It has finally snowed. The trees look pretty. Now if it can begin the melting process, life will be good.
I hate winter. ...I guess I don't need to sugarcoat it like that, after all we're probably all adults. If winter were a person, I would hire Casino-style gangsters to surround it and reduce it to bloody wreckage using blunt weapons. No need to even drag it out to the desert first. Just let it bleed out right in its own frosty creation. It is the most despicable time of the year, and I have been in an increasingly foul mood since it began.
Reasons I would execute winter:
Snow sucks. Snow has served no purpose in my life since the fifth grade. We're talking nearly thirty years of pointlessness. Sure, I faked it when the Tornadoes were young enough to think frolicking in it for hours until their toes turned blue was fun. Those were the occasions when I snuck back inside the house at the earliest possible opportunity and waved all further encouragement to them through the window, watching from my nice, warm, dry vantage point as they gleefully crashed their sleds into the thorny bush at the bottom of the hill.
Snow Days suck. Did someone not tell the school system that Christmas vacation falls during winter? Is it really necessary to roll the dice like that and close school for a week when, inevitably, we are going to end up with another kajillion days off due to inclement weather? I say once the stockings are emptied, kids should get themselves to the freaking bus stop and go learn something. They'll get their time off, and it will suck. Maybe if we cancel Christmas vacation, though, I'll be less likely to tear their heads off on snow days when they ask if they can have all their friends over. But probably not, because the point, see, is that it snowed a whole freaking lot. And so driving is prohibitive. And I don't feel like risking my life to get your friends over here so they can empty our pantry of all the things that were supposed to last until next Thursday, when I will next be able to buy more groceries. But that's fine. We'll just eat saltines until then.
Being cold is hateful. Some idiot once said to me that they would rather be cold than hot because you can always put on more layers until you are no longer cold, but there is only so much you can do to cool off. That is the stupidest thing I've ever heard. The smartest thing I've ever heard is "Let's buy a condo in Miami!" (It was only slightly smarter than when he said "Marry me!" but quite a lot smarter than when he said "Facebook is just a silly fad.") Sadly, we haven't bought a condo in Miami, because our house is full of expensive teenagers. So for now I must settle for piling on sweaters, because the only other solution for bone-weary coldness is to just go to bed and hibernate, and I can't do that. Because my house is full of teenagers.
If I continue enumerating the reasons that winter deserves to die, my foul mood will soar to heights from which I may not be able to return. Therefore, instead I extend this offer. To anyone who wishes to give me a free condominium in Miami, I will return the favor by giving something of equal or lesser value. Perhaps you need help figuring out how to use your new smartphone. Or maybe you are longing to provide for someone who will completely ignore your existence. Or you could have a lot of extra food lying about that you will just have to recklessly throw away if someone doesn't come by and hoover it all up. The answer to your dilemma is teenagers. And I know just where to get you some.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Working From Home, or Reindeer Are Ugly
Now that we have achieved a safe rear view distance from the mayhem of the Christmas season, lovely and magical though it was, I can begin thinking clearly again. Due to the arduous demands of overspending online and wrapping mass-produced items in paper with friendly/adorable reindeer printed on it, trivial things like thinking clearly and eating leafy green vegetables are set aside between Thanksgiving and Christmas, to be resumed only once the shredded scraps of four-dollars-per-roll reindeer paper have been disposed of and the mass-produced items held within have been assimilated without a trace into the overabundant collection of mass-produced items that everyone already owned. Now, finally, I can have a salad and reflect.
Strike that. School vacation. Continued mayhem, different flavor.
The Tornadoes are at that adorable age where they can neither be left to their own devices while I go to the office nor have any desire to spend a waking minute in the company of anyone older than themselves. This makes for a truly touching experience. Instead of spending this week engaged in quality activities with them, or putting on attractive clothes and leaving them in the paid care of others while I interact with other adults all day, both of which evoke fond memories of Christmas vacations past, I will pass the next several days ricocheting between pointlessly staring at the screens of my remote access workstation, knowing full well that I can't actually accomplish anything this way, and being coldly ignored by my own children in favor of a stream of other people's kids who are apparently never fed anything at their own homes.
Oh sure, I suppose I can still use this time to reflect. As long as none of my thoughts require more than three seconds to complete, as that is about how much time elapses between teenagers throwing open the pantry door to rustle every packaged food product inside before grabbing something and walking away with the door left open. I will repeatedly tear myself away from staring uselessly at my work screens to close that damn door and then yell uselessly down the stairs that the kitchen is now closed, dammit, and then I will return to staring uselessly at my work screens. Perhaps on my journeys from desk to pantry door, I will reflect. But before you start framing up helpful hints about reducing the quantity of packaged food choices and replacing it with healthier options that we can all prepare together, to the health and bonding benefit of all, let me point out that I've used the word "adorable" twice in an ironic manner, once to describe reindeer and another time the Tornadoes. In the last twenty-seven days, neither of them (the Tornadoes, that is, I can't speak for the reindeer) has turned down a single proffered sugar-laden baked treat. Trust me, they are not adorable right now. (Still the Tornadoes. Although, if you have ever seen an actual reindeer, well.) I will eat my hastily prepared salad over the kitchen sink in solitude, if it's all the same to you.
