Friday, January 30, 2009

And be a simple kind of man...

Take your time... dont live too fast,
Troubles will come and they will pass.
Go find a woman and youll find love,
And dont forget son,
There is someone up above.

And be a simple kind of man.
Be something you love and understand.
Be a simple kind of man.
Wont you do this for me son,
If you can?

Boy, dont you worry... youll find yourself.
Follow you heart and nothing else.
And you can do this if you try.
All I want for you my son,
Is to be satisfied.


When I was in college my brother had a baby. A boy. He was our family’s first grandchild.

For a few years after his birth, things were good. My brother was young, his girlfriend six years older, was also young. He was, of course, an accident. But they were happy. Fun. He was adored. And a great little boy.

He rumor is that I was his first word. I’m sure I wasn’t but I was an early word. I watched him on Fridays. Sometimes Saturdays. They overpaid me.

And he grew. He grew and grew and grew. And his life got more complicated when his parents lives got more complicated. Way beyond where they should have been. But he was everybody’s darling. Handsome, charming, funny, smart. He inherited all the best of our clan. But it wasn’t as if we thought he escaped the worst.

I held my breath. You see things. Signs, indicators. Not a fundamental badness of character or soul. Just things that make you say, “You know…I can see where this is going to lead and it’s not going to end well. But you wait. And you hope. Because there isn’t much you can do when it’s not your child. You just hope they make it through.

So he went to college. Then dropped out. His girlfriend and he broke up. His basement bedroom flooded. His hockey dreams ended. He’s aimless. And illequiped to cope.

And on his way to the Marines. Because somebody somewhere convinced him it was a good idea.

I have volumes of things to say. Emails written, ideas expressed. A family legacy to explain. Things revealed in compassionate understanding. He understands. He’s going anyway. Because he feels there nothing else left.

My mother and brother both are big on “break the cycle”.
I find it impossible sad that it wasn’t broken before him.

As I Get Older

I find Happy Gilmore funnier.

A Cook in the Kitchen, A Maid in the Livingroom...

I'm going to a wedding. I daresay it's one of our last until our friends kids starting getting married. Or we go to second weddings.

I got the card for the shower in the mail. The dreaded recipe card for her kitchen.
I asked my husband if I could staple a takeout menu to it.
He thought it was a good idea but that likely her bridesmaids wouldn't get it.

So I'm online looking for a turkey chili recipe - or was it vegetarian? - that I loved but cannot find. The only thing I remember about it was that I had all the ingredients...SCORE!...and that you didn't add the green peppers until the very end, thus the whole mess didn't taste too strongly of peppers.

In lieu of that recipe, I'm leaning towards this one:

Butternut Squash Fries

Ingredients
3 spray(s) olive oil cooking spray
1 pound(s) butternut squash, peeled, seeded, cut into sixteen 3/4" thick sticks
1 tsp table salt
1/2 tsp chili powder, or to taste (optional)

Instructions

Preheat oven to 450ºF. Coat a baking sheet with cooking spray.
Arrange squash fries on prepared baking sheet and sprinkle with salt and chili powder; liberally coat with cooking spray.
Roast, turning once, until desired crispness, about 14 to 18 minutes.

Notes
Start with a large squash. You will end up using about 1 lb of squash and have the “bulb” of the squash left over. Any hard winter squash will work in this recipe.

**I believe this is WW recipe and all credit of it, including photos, should go to Weight Watchers aka a fantastic program.


What can I say. I'm domesticity at it's best.

Thursday, January 29, 2009

Every Little thing She Does Is Magic

My daughter stands underneath the docking station. She points up, i'm not sure where her sightline ends.

"Sawng. SAWNG! SAAAWWWWNG!"

She wants another song. For mommy to dance to. She cries for songs in the car, songs in her room. She points to the radio everywhere we go. I had a friend watch her Thursday and after she told me "I think she's scared of the radio. She kept pointing to it and she started crying. And shaking. And crying harder. I mean, it wasn't even on. I kept telling her I wouldn't put in on."

Of course she cried.

All children love music. I mock mothers who say it. "Oh Jayden, he LOVES music."
No shit no shit no shit.

But my Ellie. Ah man, she lights up the room.

"Sawng. SAWNG! SAAAWWWWNG!"

I hope you dance Ellie.
I'll always hope you dance.

We Are Spirits in the Material World..subtitled, How's the Pool Looking Narcissus?

I'm incapable of having an original thought.

My mother with who I've had my fair share of ups and downs lives somewhere way WAY way over the rainbow. And doesn't like to acknowledge anything outside herself. Hours of conversation can be dedicated to who is going where and when and why didn't anyone tell her. Invite her. Call her. Notify her. But no minutes devoted to anything remotely real.

