It seems like every other day there’s an article on the web about what really makes us happy. I think it’s the small things. Tonight my daughter came up to me and said, “My head hurts, Mom.” I reached over to give her a squeeze and hit something cold. She had tied an ice pack around her head with one of my scarves. That just made me laugh. But the experts don’t think the same way. They have a formula for happiness. Here it is, along with my comments. Feel free to let me know what you think.
1. Being married. I think it’s all about sharing your life with someone who’s willing to look out for you. In that case you validate each other’s existence. That’s the only reason you can explain why connecting with your hubby for the first time in 16 hours, over dish duty, makes me happy.
2. Going to Church Every Week. I’m a big fan of faith. The world can be downright depressing—especially if you have the bad fortune of watching the news on any given night. I have to believe in the good stuff, even if it seems like an uphill climb.
3. Living Where It’s Sunny. Yes, yes and more yes. I moved away from the snow for a reason. It’s cold. And I’m actually three times happier tan than I am when I’m white.
4. If You’re A Man Then You Need To Be Employed. If you’re a woman you probably have a paying job and a whole truckload of unpaid jobs too. I’m pretty sure most of us would be happy to give up a few jobs.
5. Good Health. I just don’t see the appeal of carting around your own oxygen tank. It’s not the kind of accessory that makes you grin like a fool, a Dooney bag is much more my speed.
6. Time for Family, Friends, and Community. Believe it or not, this one is getting tougher and tougher to come by. We’re working longer hours and we’re suddenly content spending the evening with Gossip Girl or the Vampire Diaries. So, when I invite you to Girls Night Out, you need to say “yes.” Quit checking your schedule—you just need to come along—that’s what DVR’s are for anyway.
7. Giving. Not really a problem for any woman I know. We know how to give. Time, money and funeral potatoes—we’ve got it covered. And we feel guilty that we can’t give more. Like I said, women have this one covered.
8. Good Urban Design. This one made me laugh because it sounds like a political statement or an advertisement for some home builder, but it turns out that we’re happier if we’re sitting out on the front porch and waving to our neighbors. Of course, I’ve lived in a few neighborhoods where people hang out in their garages, sitting in lawn chairs with a big cooler next to them and I couldn’t decide if they were neighborly, nosy or just trying to avoid their wives.
Showing posts with label Cuz I'm A Woman. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cuz I'm A Woman. Show all posts
July 14, 2011
July 11, 2011
Visions of Cheeseburgers
I’ve been on my diet (again) for two days and I am ready to jump in front of a bus for a saltine cracker, or do something really crazy and clean out the garage if there’s a mini peanut-butter cup in it. What is it about dieting? The last thing I want to think about is food and, ironically enough, it’s the only thing I can think about. I dream about my next meal like it’s some exotic vacation. I count down the moment that I can have ½ cup of green beans. I start to hallucinate. I thought my stapler was a 1000 Grand bar.
Watching television is impossible. Do you know how many hamburger commercials there are in a one-hour program? Four, that’s how many. There’s also at least one pasta commercial and one with a steak sizzling on a plate—I couldn’t even concentrate long enough to tell you the name of the restaurant. I had to turn the television off before I started gnawing on my own hand.
I’m going to go to bed early. Can you be harassed while you’re unconscious? I’m pretty worried. I have a feeling that I’m going to be dreaming about an all you can eat buffet.
Watching television is impossible. Do you know how many hamburger commercials there are in a one-hour program? Four, that’s how many. There’s also at least one pasta commercial and one with a steak sizzling on a plate—I couldn’t even concentrate long enough to tell you the name of the restaurant. I had to turn the television off before I started gnawing on my own hand.
I’m going to go to bed early. Can you be harassed while you’re unconscious? I’m pretty worried. I have a feeling that I’m going to be dreaming about an all you can eat buffet.
July 8, 2011
Aging Sucks and It Requires "Stuff"
We just got back from an extended lake vacation which translates into “being stuck on a too-small boat with all our children for a week.” Bear in mind that we could have been on Beyonce’s yacht and it wouldn’t have been big enough, but that’s beside the point. We watched our cooler eat $5 blocks of ice at an alarming rate, and our smallest children cover their bodies in mud at least six times per day. Just last year all of this seemed normal and even enjoyable but things have definitely changed.
Now I have to trek out for a long back-float in greenish lake water under a full moon because the night sweats have overcome me and they are determined to rob me of all hope of sleep. Since that sleep generally occurs between 2 am, when the breeze finally dips below 100 degrees, and 6 am, when the blasted sun comes up, I’m basically forced to take a swim when I’d rather be happily dreaming of Patrick Dempsey.
