Friday, November 30, 2012

What's the upkeep on a ball pit?

Cool.
Every year, as the cold weather settles in, I ask Jon why we bought an old house. It's so drafty. Like every day. Like every minute of every day I'm cold. I wear a silly number of ugly, bulky layers and I carry a space heater from room to room. Yet my toes are ice.

Jon gently reminds me that I insisted on an old house. It's all my fault.

So why is my misery in the "cool" category, when "cool" is not meant to be literal? Because this is the time of year I start dreaming. Dreaming about vacation, dreaming about summer, dreaming about summer vacation where I'll bury my toes in the hot, hot sand and smile.

I like to dream. Some of it isn't very realistic. The Powerball, for example. I did a little dreaming, a little envisioning, a little planning. It felt good. Got me to sleep one night. I don't think we matched a single number.

I also dream and plan about definite possibilities. Our annual March getaway. Last year we went to London. This year I'm pushing for the tropics. Maybe St. Thomas. Marriott has a beautiful, newly renovated property with a swim up bar in an infinity pool. Both, together. It's almost too much lavish luxury for this overly-layered housewife to handle! If there's a steel drum band anywhere within earshot, I may need to stop time and never, ever leave that infinity pool. For all infinity.

(I just took a break to move the space heater closer. My fingers are frozen.)

When the thermometer dips, I also start thinking about the house we'll rent at the beach. And sunsets over the bay. And the coconuty smell of sunblock. And sun-kissed shoulders. Sun. Sun. It's glorious.

With summer on my brain, yesterday I mentioned to Edy that her best pal's mother's friend runs a camp in Canada and she was invited to possibly attend. Thinking about something that may occur in seven or more months is torture for a kid. That's a long time to wait when you're eight! But I persisted out of my own need to think toasty thoughts. I asked her if she'd be "up for it," to which she responded with three quick questions:

1. Will Jessie's mom just drop us off in Canada? (Pretty much.)
2. Will I be staying in a hotel? (Uh, no.)
3. Will I be able to catch my own lunch? (Fish? Maybe. Small game? Unlikely.)

I don't know if I could give up Edy for a week or more. That kind of organic humor is truly better than anything I could ever imagine myself. It warms my heart, just not my hands.

Crazy.
It's back. A show that started out well-meaning, and has become an over-the-top mess. As is the case with so many things these days.

Extreme Home Makeover. Great idea. Deserving people. Ridiculous execution.

#1 - There is no way quality construction can happen in 5 days. Walls will buckle, lights will fail, pipes will leak.

#2 - The exploitation of the families is immensely uncomfortable.

Lu, of course, thinks it's spectacular. This provided me with a perplexing parental moment. Do I just nod and agree that it's nice to help people, or do I break it down and burst her sweet bubble?

For example, in the episode we watched (I only caught a few minutes, but it was enough) the designers made a Wipeout room for the family's adopted two-year-old. He's two! How can he be a Wipeout fan? Really?! It was such blatant cross-promotion of abc's big-ratings hits that I wanted to vomit. And speaking of vomit, there was a ball pit in his room!! What's the upkeep on a ball pit?

In one of my better parenting moments, I decided that explaining "blatant cross-promotion" to Lu was way harder than simply nodding. She caught me at a weak and tired moment.

Here is a parody of Extreme Home Makeover from several years ago. Super, duper silly and so spot on.





Friday, November 23, 2012

Travel-weary side dishes.

It's the day after Thanksgiving and I'm still in recovery mode. Meaning, I feel fat. Emotionally, I am a-okay. It was a very pleasant afternoon spent with an ultra pleasant group.

Not that the day was without excitement. After the turkey finished roasting, the oven displayed some strange probe light and wouldn't stay warm. We all ran around like idiots, searching for manuals and model numbers, calling 1-800 help lines, Googling in excess, and saying "probe" over and over again. Nothing worked.

Then several sources suggested we turn off the power for a few minutes. So we turned off the power... and the cable and the internet. Before I could blink, Jon was on the phone trying to resolve these new (pressing?) issues while the rest of us debated and discussed what to do because the probe light was still glowing, taunting, and our side dishes were still cold.

Probe. Probe. Probe.

"Let's take all these side dishes to my neighbors' house," I suggested. "They are away. I have a key. They won't mind!"

So a few of us carried a small parade of foil covered casseroles next door only to have trouble with their oven. Seriously. So we plodded back home with our less enthusiastic parade of side dishes and decided to cook them on the grill. Desperate times. We hauled the sleepy Weber out of the garage where it's been hiding since the hurricane and fired it up all nice and smokey and hamburger-smelling.