I have to leave you now, because it is time for the bright spot of my week. I have to place a call to my employer's tech help desk, located in an overfriendly Midwestern state, to seek assistance getting remote access set up on my new laptop. I can't wait to talk to an over friendly midwesterner. It might be the only cheerful voice directed at me that I hear all week.
Strike that. School vacation. Continued mayhem, different flavor.
The Tornadoes are at that adorable age where they can neither be left to their own devices while I go to the office nor have any desire to spend a waking minute in the company of anyone older than themselves. This makes for a truly touching experience. Instead of spending this week engaged in quality activities with them, or putting on attractive clothes and leaving them in the paid care of others while I interact with other adults all day, both of which evoke fond memories of Christmas vacations past, I will pass the next several days ricocheting between pointlessly staring at the screens of my remote access workstation, knowing full well that I can't actually accomplish anything this way, and being coldly ignored by my own children in favor of a stream of other people's kids who are apparently never fed anything at their own homes.
Oh sure, I suppose I can still use this time to reflect. As long as none of my thoughts require more than three seconds to complete, as that is about how much time elapses between teenagers throwing open the pantry door to rustle every packaged food product inside before grabbing something and walking away with the door left open. I will repeatedly tear myself away from staring uselessly at my work screens to close that damn door and then yell uselessly down the stairs that the kitchen is now closed, dammit, and then I will return to staring uselessly at my work screens. Perhaps on my journeys from desk to pantry door, I will reflect. But before you start framing up helpful hints about reducing the quantity of packaged food choices and replacing it with healthier options that we can all prepare together, to the health and bonding benefit of all, let me point out that I've used the word "adorable" twice in an ironic manner, once to describe reindeer and another time the Tornadoes. In the last twenty-seven days, neither of them (the Tornadoes, that is, I can't speak for the reindeer) has turned down a single proffered sugar-laden baked treat. Trust me, they are not adorable right now. (Still the Tornadoes. Although, if you have ever seen an actual reindeer, well.) I will eat my hastily prepared salad over the kitchen sink in solitude, if it's all the same to you.
I have to leave you now, because it is time for the bright spot of my week. I have to place a call to my employer's tech help desk, located in an overfriendly Midwestern state, to seek assistance getting remote access set up on my new laptop. I can't wait to talk to an over friendly midwesterner. It might be the only cheerful voice directed at me that I hear all week.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
The Fifty-Seventh Happiest Place On Earth (Approximately)
Last weekend, my Groom excitedly escorted me to his thirty year high school reunion. Here is where I pause, so as to recover from the multiple mind-blowing facts packed into that declarative sentence.
Anyway, we don't get out much these days. So preparing for this momentous evening entailed many wardrobe changes, hair adjustments, makeup applications, and checking of the profile in the mirror accompanied by the traditional sucking-in-of-the-stomach. Me, I just threw on some jeans and hung out on Facebook until he was ready. I kid!
(This is pretty dicey territory, you know. My Groom is generally not too thrilled about blogness featuring, well, him. But in fairness, he pretty much knew five minutes into the reunion that he would wind up here.)
We both cleaned up pretty thoroughly and put on something nice and drove for what felt like three and a half days to meet up with all of his old football buddies. I am not at all kidding when I tell you that my Groom was giddy with anticipation.
The reunion was held in the dingy back room of a dingy restaurant which probably should have given up about a decade ago, judging by the decor. Apparently, this is where all of the reunions have been held. The deterioration was painfully obvious even to those of us who had never been there before. And I haven't even gotten to the attendees yet. We were greeted in the dark parking lot by a woman and her husband out grabbing a last minute smoke before heading in to "face the music" as she put it. She immediately recognized my Groom. Sadly, he did not recognize her. Inside the lobby/pizza buffet area, we collected our name tags and a stapled alumni directory. On the directory cover we were pronounced "Blue and White Sponsors" of the reunion. My Groom confessed that he had "added a little extra" to the ticket charge to help with the exorbitant cost of putting on the event. My Groom is especially fond of attracting appreciation in an understated manner. I love this about him, partly because it often lends itself to comic moments of revealed naivety about what other people value. Like high school reunions, for instance.
Out of a graduating class of about three hundred, twenty-four made an appearance. I would say the overriding theme of the night for most of those present was Closure. Football buddies? Not so much. Mostly people to whom football players did not give the time of day. Just about everyone remembered my Groom. My Groom, however, recalled about five of them. Heads of hair? Also not so much. Plenty of big, round bellies, though. And lots and lots of Old. Old as far as the eye could see, which wasn't all that far since everyone kept reaching for their reading glasses and grumbling about the name tag font being too small.
Thankfully, one and all remembered my Groom as being a kind person. This helped when it came time to find a place to sit for dinner. We selected a table full of strangers (they were all tables full of strangers) and passed an enjoyable hour or so sharing a dinner of lukewarm Italian food and stories of Where We Are Now with three lovely couples whose names I never caught. My Groom's Blue and White Sponsor money helped provide all present with a scoop of vanilla ice cream for dessert.
After dinner, someone produced a camera and corralled the twenty-three strangers plus my Groom to pose for a group picture. It didn't look right at all. It looked like my tall, full head of hair Groom standing in a crowd of amiable senior citizens. That was about all the reuniting he could take at that point, so we hugged a few strangers and left.