It puts me to mind of an old (can I say now defunct?)friend who was ripshit that the caterer canceled her luncheon on September 12. "I mean, I'm sorry all those people died " she said "But I have 12 guys coming in and it's not like it happened here. It happened in New York."

Her, my mother...an eerie parallel.

Point being other then putting one foot in front of the other, going forward, head down, existing - I haven't much to say. I'm in original thought limbo. Nothings inspiring me, motivating me, making me passionate or making me blue. I'm not down, depressed, lackluster or otherwise. I'm just going through a particularly uninvolved time. Feeling lazy, feeling antipathy. There's nothing I'm rallying for, or against. I have no hobbies, and I'm not cultivating any.

I am, in a word, boring.

Yet not bored.

Living in this alternate universe where I don't read the news, or deign to care about anything save for the next episode of what's on my dvr, I just can't muster up the energy to be energetic about anything.

I'm not planning a wedding, buying a house, decorating a house, planning a move, a build a remodel. I'm not a gourmand, I'm not a neat freak, I'm not under or over utilized. I'm not doing anything and yet I'm tired of doing things.

Yet I know the day is coming. In the dark of winter I'm not thinking about my abs, the garden, the thanks yous, the birthdays around the corner. Yet that time is coming. And I'm going to be pissed if I'm not ready. So tomorrow, starting tomorrow, I need to get motivated again. New goals, new objectives, new fake hoops to jump through.

Hmm.
Maybe not tomorrow.
Maybe the day after.

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

It's snowing.
I twisted my ankle.
I'm recuperating from a particularly nasty UTI.

Myself and my everlargening arse took a tv day I'm so ashamed. No, not for watching. For WHAT I was watching. It wasn't even worth it.

I bring this up because at around sixteen hundred hours there's young couple on HGTV having Vern Yip redo their family room. I'm never a HGTV - I'm a Style Network and occasionally a Bravo. I really like Clean House. I have no idea why because the final designs are shite but lordie I'm a sucker for a makeover show.

Meanwhile Vern is expending false enthusiasm and throwing his neutral color palette at a spectacularly sweet - truly sweet - couple from... hmmm...somewhere. They have 5 kids - a twelve year old girl and quads. The girls are all dolls and I'm wondering for a minute - are they natural twins. Four girls. Two eggs could have split two times. It's possible. I'll grant you the older girl looks biracial so I assume infertility and adoption but why speculate? Could be a second marriage. A cousin. Whatever. They seem like a perfectly lovely family. Grateful, oh god yes. Surely.

So I'm watching in a half ass'd way (ok, fully ass'd but quasi attentive) and I'm struck by the following:

Vern: So what was your first thought, your first thought when you heard you were having quads?
Husband: teary. Well I first worried about my wife's safety (I love this guy) and then the health of the babies...
Wife: The doctors had mentioned selective termination...she hesitates
Both in unison: But that just WASN'T an option for us. chorus seconding theme

WAIT A MINUTE. Wait a wait a wait a minute. Pause. Rewind. Do I detect a note of, what was it? Was it pride? Sanctimoniousness? Smugness? Okayyyy. I mean, I'm not looking at your beautiful children thinking for a hot minute that you should have had any other choice but I just want to replay the tone. You sound...preachy. Pious. A mouth in a moue like a parsimonious preacher. Are you defensive? Did someone give you a "you brought this on yourself" attitude?

Or maybe not.

But it raised the question so I asked it of my husband.

"Did you ever notice how some people who use artificial insemination (yeah, I just used the nonpc term, have at it) act disgusted and refuse to consider selective termination citing moral grounds? God's plan and all that? Don't you just want to say "Isn't that the same God who's plan thwarted you from getting pregnant to begin with?"

Yes, I know.
We aren't allowed to make fun of the infertile.

just to spare myself the bullshit - yes, i have infertile friends. I have clomids, and three years trying, and failed invitros. I also have a two implants taken and thriving. So pipe down. I'm also aware of the dangers to the fetus's when selective termination is chosen. The OTHER fetus's that it. It's pretty obvious that it's damaging the first one. and yes, I do find it a fascinating discussion. Selective morality. I'm fascinated by the ethics. The issues. Yes, I understand that for some, having multiples is preferred. If you cannot have a child, and yet you know you want at least two, twins are highly preferred, even triplets. But having a litter of eight? I live in Massachusetts for crying out loud. We have the highest rates of multiples in the country (read: older educated woman, read: liberal insurance policies, read: leader in child care laws in the country thank you very much). I'm Pro. Pro it all. Pro multiples, pro babies, pro intervention, pro fertility. Everyone who wants a child deserves one. Or two. Or four. I'm just commenting on the absurdity of using both sides of an argument and not seeing the irony.