Inside, Jon had now completed his call to the cable/internet company. Football games were once again blasting from every tv. Alleluia!
When we caught him up on our lasted scheme, he was very much against heating his beloved stuffing on the grill. "There are more keys for more neighbors!" I shouted, ready to lead another Pyrex procession when I realized a few guests were attempting to inform me of a positive development. The nasty probe light was gone. Just like that! And the oven was working. Just like that! We loaded it up with our travel-weary side dishes and the rest of the day was perfect.

In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I am writing about two cool things this week. No crazy.

Cool #1.
When your husband is overseas for the week leading up to Thanksgiving and you are the host everyone is counting on, it's time to delegate. My first cool item is help.

The yard crew came on Monday and a group of five men accomplished in twenty minutes what would have taken Jon hours and hours to tackle. They even edged the beds which classes up the place like nobody's business. 

The best part? All those leaves leave. They load them in their truck and buh-bye. Around here, we are supposed to rake to the street and then the scary leaf eater comes by when it damn well feels like it and sucks up (most of) the messy pile.

As lame as the leaf eater may seem, in Baltimore, we had to rake and then bag. That was the worst. Making small mounds all over the yard, then stuffing those mounds into garbage bags. Leaves up your sleeves. So tedious.

The fabulous house cleaners came on Wednesday. I love them. They tie the ends of the toilet paper into little roses. It makes me happy beyond description.

Yeah for help!

Cool #2.
If you know me at all, you could conclude that the latest PBS/Ken Burns documentary is exactly what I live for. 

The Dust Bowl is fantastic. Amazing. So sad, but cool because it puts everything into perspective. A broken oven on Thanksgiving. Not cool. (Literally and figuratively.) Losing your children to dust pneumonia. Total devastation. Watch it and try to empathize. Just try. The footage is mesmerizing, the interviews are heartbreaking. Watch it! Watch it! 

(Unless you're like Jon, "king of the rom-com," who believes anything upsetting - fact or fiction - is a complete waste of time. Then I advise you to steer clear and blast more football.)





Friday, November 16, 2012

My Thanksgiving vortex.

Jon had a nice, quiet summer. This was great, but mildly stressful for a guy who likes to stay busy. I reminded him to appreciate the break. Golf another round. You will be busy again.

Now he's busy again. And we're hosting Thanksgiving. And I'm addicted to Words with Friends. This is a recipe for frustration and really terrible gravy.


Crazy.
Thanksgiving.

Lots of people love it. It's Jon's favorite holiday. He enjoys the food. I enjoy the food. (Tart cranberries and savory stuffing in one bite. Yum.) I also enjoy the weather. But the menu and crisp air don't always counter the heaping helpings of family drama. There is always family drama.


It's amazing how people don't behave the way I want them to. Honestly. Life would be so much better and holidays would be like magazine articles, all cheerful and glossy. Don't you want that for yourself? Everybody does! Or at least they should. Our time here is short.


I admit that I have very high standards. Why not? High standards make for better table displays. It's true. And I admit that I have a hard time letting go of the past. But I try. I practice deep breathing exercises. I give myself pep-up pep talks. I remember all the fantastic things that surround me. Yes, being thankful helps me mentally prepare for Thanksgiving, a day about giving thanks and the cause of my stress. Do you see it? That statement is a big wheel of strange irony. Stand close and you might get sucked into its vortex. Tempting.


The Thanksgivings of my childhood were simple and perfect. Or at least that's how I remember them. We don't have many pictures so it's all in my head. Warmth. Smiles. Family. Love. Bad clothes.


How I wish I could ask my mom for an actual analysis. I'm sure she had opinions. She had lots of opinions. And I'm equally sure some were snarky. She had lots of snarky opinions. There is no doubt she resisted the urge to strangle someone at some point -- all while I merrily arranged homemade name cards on shiny china plates. (My kids are oblivious, too. It's good.) How odd that I feel especially connected to my mother when I'm totally frustrated with my family. I think I miss her more because I understand her more. 


On that "less than positive/missing my mother/considering the upside of strangulation" note, please enjoy your Thanksgiving. May the success of your gravy outshine whatever drama is brought to the table. No one can gripe with their mouths full.


Cool.
I am, admittedly, always late to a trend. And many times I need to be pushed and bullied into trying something new. I am comfortable with the status quo. "Same old, same old" is a big, soft sofa by a roaring fire. Getting up and going anywhere would just be cold.

I had heard of Words with Friends. I'm not under a rock! (More like a landscape gnome. It's fiberglass. I can peak out on occasion.) But it never, ever occurred to me to play. There are lots of social media-inspired games that look like trouble. I avoid trouble.