It's been an interesting few days watching my Groom absorb the lessons of this night. Lessons like not everyone found high school to be a glorious experience. And even if it was a glorious experience, people may not show up because life has not continued to be quite so glorious for them. And twenty-five dollars doesn't buy what it used to, such as chocolate sauce for the ice cream.
Anyway, it was a lovely evening and a nice way to wrap up a week away at Disney World with the Tornadoes. There is really nothing to say about our trip to Disney World. It went exactly the way such a trip is manufactured to go, and now we own headbands with mouse ears on them. And now, we are on to Christmas.
Anyway, we don't get out much these days. So preparing for this momentous evening entailed many wardrobe changes, hair adjustments, makeup applications, and checking of the profile in the mirror accompanied by the traditional sucking-in-of-the-stomach. Me, I just threw on some jeans and hung out on Facebook until he was ready. I kid!
(This is pretty dicey territory, you know. My Groom is generally not too thrilled about blogness featuring, well, him. But in fairness, he pretty much knew five minutes into the reunion that he would wind up here.)
We both cleaned up pretty thoroughly and put on something nice and drove for what felt like three and a half days to meet up with all of his old football buddies. I am not at all kidding when I tell you that my Groom was giddy with anticipation.
The reunion was held in the dingy back room of a dingy restaurant which probably should have given up about a decade ago, judging by the decor. Apparently, this is where all of the reunions have been held. The deterioration was painfully obvious even to those of us who had never been there before. And I haven't even gotten to the attendees yet. We were greeted in the dark parking lot by a woman and her husband out grabbing a last minute smoke before heading in to "face the music" as she put it. She immediately recognized my Groom. Sadly, he did not recognize her. Inside the lobby/pizza buffet area, we collected our name tags and a stapled alumni directory. On the directory cover we were pronounced "Blue and White Sponsors" of the reunion. My Groom confessed that he had "added a little extra" to the ticket charge to help with the exorbitant cost of putting on the event. My Groom is especially fond of attracting appreciation in an understated manner. I love this about him, partly because it often lends itself to comic moments of revealed naivety about what other people value. Like high school reunions, for instance.
Out of a graduating class of about three hundred, twenty-four made an appearance. I would say the overriding theme of the night for most of those present was Closure. Football buddies? Not so much. Mostly people to whom football players did not give the time of day. Just about everyone remembered my Groom. My Groom, however, recalled about five of them. Heads of hair? Also not so much. Plenty of big, round bellies, though. And lots and lots of Old. Old as far as the eye could see, which wasn't all that far since everyone kept reaching for their reading glasses and grumbling about the name tag font being too small.
Thankfully, one and all remembered my Groom as being a kind person. This helped when it came time to find a place to sit for dinner. We selected a table full of strangers (they were all tables full of strangers) and passed an enjoyable hour or so sharing a dinner of lukewarm Italian food and stories of Where We Are Now with three lovely couples whose names I never caught. My Groom's Blue and White Sponsor money helped provide all present with a scoop of vanilla ice cream for dessert.
After dinner, someone produced a camera and corralled the twenty-three strangers plus my Groom to pose for a group picture. It didn't look right at all. It looked like my tall, full head of hair Groom standing in a crowd of amiable senior citizens. That was about all the reuniting he could take at that point, so we hugged a few strangers and left.
It's been an interesting few days watching my Groom absorb the lessons of this night. Lessons like not everyone found high school to be a glorious experience. And even if it was a glorious experience, people may not show up because life has not continued to be quite so glorious for them. And twenty-five dollars doesn't buy what it used to, such as chocolate sauce for the ice cream.
Anyway, it was a lovely evening and a nice way to wrap up a week away at Disney World with the Tornadoes. There is really nothing to say about our trip to Disney World. It went exactly the way such a trip is manufactured to go, and now we own headbands with mouse ears on them. And now, we are on to Christmas.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Only Sixteen Hundred Fifty-Six More Days
Eighth grader is taxing the limits of my Motherosity, let me tell you. Taxing it like a gainfully employed middle class American. Like cigarettes in New York City. If this kid pushes down any harder on my buttons today, I might burst into a live reenactment of Willy Wonka's elevator.
Motherosity is the word I use to describe the otherwise indescribable package of skills and characteristics required to raise decent children without dosing them daily with Benadryl. Patience, understanding, love, discipline, ability to multi-task...these are terms for amateur gardeners. Motherosity is a special brand of fierceness married to tenderness having an illicit affair with omniscience in regard to your child's whereabouts, doings and needs: Some days, all are content with their lot and life carries on. Other days, it's a hot mess.
Guess which day today is.
Today, for starters, is Monday. Monday is the day that comes after the weekend is over - hence, "weekend", signifying the end of the previous week - and thus most people regard as the time to get back to business. For eighth grader, this translates to Go To School and Then Come Home and Do Your Homework and Clean Your Room. How many Mondays have I said this now? Monday is a day when Sixth Grader has multiple activities to be shuttled off to attend, thereby rendering Eighth Grader alone for a brief period of time during which she could easily demonstrate to me how marvelously mature and ready she is for the TV she wants in her room and the laptop she wants for Christmas. How? Come Home and Do Your Homework and Clean Your Room. That's twice just this evening alone that I have spelled it out, and I bet you got it the first time.
