Suicide or Homicide? Both?
While, from an objective point of view, my kids were well behaved on the entire trip, the amount of energy required to generate that result was completely ridiculous. In the same way humans can tread water without sequined suits and lipstick, can't children just enjoy zoos and restaurants and cool museums? Why did we need to rehearse, explain, map out, and BEG (LITERALLY BEG!?!) for cooperation?
Would I, on my own have gone to see the Museum of Natural History? (Well, subtract for the moment that would I, on my own, have gone to NYC?) No. Would I have gone to the petri dish of a hands-on technology center? No. Would I have gone to places that guaranteed hot dog/chicken fingers/ mac and cheese on the menu? No. Can my kids appreciate that while this trip is a family endeavor, it also represents a great deal of sacrifice on the part of the parents?
Hell, no.
So, here M and I are. In our sparkly leotards, dragging a foil ribbon on a stick behind us. Practicing a somersaults. Twirling, spinning, dancing like little gymnasts. Trying desperately to entertain our children and open their eyes to the world.
And they're too busy punching each other's nuts in the hotel room to notice.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
I don't heart NY, NY doesn't heart me
I get it. I'm a rube, a boob and a boor. I'm a hick, and uncivilized, and a bumpkin. I'm unappreciative of everything vital and visceral and real that makes the world function as I know it.
Start pointing and laughing at the little girl from Alabama: I don't like New York City.
Are ya done? I can give you some superficial reasons--I don't like musical theater. Or really, non-musical theater. I'm not crazy experimental with food. So if you take me to an Ethiopian-Mexican fusion place, I'm probably not going to be totally psyched. I have a sensitive sense of smell. I don't like sitting on a taxi seat that has been sat upon by 8 million other butts. *shiver*
There's also a more fundamental reason. And it has more to do with how and where I was raised. And probably the fact that my parents don't love New York, either. This reason is twofold: I need horizon. I need to see the sun move across the sky. I need to see the day end (and unfortunately with kids) I often see the day begin. I need to look before me and see space, not people, or buildings, or scaffolding. I need the sky to orient myself, not only by compass points, but in a more primal way. I get lost in the city. Take Chicago, for example. Big city, yes? Skyscrapers, noise, subways churning and pulsing underfoot. Stinky. But, in one moment, I can cross Lake Shore Drive and there I am, looking at what, for all intents and purposes, could be an ocean. A distant horizon. Possibility.
Second, I need to be away from people. You might have suspected this, but I don't like people very much. And in the city, it's impossible to get away from them or their presence. In an apartment, I'm aware of them above me, and below me. I'm aware of them on the street as they brusquely move by me. I'm aware of them in the park, as I can still hear the cars, the louder conversations.
We went to the petting zoo in central park, and we saw the most stressed out farm animals I've ever seen. They live near a hospital or an ambulance center, or something, and in the course of the ten minutes we were there, 3 ambulances screeched by. The calf finally had enough and went into his lean-to and set his head down. The goat looked like he'd been butting the cement wall for some time, and the llamas, well, they looked ridiculous because they'd just been shorn.
But I felt like the calf. I NEED silence occasionally. I need to be alone with something greater than me--the ocean is my favorite, a lake of any size will do, the woods, my house when I'm alone. I can find places where I can imagine I'm the only person in the world and there is total science. I can listen to the lapping of waves or the pounding of surf and remember that I am a basic animal. I'm not a big camper--I like my suburban conveniences. But I like to walk in the woods, and listen to the peculiar sound the wind makes through pine needles. To see the seasons. To smell the moss and the damp decay.
So, maybe it's because I've got a west coast bias. I share the love of things that a lot of people out there do. Sure, the pace is slower. Sure, the people are generally working at jobs that have smaller stakes than Wall Street experts who shape the world's economy. But when I go back to SoCal, people are running on the beach, not with ipods to create their isolation, but just their moving body and the beach and the water. Instead of hitting the gym before work, a lucky few hit the beach for some early morning surfing. There's the remnants of natural harmony, and no one's fighting that vestigial impulse to find nature.
That being said, I respect the city. Fine. Stop snickering at me, New York.