Then my ten year-old started playing with her cousin. Then she got a hold of my phone and signed me up. Then she challenged people to games. So there you have it. I started playing because my daughter made me.


Wouldn't you know, I love it! It's so chill, but fun. Move at your own pace. Exercise your mind. Yes, it brings out my nutty competitive nature, but the "luck" factor of random letters keeps me humble. Yeah for Words with Friends!!


Speaking of random, I am actively playing games with two very random people from my past. Good people. Smart people. But very, very unexpected people. Joby, you will never guess.


I could very nearly spell "refreshments" in a recent game. I like that word and I had a hard time letting it go. Refreshments offer such hope usually in a barely tolerable situation. Like during a meeting or at a boring open house or church function. The promise of a light bite makes it all better, even if the actual spread doesn't live up to your expectations. At its best, you get sugar cookies, maybe some buttery cracker rounds and squares of cheese, dips aren't out of the question, watered-down punch is typical. But it all tastes like heaven. Those refreshments are all you have. They save the day!


Maybe I should skip the turkey and offer refreshments on Thanksgiving? It's a thought and not a bad one.


Friday, November 9, 2012

Prediction: lots of friendly smiles in the cereal aisle.

I try to keep the negativity to a minimum on this blog and I definitely limit the amount I complain about specific people. I know writers who maintain anonymous blogs just to vent. I might explore this particular possibility for mental health reasons. I could write chapters and chapters. And chapters.

Crazy.
Here's something I hate that isn't aimed at one person. There are probably about five of you. Women I've met many times who fail to recognize me on a consistent basis.

It is mind-boggling.

How do you not remember me? I taught Sunday School with you. We spent an entire morning chatting about our lives, our one-time careers, your random birthplace, your current and not-that-interesting enterprises. Why do you look right past me in the cereal aisle? Private school and public school families can commingle. It happens all the time!

Or lady who I talked to at a party. I know some semi-personal details concerning your husband. How can you pass me, almost weekly, in town, at the post office, buying gas, and not say a friendly hello? It's basic social grace and you don't got it.

Or mom who's kid was in my kid's class for two years in a row. We sat next to each other at holiday celebrations, in very small chairs, sipping Dixie cups of apple juice.

I understand forgetfulness. Don't ask me what I had for lunch or what we did last weekend. (Please, don't ever ask me what I had for lunch last weekend!) 
Yesterday, I woke up with a headache. I wanted medicine, but I couldn't remember if I already took some. For the life of me. I had to wait it out. Ouch. And I mix up names more than I get them right.

So I understand. Sometimes I feel like my mind files are full. But, thankfully, common courtesy tends to prevail.

I do not take your absent expression personally. I accept that you compartmentalize and I am in the unimportant compartment. It's cozy there. You've packed a lot of us together.

And in case you're worried, I'm not seeking bestie status. I don't need you to like me. I'm not interested in side-by-side pedis. I don't want to carpool to the Lilly Pulitzer sale. I don't like Lilly Pulitzer all that much. There, I said it.

Just be polite. It's a goes-around, comes-around, karmic world. Smile. It can't hurt.

I'm probably not talking about you. But if you suspect you are this kind of person, stop it.


Cool.
Happy birthday, Bea! Today, you are two! Not to mention too cool, too cute, too silly and too fun.

We tried to have you for what seemed like an eternity but was actually four years. You didn't like all that stressful fussing. You sat up on your baby cloud in baby heaven and waited until we gave up. Then you decided it was time. Time for our family to get a Bea, which can be best described as a giant burst of everything sweet with a tiny side of trouble.

I'm not sappy. I don't get overly gushy with my children and their milestones. I wasn't like that with Lu and I'm even less like that with kid #3. 

I have a parent magazine that somehow arrives monthly in my mail. On the last page, they feature a reader-submitted photo with caption. This month's "winner" is a baby grabbing a piece of birthday cake and shoving it in her mouth. It's adorable, but the caption is ridiculous. I'm paraphrasing, but it says something about how the captured scene sums up her daughter's approach to life. Really? She's one. And you just put cake within her reach. Don't over-analyze! Her approach is "eat the cake!" Next it will be "poop the cake!"

Then it snowed, just a little, a few days ago. And I became a mushy mess. I led Bea to the window and pointed out the fat, wet flakes falling, swirling. Watching her watch the snow was totally emotional. I could sense, feel, see the circuitry firing in her little red head. Fine and beautiful. Smart and perfect. "Wait. I've seen this before. I think. And I've heard about it. It's snow. It's really snow. Right now." The sense of wonder was almost too much. 