Imagine for a moment that you are Eighth Grader. You have been in middle school for approximately fifty-one Mondays now, and with few exceptions the instructions on Mondays have sounded exactly the same. And the instructions are what again?
Go to school. Come home. Do your homework. Clean your room.
Imagine further that on Friday night, you went to a nine-thirty movie with your friends and then slept over one of those friend's houses. Imagine that on Saturday, you had several of your friends over your own house and, although you were instructed that said friends must go home at ten, you did not communicate this to said friends UNTIL ten, thereby postponing their ride-getting ability by an additional half hour. Step out on the imagining branch one more length and dress up in your Halloween costume, go trick-or-treating with your pack o' friends sans parents and then unexpectedly bring your entire pack-o'-friends home with you, on Sunday night as your mother is putting dinner on the table, and liberally spread them and their candy and their discarded costumes around the kitchen and family room, triggering the "must feed children" mechanism of the Motherosity so that the family's dinner for four is made to now feed nine, five of whom again don't seem to have any immediate plans to go home. (I will not bore you with the tedium that is Why Trick-or -Treating in November. I'm just grateful that it's over.)
Remember. You are in Eighth Grade. When I was in eighth grade, there was no way I would have been able to pack that much friend time into one weekend. Weekends belonged to my seventy hour a week working father, and most of them were dead silent except for his window rattling snoring on the living room couch. But this is not that childhood. Motherosity inflation has occurred such that the "I want your friends to hang out here so I can get to know them" mechanism has been activated and occasionally belched smoke from overuse. Fine. So, fun weekend. And now it's Monday. And what do we do on Monday?
Apparently, we go to the coffee shop with our friends after school and have the audacity to text our mother asking if she can bring us money. When our mother doesn't reply and we still have no money, apparently we then bring all of our friends home with us and assume they can "hang out". When my Groom, who was delegated shuttle-arounder of Sixth Grader today, firmly nixes this "hanging out," we place an angry call to our mother at work and proceed to have a screaming match with my Groom for my helpless enjoyment. We rile things up so severely that we induce Sixth Grader to tearfully join in, because the only thing that Sixth Grader ever wants is for everyone to be happy and get along perfectly. We finally acknowledge that our mother is on the phone with us and undoubtedly we hear her say "everyone must leave right now, go and clean your room.". Undoubtedly we hear this.
When our mother arrives home roughly an hour later, where are we? Are we cleaning our room? No. We are HANGING AROUND on the front steps outside WITH OUR FRIENDS because they are WAITING FOR THEIR RIDES. Which it seems they are calling for at this present moment. For the first time.
I wish I could say that bestowing the gift of "You're grounded" gave me some sense of satisfaction, some payoff for being the adult here. But really, without the Benadryl option, grounding is just a major pain in the ass. More monitoring, days of being looked at with scowling incredulity that she is really and truly grounded, and at the end of it, the blank response of an unremorseful teenager who does not get that someday her kids are going to put her through these same headaches and then, finally, she will get it and appreciate my Motherosity.
I consoled myself by counting up roughly how many more days until I move this child out of my house and into a college dorm. Preferably one that is close enough for her to come home on weekends for a home-cooked meal, but that requires her, on Mondays, to be back at school and off my watch.
Motherosity is the word I use to describe the otherwise indescribable package of skills and characteristics required to raise decent children without dosing them daily with Benadryl. Patience, understanding, love, discipline, ability to multi-task...these are terms for amateur gardeners. Motherosity is a special brand of fierceness married to tenderness having an illicit affair with omniscience in regard to your child's whereabouts, doings and needs: Some days, all are content with their lot and life carries on. Other days, it's a hot mess.
Guess which day today is.
Today, for starters, is Monday. Monday is the day that comes after the weekend is over - hence, "weekend", signifying the end of the previous week - and thus most people regard as the time to get back to business. For eighth grader, this translates to Go To School and Then Come Home and Do Your Homework and Clean Your Room. How many Mondays have I said this now? Monday is a day when Sixth Grader has multiple activities to be shuttled off to attend, thereby rendering Eighth Grader alone for a brief period of time during which she could easily demonstrate to me how marvelously mature and ready she is for the TV she wants in her room and the laptop she wants for Christmas. How? Come Home and Do Your Homework and Clean Your Room. That's twice just this evening alone that I have spelled it out, and I bet you got it the first time.
Imagine for a moment that you are Eighth Grader. You have been in middle school for approximately fifty-one Mondays now, and with few exceptions the instructions on Mondays have sounded exactly the same. And the instructions are what again?
Go to school. Come home. Do your homework. Clean your room.
Imagine further that on Friday night, you went to a nine-thirty movie with your friends and then slept over one of those friend's houses. Imagine that on Saturday, you had several of your friends over your own house and, although you were instructed that said friends must go home at ten, you did not communicate this to said friends UNTIL ten, thereby postponing their ride-getting ability by an additional half hour. Step out on the imagining branch one more length and dress up in your Halloween costume, go trick-or-treating with your pack o' friends sans parents and then unexpectedly bring your entire pack-o'-friends home with you, on Sunday night as your mother is putting dinner on the table, and liberally spread them and their candy and their discarded costumes around the kitchen and family room, triggering the "must feed children" mechanism of the Motherosity so that the family's dinner for four is made to now feed nine, five of whom again don't seem to have any immediate plans to go home. (I will not bore you with the tedium that is Why Trick-or -Treating in November. I'm just grateful that it's over.)