Just spare me the holier then thou.

Thursday, January 22, 2009

I had a return today at Old Navy. Why I buy online, I'll never know. Simple yoga pants, you'd think it'd be easy.

By yoga I mean stretchy black universal wear everyday but certainly not to yoga are you shitting me pants.

I come home, I throw my "new" purchases on the chair and the glamorous life of cutting up snacks, prepping dinner ensues.

My husband walks in.

"Oh. New shirt" he points. "Cute"
I hold up the 3T top that I know will shrink to bits. Really, I never shop there. (Who am I kidding. I never shop anywhere. Thank god for yardsales, handmedowns and the target buyers).
"I know"
"Pajamas?"
"No, it's a top."

I mean you have to LOVE the domestic bliss and scintillating conversation. The man is literally JUST walking in from work.

"Ask me how much it was. Noo. Guess. Guess how much it was."
My husband says "$17"
"No, no" I amend. And I'm sort of half jumping up and down. "No, pick like, a ridiculously low number. Like low low. Crazy low."
"$12"
"No, like crazy crazy low low. Like something ridiculous"
"$7" he says.

Honestly, the man HAS to hate me.

"No. You aren't going to BELIEVE it" I say. Really with the same enthusiasm as someone sharing the news of say, a winning lottery ticket.

Seriously.

I whip up all three pieces off the chair. "See this shirt" I say, and hold it front to back, "and then there's THIS shirt" hold and wave front to pack and then, my crowning glory "THESE pants" and I raise the wee jeans over my head.

"Oh goodie" he says, I think seriously, to a degree, because what he utters next can only be uttered by a man who cannot fathom young toddler girl clothes and just needs it to be simple "I LOVE jeans"

"I KNOW" I'm maniacal at this point. I could sell the shit out of a beef jerky maker. Where's Ronco when you need 'em?

"So guess. Guess how much? Just guess!!!!! See this? And this? And this?"
Big pause. The excitement is at a crescendo.
"Three Ninety Seven!" I squeal

My husband looks at me. Thoughtfully.

"These tops were 99 cents each. Ninety nine. I couldn't believe it. and the pants. Not even TWO dollars. It's crazy. I mean it was like, oh my god I knew they were on sale!!" I'm flapping my arms with the price tags dangling.

And then I see it. My husband is pantomiming running. In place. In his suit and tie with the door still open behind him.

"Start the car...START THE CAR...Start the car" then he "Whoooooo-ahs" and lassos his hand overhead.

It took me a minute

Lord love the man.
If nothing else I'm glad I entertain him.

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

I have to do this anyway so I may as well do it here.

2 words: church playgroup
2 OTHER words: Boring Reading
Move along now. I'm saving you, really.


Start:
Train Is Running Down the Track, Stop, Look, Listen
Greetings - Mention Email Blast & Fundraiser. Discuss craft.

Start with:
If your name is (tune Skip to my Lou) - Intro parents today
Theme: talk about some animals

Warm Up Song:
Cmon and Sing, Sing Sing Sing
If You're happy and you Know It
Transition: What do you think animals do to dance and show they are happy?
Book: Animal Boogie (track 1, ipod)
Transition:
What other kinds of Animals are in songs? What about Bugs? Are Bugs animals? What about Bees?
Song: Im picking up a baby bumblebee
Transition: We see bees in the summer. We also see mosquito's. What do you do when a mosquito lands on you? (Slap slap) I have a book about a Mosquito that wouldn't go to bed. His name is Zap.
Book: A Nap for Zap
Transition: there's another kind of bug that we all love too, right?
Song: Itsy Bitsy Spider
(note to self. Shit - I could have done a whole Bug Day. I know an old woman who swallowed a spider. Then the ladybug book. Is it too late. Check clock. It's 7:12. Yes, it's too late. Move on.)


Shit. It really IS late.
Ok,
Down by The Bay next
then
Pig on her Head and move onto Freeze Dancing.
Start with Running Running Running STOP to the tune of Wipe Out

and out

But as far as the bug theme we could do the ants go marching one by one...

Shit. Why do I always wait until the last minute.

Monday, January 19, 2009

Why So Glum, Chum?

I had a wonderful weekend. My neice came to visit, we went to a children's concert, out to lunch, then on to a birthday party (for my OTHER neice.) See Three Cousins below.