Then it turned to rain and Bea went about coloring on more walls. Maybe the tiny side of trouble is more like an entree at a steak house. Thank God for the Magic Eraser. I know I've written about the Mr. Clean bottle I played with as a child. Well, our relationship continues. Those fantastic rectangles of space-age foam-ish material are ah-may-zing!

Bottom line is - I love Bea. We all do. She is constant entertainment. She is the light of our lives. And now she is two! Wish me luck.
No, you are not a loser. 
(Unless you consistently ignore me in the cereal aisle.) 
She is telling you she's two. Happy birthday, Beatrice Gail!

Friday, November 2, 2012

I'll have cake! But, please, no more Charleston Chews.

Crazy.
The hurricane. And Halloween.

We were (barely) ready for Hurricane Sandy. We moved furniture off the deck (in the rain), we put the Styrofoam graves in the garage (they would have blown to Ohio) and we hauled things upstairs from the basement. We also decided to dine out and save the food in our fridge for when we lost power. We were sure we'd lose power.

Jon had a plan. And part of this plan revolved around our ample supply of frozen chicken that he claims is unusually large. (We have four packs of breasts. Hardly large or unusual.) No worries, he reassured. Should the worst case come to pass, should we be stranded without electricity, should the entire town shut down, we would boil the chicken! Yes, we would have a chicken boil and we would all live. He referred to the chicken boil a lot. I think it gave him comfort amidst the chaos.

Keep in mind, we have a gas stove we can manually light, so boiling frozen chicken is a legitimate option for survival's sake. But why not sauté the chicken or fry it up? Brown it. Sear it. Ten out of ten people surveyed prefer their chicken any way but boiled.

Jon also grew a hurricane mustache. I prayed hard for SEPTA trains to un-suspend service. Get these husbands back to work!

In anticipation of the inevitable power plunge, we ate three consecutive meals at local restaurants. Bea has totally turned a corner when it comes to dining out, meaning she isn't a crazed lunatic anymore. It's sort of nice. She'll even look directly at the waitress and place her order, clear and certain. It's always "cake." She says it with such hope, but doesn't seem disappointed when a grilled cheese arrives.

Sandy struck and we were very, very lucky. Never lost power. Only a few branches down. Lots of frozen chicken spared. Others weren't so fortunate. I can only imagine the misery.

Our area had spotty outages so the township sent an email suggesting that maybe residents consider moving Halloween to Sunday. Flaky. Our neighborhood decided not to heed their "suggestion." Then on Halloween afternoon, the township sent another message officially postponing Halloween until Sunday. So ridiculously confusing! Some kids went out on Halloween and others will go out on Sunday. Many (my kids!) will do both. Two days of Halloween. What a pain in the a#$! It's November, I want to take anything with a smiling pumpkin or a black cat or a bat or a spider and pitch it. Now.

And I want to stop eating Charleston Chews. My teeth hurt.

Cool.
It's incredible how two children from the same parents, raised in the same (haphazard?) style could be so completely different.

Lu took to water very early and very easily. When she was two, she liked performing the dead man's float - to the shock of half-asleep lifeguards. She preferred the sensation of being submerged.

Edy, not so much. Until recently, she was still holding her nose. I admit, this drove me crazy. I'm not proud. I had little patience. "Stop holding your nose! Jump in, blow air out. It's not hard. You're fine!" Then she'd choke. Then I'd sigh with frustration. I was always, always comfortable in the water. Lu was just like me. Why was Edy so awkward?

Over the last year, I've watched her try very hard, face her fears, and come a long, long way. She swam in her first "winter" swim meet last weekend. From the balcony, she looked so tiny and the pool looked ginormous. I had a rush of regret. Maybe I pushed her too much?

Nope. She was great. The best behind-the-block dancer I've ever seen! And a pretty promising swimmer, too.

She swam five times. The announcer called her "Eddie" for the first four races. Her final event was the 100 IM. Four laps for the girl who just stopped holding her nose. When she hopped onto the block and the announcer read her name, I realized she had corrected him for this last, important swim. Lu would have never, ever been so brazen.

Yes, they are very different. Edy may not be a natural in the water, but she's no Eddie, either.

Unfortunately, the swimmer next to her, named - ironically - MacKenzie, wasn't as bold. There was a typo in the program and she was listed as MacKenzire. All day. Over and over. I talked to her frustrated mother. How do you not catch that? How does the announcer read "MacKenzire" and think that's right? I guess people name their kids all sorts of things. But MacKenzire?