Remember. You are in Eighth Grade. When I was in eighth grade, there was no way I would have been able to pack that much friend time into one weekend. Weekends belonged to my seventy hour a week working father, and most of them were dead silent except for his window rattling snoring on the living room couch. But this is not that childhood. Motherosity inflation has occurred such that the "I want your friends to hang out here so I can get to know them" mechanism has been activated and occasionally belched smoke from overuse. Fine. So, fun weekend. And now it's Monday. And what do we do on Monday?
Apparently, we go to the coffee shop with our friends after school and have the audacity to text our mother asking if she can bring us money. When our mother doesn't reply and we still have no money, apparently we then bring all of our friends home with us and assume they can "hang out". When my Groom, who was delegated shuttle-arounder of Sixth Grader today, firmly nixes this "hanging out," we place an angry call to our mother at work and proceed to have a screaming match with my Groom for my helpless enjoyment. We rile things up so severely that we induce Sixth Grader to tearfully join in, because the only thing that Sixth Grader ever wants is for everyone to be happy and get along perfectly. We finally acknowledge that our mother is on the phone with us and undoubtedly we hear her say "everyone must leave right now, go and clean your room.". Undoubtedly we hear this.
When our mother arrives home roughly an hour later, where are we? Are we cleaning our room? No. We are HANGING AROUND on the front steps outside WITH OUR FRIENDS because they are WAITING FOR THEIR RIDES. Which it seems they are calling for at this present moment. For the first time.
I wish I could say that bestowing the gift of "You're grounded" gave me some sense of satisfaction, some payoff for being the adult here. But really, without the Benadryl option, grounding is just a major pain in the ass. More monitoring, days of being looked at with scowling incredulity that she is really and truly grounded, and at the end of it, the blank response of an unremorseful teenager who does not get that someday her kids are going to put her through these same headaches and then, finally, she will get it and appreciate my Motherosity.
I consoled myself by counting up roughly how many more days until I move this child out of my house and into a college dorm. Preferably one that is close enough for her to come home on weekends for a home-cooked meal, but that requires her, on Mondays, to be back at school and off my watch.
Monday, October 24, 2011
Turn the Page
It seems incredibly unfair that it's practically the end of October again. Wasn't it just blazing hot and sticky outside? Weren't we just cooking burgers and dogs on the grill for lunch every day as if it were a dietary requirement?
I just finished reading this really terrible novel, on the cover of which it was proclaimed to be a "killer beach read", and I distinctly remember buying it for exactly that reason and with that plan in mind. Turns out, I am slightly repelled by "beach reads" whether or not I am at the beach. It took me until the first day of fall to pick the thing up and read it. Finishing it made me feel sad for those who may have wasted their precious summer hours reading it, until I realized that I, too, had invested time in it and that while I was doing so - while I wasn't looking up- my daughters both got a little bit older. Eighth Grader and Sixth Grader. Curse you, badly written beach read. Curse you.
This has been the first October in probably a dozen years that I have skipped all of my normal fall activities. Carving a jack-o-lantern. Eating pumpkin seeds. Picking apples. Baking apple things. Dedicating thought and debate to Halloween costumes for myself and the Tornadoes. The outside of my house is lightly adorned with Halloween decorations, but I can't take credit for that. That is what happens when you get married and go away for five days with the Groom, leaving your mother in charge of your kids and your home. Your mother decorates things. She also manages to find where you store your worn clothes that need to be dry-cleaned, and since you were careful to make sure every single bit of the household's actual laundry was done before you left town, she washes and dries your dry-cleaning. Fortunately, I've had time to go shopping to replace my only two cream colored tops, since I wasn't going to the pumpkin patch and all anyway. But I digress.
I suppose if the apple orchard promised to be brimming with fourteen year old boys, I would have been able to get Eighth Grader interested in going. Fourteen year old boys are apparently where it's at for her now. Can you think of anything less enticing, seriously? I am trying to
remain open and welcoming, I really am. But sometimes, when I look at her face and see how completely checked out she is while doing
pretty much any activity not involving hanging out with a boy, I just want to shake her little head. And then hand her some warm apple crisp, remind her we can watch the Great Pumpkin after dinner if she finishes all her homework. But who am I kidding? The Great Pumpkin cannot hold a candle to a moody adolescent boy who says he loves you but also likes four of your best friends. Plus, remember? I didn't make any apple crisp this year.
Not to be outdone, Sixth Grader has also come down with a case of the Boys. Unlike her sister, she still possesses the wherewithal to put them in their place when they act like little pukes toward her or her friends. They are easily dispensed of and in good time replaced. In between , she has still managed to find time to start writing her wish list for Christmas. She has begun slipping her list to me, carefully buried
inside pocket-sized packets of poetry she has written for the occasion, as a way to both butter me up and prove that she is clever and mature enough for the high-priced electronics on her list. She is currently my favorite. That doesn't mean she's getting the electronics. But I do like the effort.