We had tubbies, freezedancing, colored and played store. We ate nutritionally, had stories before bed, posed for a few funny pictures and played online with our webcams talking to various and sundry grandparents.

My husband was affectionate, my house is clean, we moved the bookcase UP to the playroom and ditched the play kitchen and my child doesn't miss it. Life is good.

I visited old friends today. I was funny enough, held my own in conversation and my child behaved. I didn't look like a complete hick fat ass (although I was dangerously teetering) and I had my shit relatively together.

My car runs well, my family is healthy, my husband is employed.
I left each social outing with firm invitations to socialize again, and soon.
I get nice emails.

and yet

Why So Glum, Chum?

I just don't know.
I just have the blues.
The beat up on myself, Im not that good at anything, Im boring, I'm a hater blues.

I'm going to watch the Numa Numa guy on youtube then play some WordWhomp.
Might cheer me up.

THREE COUSINS

Sunday, January 18, 2009

He Fits The Suit

Sure. Go play Rock Band. Guitar Hero.

Just remember, it's all about the outfits.

Thinking Inside The Box

I like the idea of cleaning up my blog. I don't pass out the address, I don't promote it. Very few of my known readers comment. So it's more for the ethics of it. Not aesthetics. Ethics. If I'm going to participate, I should do it correctly.

So I cleaned up some pictures, I'm going to look at wordpress, I may just add a new header, eventually I'll do through my link list...but I'm stumped at categories. I can just see the drop down menu. 300 plus entries equaling "me".

Sigh.

Saturday, January 17, 2009

I'm Speechless

The THINGS people come up with. I can't even post my playlist online, nevermind...

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

Just Doin My Job

In real time, present day, I hardly get asked any more.
When I was leaving, the big boss said "She'll be back in a year."

You won't be able to stand it.
You'll be bored.

and many variations thereof.

I didn't care. In same ways, odd a it sounds, my pregnancy was idyllic. What else could knock seven years completely out of my mind?

Was I good at my job, hell ya. Excellent in fact. Not to say there wasn't room to grow, or for me personally to grow. but I was fantastic at what I did.

So now I'm a stay at home mom.

We were out to dinner a few weeks ago and I saw two woman, former peers, with their respective partners. One couple: newlyweds, both still working, living in the heart of the city, waterfront condo, gym memberships dueling with monthly parking rates; the other couple: similarly tracked, about to be engaged.

And for the first time with them, I felt the divide.

Oh sure, I've gotten it at stores, at concerts. Someone finds out I stay home and the face shutters shut. They "know" now what type of person I am.

I was surprised to experience the disconnect with friends.

So I replayed the conversations at home and here's what I came up with.
In general.

When I ask you what you do all day, or how your job is going, your reply, your stories, your subject matter are all about the product you produce and the peers you produce it with. If I am interested, you can regale me with tales of office politics, manipulations, intrigue. We can talk about your companies prospects, your relative success there and you five year plan.

When you ask what I do, I say (and this is because I'm evolved and don't need to say "Well, I USED to")- I say "I'm home full time with my daughter" Now, what I've noticed is that's where the conversation turns. That's where you stop and ask me about my daughter. How old she is, her name, when she was born. Then it dead ends.

And here's why.

It's boring.

Not being a stay at home mother. That's not boring at all. What's boring is you asking my questions about her. Specifically. Because she's 20 months old. And even if she was training to be a Chinese gymnast, it'd still be boring. Because you don't care. And frankly, I know all about her and I don't care to discuss her.

So at some point in the conversation you've decided "Oh, she stays home full time." You're imagining your days off on weekends and assuming my everyday is like that. It's all wine and roses, bon bons on the couch, pjs all day and cutting people off in my minivan.

Fine really. Because I know the truth. And further, I know you don't.

Being home full time can be a full time job - if you are doing it right. And no. I'm not going to go on and say "It's the same thing." "It's the toughest job you'll ever love." "Sometimes it's EASIER to go to work."

Please.

All I'm saying is this. It's not all that different from working for The Man.

You work 8 to 5, fine. I work the same hours. She wakes up at the same damn time every day.
I don't have to deal with coworkers? Sure I do. Other Parents. Who else do you think is at the library, the gym, the playgroup, the story time at the bookstore.
Your time is your own. You don't have a boss. Whhooo ha. Yes. Lets be honest, shall we? The breadwinning spouse? The boss.
You don't have to deal with commuting. Um, yes I do. I leave the house. We go places. On the same roads you do. At approximately the same time.