So, our trip to the Big Apple (why apple?) is obviously something I have to psych myself up for. It was a four day extravaganza, and a monumental walking tour. Of course, with every step, in front of nearly every building, I thought, "wouldn't a pressure washer make this just SO much nicer?" I mean, HONESTLY, as long as the super is there, how hard would it be to go out there once a week, blast the dog crap and gum of the sidewalk, and that blackish grime off the bottom six inches of the building that is a nasty dried combination of pedestrian's spilled drinks, dog pee, crap splashed up from the street, and please, GOD don't tell me what else? What the city needs is a little bleach and a nuclear-cloud sized amount of Febreeze.
Human nature is NOT the kind of nature I like to hang out around.
But, we're home. And the thunderstorm rolled through last night, and I sat by the window and listened to it pour. It's nice to be home.
Start pointing and laughing at the little girl from Alabama: I don't like New York City.
Are ya done? I can give you some superficial reasons--I don't like musical theater. Or really, non-musical theater. I'm not crazy experimental with food. So if you take me to an Ethiopian-Mexican fusion place, I'm probably not going to be totally psyched. I have a sensitive sense of smell. I don't like sitting on a taxi seat that has been sat upon by 8 million other butts. *shiver*
There's also a more fundamental reason. And it has more to do with how and where I was raised. And probably the fact that my parents don't love New York, either. This reason is twofold: I need horizon. I need to see the sun move across the sky. I need to see the day end (and unfortunately with kids) I often see the day begin. I need to look before me and see space, not people, or buildings, or scaffolding. I need the sky to orient myself, not only by compass points, but in a more primal way. I get lost in the city. Take Chicago, for example. Big city, yes? Skyscrapers, noise, subways churning and pulsing underfoot. Stinky. But, in one moment, I can cross Lake Shore Drive and there I am, looking at what, for all intents and purposes, could be an ocean. A distant horizon. Possibility.
Second, I need to be away from people. You might have suspected this, but I don't like people very much. And in the city, it's impossible to get away from them or their presence. In an apartment, I'm aware of them above me, and below me. I'm aware of them on the street as they brusquely move by me. I'm aware of them in the park, as I can still hear the cars, the louder conversations.
We went to the petting zoo in central park, and we saw the most stressed out farm animals I've ever seen. They live near a hospital or an ambulance center, or something, and in the course of the ten minutes we were there, 3 ambulances screeched by. The calf finally had enough and went into his lean-to and set his head down. The goat looked like he'd been butting the cement wall for some time, and the llamas, well, they looked ridiculous because they'd just been shorn.
But I felt like the calf. I NEED silence occasionally. I need to be alone with something greater than me--the ocean is my favorite, a lake of any size will do, the woods, my house when I'm alone. I can find places where I can imagine I'm the only person in the world and there is total science. I can listen to the lapping of waves or the pounding of surf and remember that I am a basic animal. I'm not a big camper--I like my suburban conveniences. But I like to walk in the woods, and listen to the peculiar sound the wind makes through pine needles. To see the seasons. To smell the moss and the damp decay.
So, maybe it's because I've got a west coast bias. I share the love of things that a lot of people out there do. Sure, the pace is slower. Sure, the people are generally working at jobs that have smaller stakes than Wall Street experts who shape the world's economy. But when I go back to SoCal, people are running on the beach, not with ipods to create their isolation, but just their moving body and the beach and the water. Instead of hitting the gym before work, a lucky few hit the beach for some early morning surfing. There's the remnants of natural harmony, and no one's fighting that vestigial impulse to find nature.
That being said, I respect the city. Fine. Stop snickering at me, New York.
So, our trip to the Big Apple (why apple?) is obviously something I have to psych myself up for. It was a four day extravaganza, and a monumental walking tour. Of course, with every step, in front of nearly every building, I thought, "wouldn't a pressure washer make this just SO much nicer?" I mean, HONESTLY, as long as the super is there, how hard would it be to go out there once a week, blast the dog crap and gum of the sidewalk, and that blackish grime off the bottom six inches of the building that is a nasty dried combination of pedestrian's spilled drinks, dog pee, crap splashed up from the street, and please, GOD don't tell me what else? What the city needs is a little bleach and a nuclear-cloud sized amount of Febreeze.
Human nature is NOT the kind of nature I like to hang out around.
But, we're home. And the thunderstorm rolled through last night, and I sat by the window and listened to it pour. It's nice to be home.
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