This passage of time thing really slugged me in the gut yesterday afternoon. I was able to convince the girls to go costume shopping with me by acting as if it was the absolute last thing on Earth that I wanted to do (often does the trick). I spent the outing teetering between making Eighth Grader go back for more and more clothing to cover herself with, for crying out loud (no self- respecting bunny would go out in public without leggings under that frilly pink tutu, you can just forget about those white stockings, young lady) and gently reminding Sixth Grader that while I understand she likes the IDEA of looking creepy, inevitably she ends up asking to tone it down because she is scaring herself , so let's not waste money on weird smelling makeup that will get thrown away unused. It was great fun.
I took advantage of the fact that I was spending money on them to mention, numerous times, that when we got home I thought I might make some pumpkin muffins. Subliminally, what I said was that they should hang about the kitchen and inhale the aromas of love, possibly arguing over who would get to sit next to me while we watched Halloween specials later on.
Did this come to pass? Well. There were pumpkin muffins. As for aromas of love...if a can of pumpkin is opened while your daughters are outside talking about boys, does the can opener make a sound?
I just finished reading this really terrible novel, on the cover of which it was proclaimed to be a "killer beach read", and I distinctly remember buying it for exactly that reason and with that plan in mind. Turns out, I am slightly repelled by "beach reads" whether or not I am at the beach. It took me until the first day of fall to pick the thing up and read it. Finishing it made me feel sad for those who may have wasted their precious summer hours reading it, until I realized that I, too, had invested time in it and that while I was doing so - while I wasn't looking up- my daughters both got a little bit older. Eighth Grader and Sixth Grader. Curse you, badly written beach read. Curse you.
This has been the first October in probably a dozen years that I have skipped all of my normal fall activities. Carving a jack-o-lantern. Eating pumpkin seeds. Picking apples. Baking apple things. Dedicating thought and debate to Halloween costumes for myself and the Tornadoes. The outside of my house is lightly adorned with Halloween decorations, but I can't take credit for that. That is what happens when you get married and go away for five days with the Groom, leaving your mother in charge of your kids and your home. Your mother decorates things. She also manages to find where you store your worn clothes that need to be dry-cleaned, and since you were careful to make sure every single bit of the household's actual laundry was done before you left town, she washes and dries your dry-cleaning. Fortunately, I've had time to go shopping to replace my only two cream colored tops, since I wasn't going to the pumpkin patch and all anyway. But I digress.
I suppose if the apple orchard promised to be brimming with fourteen year old boys, I would have been able to get Eighth Grader interested in going. Fourteen year old boys are apparently where it's at for her now. Can you think of anything less enticing, seriously? I am trying to
remain open and welcoming, I really am. But sometimes, when I look at her face and see how completely checked out she is while doing
pretty much any activity not involving hanging out with a boy, I just want to shake her little head. And then hand her some warm apple crisp, remind her we can watch the Great Pumpkin after dinner if she finishes all her homework. But who am I kidding? The Great Pumpkin cannot hold a candle to a moody adolescent boy who says he loves you but also likes four of your best friends. Plus, remember? I didn't make any apple crisp this year.
Not to be outdone, Sixth Grader has also come down with a case of the Boys. Unlike her sister, she still possesses the wherewithal to put them in their place when they act like little pukes toward her or her friends. They are easily dispensed of and in good time replaced. In between , she has still managed to find time to start writing her wish list for Christmas. She has begun slipping her list to me, carefully buried
inside pocket-sized packets of poetry she has written for the occasion, as a way to both butter me up and prove that she is clever and mature enough for the high-priced electronics on her list. She is currently my favorite. That doesn't mean she's getting the electronics. But I do like the effort.
This passage of time thing really slugged me in the gut yesterday afternoon. I was able to convince the girls to go costume shopping with me by acting as if it was the absolute last thing on Earth that I wanted to do (often does the trick). I spent the outing teetering between making Eighth Grader go back for more and more clothing to cover herself with, for crying out loud (no self- respecting bunny would go out in public without leggings under that frilly pink tutu, you can just forget about those white stockings, young lady) and gently reminding Sixth Grader that while I understand she likes the IDEA of looking creepy, inevitably she ends up asking to tone it down because she is scaring herself , so let's not waste money on weird smelling makeup that will get thrown away unused. It was great fun.
I took advantage of the fact that I was spending money on them to mention, numerous times, that when we got home I thought I might make some pumpkin muffins. Subliminally, what I said was that they should hang about the kitchen and inhale the aromas of love, possibly arguing over who would get to sit next to me while we watched Halloween specials later on.
Did this come to pass? Well. There were pumpkin muffins. As for aromas of love...if a can of pumpkin is opened while your daughters are outside talking about boys, does the can opener make a sound?
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Oh Boy?...Oh Boy?
Oh, Blogosphere. Do you still exist?
Allow me to catch you up on a few outstanding matters. After .8 years of living in our "new" home together, two things have transpired. First, the last of the contractors has finally gone home. All of the home improvements that we have elected, and can currently afford, to do have been done. No more buzzing saws, drills, dust, making way for electricians and plumbers to cut holes in things, and parking in the street due to seventeen pickup trucks hogging all of our driveway space until their arbitrarily determined quitting time. It's just us. And the Tornadoes. And the Tornadoes' gazillion friends, eating all of our food and swimming in our pool. Serenity.
The second thing: Future Husband and I have finally decided when and where to get married.