Listen. I have a product (heretofore referred to as Ellie), I have timelines, I have deliverables. I have a boss, in the sense that my husband actually does want to know what I did all day and expects certain shit that falls within, his words
"my purview", to be done. I have a set wake-up time, a dress code, standing meetings that occur weekly. I have a huge array of coworkers, some I like, some I dislike. I have shit not mommy related that I do and just because it’s not traded on the S&P, doesn’t mean it’s not legitimate.

Interestingly enough, my current coworkers have far more at stake then my former coworkers. When you work for The Man there's a chain of command. If something needs to be mediated, you all are in agreement as to who the "boss" is and who can pull rank. Not out here. Out here, in the land of parenthood, everyone is the head of their company. Their word is law, and people are vested in what they stand behind. Because otherwise, hey, if you back down from your principles, everyone knows your kids going to be the class bully. So the compromise you get in corporate America (be it "You take this one Hal" or "Fuck it, they don't pay me enough") the compromise of people walking away from their need to be right happens far less frequently. Ever been on a committee with a stay at home parent? Eight people on a committee. Each one independently operating as a silo daily. Now deciding to do something with no formal accountability at the end except the consensus of a majority.

If your at work and Joe from Leaning Resources is a prick, you pretty much know that Joe’s a prick, and you’ll see him for the duration of a project and you tune out when you get back to your desk. Well, same thing every Thursday at Jenny’s house. Drea is a tool and her kid is a monster and if you want to stay playing somewhere every Thursday until spring thaw, you’ll be listening to Drea’s sanctimonious parenting tips for the next 9 weeks. Deal.

Sure, I interact with heads of households vs departments but the results are the same, autocrats, with limited numbers of employees, who think their way is right, who’s objective is to do whats best for their division.

People are people my friend, brick and mortar or no.
And my stories are just as interesting.

Sunday, January 11, 2009

And This Is The Thanks I Get?

We tipped the mailman, and the UPS man for the holidays. I avoided getting my nails done, getting a haircut, and, in general, anything that smacked of needing to tip extra. No sacrifice there, what with my quarterly haircuts and bimonthly (meaning every other not twice monthly) pedicure.

I'm not sure if I've fully accepted tipping above and beyond the regular tips you give. No one's tipping ME for being a good customer. For not taking up extra time. For having my receipts ready. For not bouncing checks. I'm not sure if something above the 20% norm is needed.


The mother's helper got a gift, as did the summer sitter. The neighbors got tokens. I would have tipped the trashmen were I abusing the service, and I waited for a card from the paperman. (No longer paperboys. Someone abruptly brakes at 5 am, a thwak and a thud, the paper hits the door, then tires peel off. It's all so impersonal now.) I would have tipped him but we got no card this year. Maybe it was folded into one of the numerous discarded papers.

So you know, I thank people. I thank people who do for me. Even though we sure as shit aren't shaking a money tree.

But you know who pissed me off? Who I think OWED me a card in the mailbox? You know who should have hauled their ass out of the car and given ME a thank you?

The guy that steals the recycling.

Seriously, week after week I separate the cans from the bottles from the rest of the recycling. I put the cans in a white plastic bag, the bottles in paper, and I position both "just so" on the curb so when he pulls up in his tricked out white Buick with the compartments in the trunk, all he has to do is cruise up, swipe the bags, and drive on. He barely brakes. Add to that I sometimes put them out early. Saturday vs Sunday. Or early evening so he's not driving by at 2am. I counted it out tonight. On average I'm a $3 contributor. No, I know, it's not much. But week after week I provide the same service. Clean cans, clean bottles, separated by type, packaged with care. He can count on me.

Do I ask for anything? No. Have I ever shook my fist or pepper sprayed? Absolutely not. Do I threaten to call the cops? No, not ever.

So at a minimum, a card. He could have left me a card.
I'm seriously, seriously, seriously considering returning my own bottles.

Friday, January 9, 2009

Just in case anyone else was curious...

10 Things You Didn't Know About Me:

1. I googled the guys from the Free Credit Report dot com ad because I'm thinking they'd be a fun band to see.
2. I bought "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter" and was surprised that it did not taste like butter.
3. I miss my faux oriental carpet car mats. Darn clumsy foot husband.
4. I still don't have a new Years Resolution or a "things I need to do to better myself ASAP causing me much anxiety" list. Written down that is.
5. I haven't felt pretty in about a year now.
6. I'm not on facebook because I just know I'm going to hear from some hookup that I forgot about.
7. I wish we had a cat.
8. I have a makeup brush bought on St. Patrick's Day almost 4 years ago now that I still think of as "my new blush brush".
9. I catch on to country line dances amazingly fast.
10. I had, until about 4 days ago, though Sam Cooke was "dancin with the chicken slats" which I assumed was a band, or like, doing "The Mashed Potato" but now realize he was dancin' with the CHICK in SLACKS. Which is kind of cool. And reminds me of my mom. Who was wont to ask, while you were trying pants on "How do these slacks feel in the crotch?" Forever ruining the words slacks and crotch for me. Not that I was liking crotch as a word. Except for crotchety, which is cute, like cantankerous.

Three things EVERYONE knows about me:
1. I don't high five
2. I don't like chocolate
3. I like rainy days AND Mondays. A lot.

Thursday, January 8, 2009

No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service

I don't wear a coat. I layer. I -HEART- the layer. Sweaters over shirts, wristies under gloves, a scarf, a hat, kneesox and boots. Torso, toes, tips and head - all cozy. But I don't wear a coat.

I love going out unencumbered.

"Where's your coat?"
It's out keeping the car warm.

"Aren't you freezing?"

Nope
"Are you warm enough?"
Yes

And now, with a child it's:
"Aren't you going to put a coat on Ellie?"
No. I'm not. Because we are leaving my heated house to get into a heated car to drive to a heated building where will will play and get hot, afterwhich I will move Ellie back to the heated car to drive to the heated home.

Although I think surely people are used to me by now.

I left the baby gym today with a group of moms, some hard core: children armed in bunting and ski patrol regalia; some casual, a parka and hat does the trick. No judgement from any of us, just making our way to the car. My daughter had on a long sleeve onsie, a cotton sweater, jeans and socks. Oh. And a hairclip. Clearly underdressed for the weather. Her fleece lined coat and hat stuffed in my bag, her shoes under her dirty diaper.

I had parked by design, with the right side to the sun, pulled all the way up and to the back of the parking lot. I wanted maximum sun to melt the ice from the roof. My car has an automatic starter.

We walked to the car, outside anywhere from 45 seconds to a minute 15. Ellie transferred into her sunwarmed carseat, grabbed for her milk and away we went.

I wondered briefly if my "bundling" mom friend was chortling to herself.
Or speed dialing child services.

Although, as I said, surely she is used to me by now.

So I thought about it.

I don't wear a coat. My brother doesn't wear a coat. Neither does my other. My sister? What coat? My mom tends to wear a scarf and gloves. My dad? A tshirt. His wife. Coatless. We are a coatless people. Husband goes to work? No coat.

It's not like we were raised that way. Come to think of it, we ALL wore coats growing up. When I worked in town I was the queen of coats - trenches, rain, sport, fleece, faux fur, wind, and parka. I have coats for every occasion and a few sports that I don't even play.

But we are quintessential fat americans. I may as well be from LA. I drive EVERYWHERE!
So why a coat?

My adorable bundling friend has me in hysterics when she innocently queries why it is that her daughter sweats so much.
"I just don't understand it" she says.
Well, for starters she's a onesie, a long sleeve shirt, a sweatshirt, jeans, shoes, a jacket and a hat. Maybe she's sweating because, and this is just a guess here, she's um, HOT?
Meanwhile she's ready to kill me. "Put some clothes on that child" she admonshes me.

I could see if we were living on the plains ala The House at Plum Creek. I could see if my daughter and I labored at the shipyard, on the docks, on the decks. I could see if we were shoveling snow, trekking through wind or qualifying for the Iditarod. I could see it if my child was actually PLAYING outside. But we're not. It's just not worth the hassle. Oh sure we OWN coats, and they get worn. In the morning I throw Ellie's coat on to get her to the car. But once we get to the destination, on the way back out, if I don't feel like putting it on, it stays off.

It's not because there's a power struggle (there isn't), and it's not that I don't care. It's just that I can't imagine why it's important for a 30 second walk to the car.

"Oh but you need to get her in the habit now so she'll put her coat on later."
Hmm. Maybe. Or, you know, she'll just be cold.

I get a lot of good, practical parenting advice from my sister. By example. When her daughter was younger - not as young as Ellie but say 3ish - my sister would say "It's time to put your coat on". If her daughter responded, great. If not, she'd say it a few more times, maybe, if it was important, put her in it. But if it was cold enough out, not raining, not snowing, just cold - my sister would simply say - casually - "Oh ok, but you're going to be cold" and out they'd go. And she'd let her be cold.

And now my niece wears a jacket.
When she's cold.

There are things I care deeply about. Like Ellie yelling "Mine" Where the HELL she picked that up I have zero idea. And I'm not a big fan of hitting. Which fortunately hasn't happened yet. Tantrums? Couldn't bother me less. My husband and I are so blase about it they end in under 15 seconds. Then it's a hug and a kiss and off you go. But all the hullabaloo about dressing them warmly? Bah.