We'd debated the available options on time and location until we could no longer kid ourselves about the fact that we were actually procrastinating about getting married at all. So we've decided on a date in the fall, and will hold the festivities right here at our house. Exciting, right? A wedding date! For me!
Except here's the thing. I'm thinking of not inviting Future Husband to the wedding. Not because I don't love him or don't want to actually be married to him. I'm thinking of not inviting him because, now that we have made these two decisions, there is a little bit of planning to do. In order for planning to commence, there must occasionally be a conversation about various items. And every time I initiate said conversation, Future Husband says, apparently reflexively, "Oh boy."
"Who do you think we should invite?"
"Oh boy."
"My photographer friend is available."
"Oh boy."
"We'll probably need a bartender, right?"
"Oh boy."
So last night, Future Husband and I were watching "Cake Boss" with the Tornadoes before bedtime. Cake Boss was making a wedding cake of epic proportions, as he tends to do, and this made me think that a traditional cake is not something I want at our party. So I ever so casually said to Future Husband, "Do you think we're going to need to have a cake?" And Future Husband said, "Oh boy." And this is when I got the idea that I might not invite him. I'll have to check with the photographer and see if that is workable. I'm sure it is. She's a very talented photographer.
Now listen here. I am no Bridezilla. Weddings, brides, ceremonies - these are nouns and that fall far out of my natural vocabulary. I was never one of those little girls who fantasized about her perfect wedding or perfect groom or perfectly blissful married future. The whole idea of marriage still makes me shiver slightly, mainly because I failed so spectacularly the first time I tried it. And? Didn't plan my first wedding, people. Other than my dress and the music selection, I left every stinking detail up to my mother and my bridal party. Didn't pick the venue, the photographer, the cake, the food - whatever other dozen decisions that had to be made to pull together someone else's vision of that day in my life, I let them go to it. It was the beginning of the end, and I acted like I knew it.
When I say, though, that Future Husband and I were procrastinating about getting married, what I mean is this: it feels like we already are married. Provided that marriage is supposed to feel like complete comfort and faith in being with this other person who is your partner, companion, and lover, and you can easily see yourself spending every day of the rest of your life with them. I don't know, maybe that's just me eating more vegetables. But I suspect it could resemble a good marriage. In my opinion, the point of following through with an actual wedding is to give our family and friends - and most significantly, our kids from other marriages - a means of officially acknowledging and celebrating our togetherness. And I was thinking that maybe it might be kind of a fun party to plan.
But the "Oh boy" reflex? Not fun to hear, lover boy. Not fun.
Allow me to catch you up on a few outstanding matters. After .8 years of living in our "new" home together, two things have transpired. First, the last of the contractors has finally gone home. All of the home improvements that we have elected, and can currently afford, to do have been done. No more buzzing saws, drills, dust, making way for electricians and plumbers to cut holes in things, and parking in the street due to seventeen pickup trucks hogging all of our driveway space until their arbitrarily determined quitting time. It's just us. And the Tornadoes. And the Tornadoes' gazillion friends, eating all of our food and swimming in our pool. Serenity.
The second thing: Future Husband and I have finally decided when and where to get married.
We'd debated the available options on time and location until we could no longer kid ourselves about the fact that we were actually procrastinating about getting married at all. So we've decided on a date in the fall, and will hold the festivities right here at our house. Exciting, right? A wedding date! For me!
Except here's the thing. I'm thinking of not inviting Future Husband to the wedding. Not because I don't love him or don't want to actually be married to him. I'm thinking of not inviting him because, now that we have made these two decisions, there is a little bit of planning to do. In order for planning to commence, there must occasionally be a conversation about various items. And every time I initiate said conversation, Future Husband says, apparently reflexively, "Oh boy."
"Who do you think we should invite?"
"Oh boy."
"My photographer friend is available."
"Oh boy."
"We'll probably need a bartender, right?"
"Oh boy."
So last night, Future Husband and I were watching "Cake Boss" with the Tornadoes before bedtime. Cake Boss was making a wedding cake of epic proportions, as he tends to do, and this made me think that a traditional cake is not something I want at our party. So I ever so casually said to Future Husband, "Do you think we're going to need to have a cake?" And Future Husband said, "Oh boy." And this is when I got the idea that I might not invite him. I'll have to check with the photographer and see if that is workable. I'm sure it is. She's a very talented photographer.
Now listen here. I am no Bridezilla. Weddings, brides, ceremonies - these are nouns and that fall far out of my natural vocabulary. I was never one of those little girls who fantasized about her perfect wedding or perfect groom or perfectly blissful married future. The whole idea of marriage still makes me shiver slightly, mainly because I failed so spectacularly the first time I tried it. And? Didn't plan my first wedding, people. Other than my dress and the music selection, I left every stinking detail up to my mother and my bridal party. Didn't pick the venue, the photographer, the cake, the food - whatever other dozen decisions that had to be made to pull together someone else's vision of that day in my life, I let them go to it. It was the beginning of the end, and I acted like I knew it.
When I say, though, that Future Husband and I were procrastinating about getting married, what I mean is this: it feels like we already are married. Provided that marriage is supposed to feel like complete comfort and faith in being with this other person who is your partner, companion, and lover, and you can easily see yourself spending every day of the rest of your life with them. I don't know, maybe that's just me eating more vegetables. But I suspect it could resemble a good marriage. In my opinion, the point of following through with an actual wedding is to give our family and friends - and most significantly, our kids from other marriages - a means of officially acknowledging and celebrating our togetherness. And I was thinking that maybe it might be kind of a fun party to plan.