I've yet to hear "Child dies from 30 second exposure to 58 degree weather, Film at 11"

Tuesday, January 6, 2009

I May be Fat But You're Ugly and I Can Diet

So I'm on the phone today with my good friend Zelda bemoaning my lack of coolness and the fact that we don't see live music anymore and she offhands a clever remark about a Pogue cover band that would have been dead on if the lead singer was (even) uglier.

It was impeccably timed and surely witty...except that I know of the Pogues only peripherally.

Kindly, she laboriously explained about the lead singer. The nicotine stained hands, the chiclet teeth, the skin...and I tried to rally, really, but eventually I admitted my almost 40 year old uncoolness.

She was kind and covered for me.

Shortly thereafter I received the following email:

not that you care, but this makes my joke about the singer from the pogues cover band that we saw at the plough much funnier (about how the guy wasn't ugly enough to be him, but he sounded just like him).
this is shane mcgowan, lead singer of the pogues:
http://www.showbizireland.com/images/stars/macgowan-gig01.jpg

he's like, the ugliest man alive.
and now you know. :-)(i wish i could make that swishy star noise like they do on those 'now you know' psa's)
cheers.


Seriously, I almost threw up.
Honestly it’s a redneck postcard.
He’s gross.
I’m dying.
He disproves the myth that anyone in a band will get laid.
I wouldn’t give him change in the subway.
He needs Extreme Makeover Dental Edition.

Sigh.
So ends my foray into coolness.
Next I'll be singing the Friendly's song in my minivan.

Monday, January 5, 2009

Ho Ho Ho

Q: Why did your husband need to measure your feet to get you a Christmas gift?
A:


I was trying to read.
It wasn't that good a book, nor interesting, But it WAS a book and I was reading it, and Ellie was asleep and the night was young. Well, it was 10 pm.

Doug kept coming in and out of the kitchen. Asking me this. Then that. Then this again. Little inanities. Finally I slapped the book down.
"WHAT" I lowkey exploded.
"What what?"
"What do you want? Do you want to talk? Are you bored? What? What can I help you with?"
"Nothing" he said. "Nothing. I was just seeing what you were doing."
"I'm reading" i said a little sarcastically. Funny too. But sharper then I meant to. "Well, I was TRYING to read."
"yeh, ok" he walked out.

I went into the living room. Sorry for being such a pill the last couple of days. Contrite because my house is fabulously, gorgeously, toilet paper in the shape of a rose and the baseboards dusted clean. Thanks to my husbands Cristmas gift.

"You hate your wife" I said. As I climbed up next to him and tried to wedge my butt, Ellie's pink blanket and the book all into the tiny ledge of couch left over next to his hip.
"Which one?" he absently replied, starring intently at the television.
"Me. I know you hate me." I whined. Pathetically.
"I don't hate you." he nudged over, making room. "Why would I hate you."
"Because I'm annoying" I propped the book open on his stomach.
"Oh please. I knew you were annoying when I met you"
I slapped him.
I began to read.
He started talking again. While watching tv.
I closed the book, he stopped.
I opened it, he started again.
i closed, he stopped.
Opened, talked.
Finally I closed the book, put it on the coffee table and stared at him. Just stared. Intently.
He looked down.
"Is your book no good?" he asked.
"It's fine."
"Well what's up?"
"I thought maybe you needed attention."
"Yeah but not when it's on me"

We have a little joke, he and I. My husband can walk around me a dozen times a day without saying anything. Unless I'm quiet. Then he'll walk up and ask me a series of questions touching virtual every topic until finally he his the verbal jackpot - and I start blabbing about something...at length. Then he leaves the room.
"Why did you walk away?" I'll ask
"Well once you start talking, I know you're fine."

Friday, January 2, 2009

It's The Thought That Counts


So it happened. I got a digital frame for Christmas. After blocking my mother from getting my sister one. Ah, irony.

I asked my sister what she got.
"Anything good?" I queried."Any surprises?"
"Well" she sighed. Then stopped. "I know it's the thought that counts and I feel like I'm a bitch ..."
"But" I dug.
"No. Forget it. I just need to stop being surprised by people."
She sounded sad. Which I hate. Because she really, honestly, kills herself not to hurt people and she gets so little, so very little by way of thanks.
"What happened?" I asked. "Seriously"
"I don't care..." she started "I mean I really DON'T care what i get. I don't even need anything..." She was talking in defense. "And it's the though really that counts"
"Michelle" I bulldozed. "Seriously, what happened. You're not a bitch. I can already tell you're not being a bitch. What happened."

"Well, I went to (her partners) grandparents house and my (MIL Equivalent) gave me a 3x top, a boys large jersey (for her 15 year old hockey planning son) and a 6x outfit (for her 61/2 year old daughter).

I was dumbfounded. Honestly. I mean, her MIL is young. She's not old, not senile, she's kind of hip actually. Sort of. But really? So three gifts grabbed off the rack as in "Something for you, you and you"

My sister went on to say that at least the MIL thought to get something for her. Trying again not to sound harsh. But I stopped her.
"This is a woman who's known you for 13 years. This woman couldn't even pick up the phone and call you for the correct sizes? Really? Or even call her son? REALLY?"
My sister stumbled.
"Yeah, well, that's what I thought but..."
I interrupted her again.
"Well what about your SIL and them? Did they get you anything?"
"Oh" and I swear she was almost about to lie to me "Um. You know those, well, those Crest White Strips things?"
"Yeah" Why is she changing the subject, I'm thinking?
"Yeah. Those."
"Those what?"
"Those. I got those?"
"What do you mean you got those? You got white strips?" I'm stunned. My sister is the oral hygiene field. And she's opposed to whiteners. So maybe I missed a shift in her personality suddenly. I've been, you know, busy with Ellie et al. "So like as in a stocking stuffer?"
"No. I mean that was my gift. She got me a box of whitener strips."

"Doesn't she WORK at a dentist?"

"Yeah but I'll give her the benefit of the doubt. I doubt she stole them or anything.
"Go check the box" I demanded.
"What??"
"Go upstairs or wherever they are and GO GET THE BOX"

God love my sister, because she did.

"Now read it to me. Look on the box and tell me do you see anywhere something to the effect of Not Labeled For Individual Sale"?
It's quiet.
"Michelle? Michelle?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I see it. It's right here on the bottom. But maybe she got a case."

Now let me just say this, bridges burning abounding because it needs to be said.
She got, a box, of whitening strips, AS A GIFT, not labeled for individual sale, from a dental assistant.

Now I grant you, times are tough, and the gift giver is a mom and just bought a house. She's not rolling in dough. So I'm not opposed per se to the gift. And maybe she got it as a discount, and maybe she truly, because of her profession, adores the idea of it as a gift (For example I gave someone ptouch labels and gladware because I love organization...) Maybe all those things are true. And maybe she forgot that my sister doesn't believe in cosmetic type procedures, and maybe, truly, I'm being a Nasty Betty here..

But I can't help but wonder.

So we role played.

Me: "Well if she handed it you you and said 'I know this is funny coming from me" or she had some story, some explanation..."

Sister: "No, she did. I mean. She said they were good. And I looked them up online. They aren't cheap. And it's good I looked them up too because you aren't supposed to bleach and drink coffee - so if I did it in the morning before work, I'd have been screwed..."

Anyway. The long story short, because I really DO need to use my daughters nap time productively, is that you can always look on the sunny side of life. You can always assume the best. You can always think highly of someone. And you can afford to be charitable. And it IS the thought that counts.

Which is why I called my sister the next day.

"If it IS that good a gift, and she did pay for them, and she IS struggling then you know what?"
"What?"
"Why don't you wrap them and give them to her for her birthday. After all, it's the thought that counts."

And your point is?


Ok, Happy New Year, we had a great time etc.

So ok, I'm cleaning out the house today and I put an ad on FREE craigslist. Basically I'm looking to dump 150 plus envelopes to anyone doing a mailing. Hey, go green, right? I'll drop off if you live close by etc.

So this guy replies, in all caps no less, which, I mean, does anyone not know at this point how rude that is? Apparently. "Hey lazy guy, your left pinky can make you a king of etiquette in 2.2 seconds. Depress shift already." Moving on. So in all caps he writes:

HI I CAN USE THE ITEMS BUT I LIVE IN THE SOUTHEND AND DON'T HAVE A CAR

Um. Ok. So what's your question? I mean, where are you going with this? You want me to drive them down to you? mail them? I mean, is there a solution here? Or are you just letting me know?

Oh hey, yeah, I could totally use these but shit, man, I don't have wheels.

I was all set to reply "Ok, well shoot me your address and I'll mail them to you and you can just send me some stamps as payment"

Seriously. It's not that much of a bother. But then I'm thinking. "You wrote in all caps. Asshole. Plus it's not MY job to tell you how to get something for free."

People. HONESTLY.

So I'm just going to wait and decide later what to do with my excess of envelopes.