But the "Oh boy" reflex? Not fun to hear, lover boy. Not fun.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Thoughts On How Not Hungry I Am
Fourteen days remaining until the big 4-0. I have managed to reduce myself by six of the eight pounds I am gunning for. Okay, five. It WAS six, but then there was the Chinese Food For Dinner Debacle last night...merely the logical follow-up to the buffalo chicken mac and cheese I had eaten for lunch. Which I then topped off with a cocktail, failing to use lower calorie juice as the mixer. The Chinese Food for Dinner was topped off, I mean. Not the spicy pasta lunch. Because that would have been wrong.
So three pounds to go, with two weeks to make it happen. The great news is that I have achieved the desperately sought after "breaking of the range" that has been the bane of my weight management existence for the last five years. The bad news is that, with the exception of yesterday, I mostly feel like killing everyone in sight just so I can take their food. I'm not too picky about what the food is, either. I may have been tempted to pluck the partially eaten apple out of a complete stranger's hand in the elevator a few days ago, for instance.
My stomach is in a constant state of babble. I believe it is saying, "Seriously, woman. Get me that apple." Or "Would it be so hard for you to throw a cracker in this chicken and vegetable soup?" Or "I've had it up to HERE (stomach indicates dotted line slightly above thin layer of greek yogurt with fruit) with this yogurt. Where's the bacon? Where's my cheesy english muffin? Dammit, woman, this is NOT WHAT I ORDERED!"
I exaggerate. Really, it hasn't been so bad. I'm being very healthy about the whole thing. And I have some experience with this process, having repeated it in about twelve thousand variations since I was a teenager. Proper nutrition is a priority. Okay, reaching this completely superfluous goal by my birthday is actually the priority. But nutrition is right after that.
Let's talk about something else. Let's talk about the completely ridiculous statement that people keep uttering to me about 40 being "just a number". It's just a number! Really? I didn't think of that. Why isn't that comforting? Can anyone tell me? It's not that I'm exactly devastated over this pending birthday. No, not devastated. Angst-y and somewhat disappointed that so much is still undone. Also, curious about what lies ahead. Possibilities and surprises, certainly those lie ahead. Opportunity. Special moments. Also, menopause. Menopause lies ahead. Failing health. Death. So, some not so surprising things. If it's all the same to you, I think I will continue to regard this milestone as slightly more than "just a number." You don't have to play along. But the first person to utter that nonsensical platitude on my actual birthday will wear their slice of cake. Or pie. I'm hoping for key lime pie instead of cake. Now that I think about it, why don't you just go ahead and let that platitude rip - because honestly, I am really freaking hungry, and I don't necessarily want to share my 40th birthday key lime pie with any of you to begin with. Get your own pie.
...Sorry. That outburst was unnecessary. I blame it on low blood sugar. Okay, thanks for stopping by today. Fourteen days and counting.
So three pounds to go, with two weeks to make it happen. The great news is that I have achieved the desperately sought after "breaking of the range" that has been the bane of my weight management existence for the last five years. The bad news is that, with the exception of yesterday, I mostly feel like killing everyone in sight just so I can take their food. I'm not too picky about what the food is, either. I may have been tempted to pluck the partially eaten apple out of a complete stranger's hand in the elevator a few days ago, for instance.
My stomach is in a constant state of babble. I believe it is saying, "Seriously, woman. Get me that apple." Or "Would it be so hard for you to throw a cracker in this chicken and vegetable soup?" Or "I've had it up to HERE (stomach indicates dotted line slightly above thin layer of greek yogurt with fruit) with this yogurt. Where's the bacon? Where's my cheesy english muffin? Dammit, woman, this is NOT WHAT I ORDERED!"
I exaggerate. Really, it hasn't been so bad. I'm being very healthy about the whole thing. And I have some experience with this process, having repeated it in about twelve thousand variations since I was a teenager. Proper nutrition is a priority. Okay, reaching this completely superfluous goal by my birthday is actually the priority. But nutrition is right after that.
Let's talk about something else. Let's talk about the completely ridiculous statement that people keep uttering to me about 40 being "just a number". It's just a number! Really? I didn't think of that. Why isn't that comforting? Can anyone tell me? It's not that I'm exactly devastated over this pending birthday. No, not devastated. Angst-y and somewhat disappointed that so much is still undone. Also, curious about what lies ahead. Possibilities and surprises, certainly those lie ahead. Opportunity. Special moments. Also, menopause. Menopause lies ahead. Failing health. Death. So, some not so surprising things. If it's all the same to you, I think I will continue to regard this milestone as slightly more than "just a number." You don't have to play along. But the first person to utter that nonsensical platitude on my actual birthday will wear their slice of cake. Or pie. I'm hoping for key lime pie instead of cake. Now that I think about it, why don't you just go ahead and let that platitude rip - because honestly, I am really freaking hungry, and I don't necessarily want to share my 40th birthday key lime pie with any of you to begin with. Get your own pie.
...Sorry. That outburst was unnecessary. I blame it on low blood sugar. Okay, thanks for stopping by today. Fourteen days and counting.
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