It’s gotten even worse for my husband. Never-mind the fact that he is freckled as the day is long but still believes that real men don’t wear sunscreen and therefore has to nurse second degree burns by the end of the first day out, but now he wants “creature comforts.” This includes a full kitchen on the back deck of the boat, an air conditioner that can run 24/7, and some way to keep the rain out of the boat without having to zip on the sides. In other words, he wants to feel like he’s home even if he’s really in the middle of a lake.
This is a new development in our lives. For more than 20 years I’ve been married to a man who spends ridiculous amounts of time fixing things and building things. Now he wants air conditioning and a boat that won’t spill his drink as we cruise 40mph down the rough waters of the main channel. It scares me a little—I won’t lie—because I find myself wanting better “stuff” too.
I don’t like sitting at a campfire anymore. The smoke kills my contacts, makes my bathing suit smell like a barbeque sandwich, and obscures the fact that my kids are getting dangerously close to poking each other with sticks that are burning at one end. I want cold drinks—ice cold—the kind that require actual ice, not blocks of ice pressed up against it in the cooler. I also need naps, in the afternoon, especially after being out in 100 degree heat for a few hours. And I want those naps someplace where a cold breeze is blowing directly on me the entire time. I don’t like chasing the sunshade across the beach when the wind randomly decides to carry it away anymore either (although this problem might already be solved since the sunshade disappeared without a trace while we were gone one day.) I want internet access and I want to be able to order books on my Kindle as soon as I need one—not just when I can get a signal. But I don’t mind not being able to get calls though—who knew?
All I know is that there’s a reason why empty-nesters sell off the SUV in favor of the luxury car and start taking cruises rather than dragging around a camper trailer with a canoe tied on top. They’ve done it and now they’re done with it. The only problem is that we’re not empty nesters—not even close. Thanks to modern medicine we still have 15 years of camping and family car trips to go. I really shouldn’t have waited to have my children, but then I wouldn’t have gotten that great picture of my husband trying to nap in our rubber raft on the shady side of the boat—hilarious!
Now I have to trek out for a long back-float in greenish lake water under a full moon because the night sweats have overcome me and they are determined to rob me of all hope of sleep. Since that sleep generally occurs between 2 am, when the breeze finally dips below 100 degrees, and 6 am, when the blasted sun comes up, I’m basically forced to take a swim when I’d rather be happily dreaming of Patrick Dempsey.
It’s gotten even worse for my husband. Never-mind the fact that he is freckled as the day is long but still believes that real men don’t wear sunscreen and therefore has to nurse second degree burns by the end of the first day out, but now he wants “creature comforts.” This includes a full kitchen on the back deck of the boat, an air conditioner that can run 24/7, and some way to keep the rain out of the boat without having to zip on the sides. In other words, he wants to feel like he’s home even if he’s really in the middle of a lake.
This is a new development in our lives. For more than 20 years I’ve been married to a man who spends ridiculous amounts of time fixing things and building things. Now he wants air conditioning and a boat that won’t spill his drink as we cruise 40mph down the rough waters of the main channel. It scares me a little—I won’t lie—because I find myself wanting better “stuff” too.
I don’t like sitting at a campfire anymore. The smoke kills my contacts, makes my bathing suit smell like a barbeque sandwich, and obscures the fact that my kids are getting dangerously close to poking each other with sticks that are burning at one end. I want cold drinks—ice cold—the kind that require actual ice, not blocks of ice pressed up against it in the cooler. I also need naps, in the afternoon, especially after being out in 100 degree heat for a few hours. And I want those naps someplace where a cold breeze is blowing directly on me the entire time. I don’t like chasing the sunshade across the beach when the wind randomly decides to carry it away anymore either (although this problem might already be solved since the sunshade disappeared without a trace while we were gone one day.) I want internet access and I want to be able to order books on my Kindle as soon as I need one—not just when I can get a signal. But I don’t mind not being able to get calls though—who knew?
All I know is that there’s a reason why empty-nesters sell off the SUV in favor of the luxury car and start taking cruises rather than dragging around a camper trailer with a canoe tied on top. They’ve done it and now they’re done with it. The only problem is that we’re not empty nesters—not even close. Thanks to modern medicine we still have 15 years of camping and family car trips to go. I really shouldn’t have waited to have my children, but then I wouldn’t have gotten that great picture of my husband trying to nap in our rubber raft on the shady side of the boat—hilarious!
June 28, 2011
Is It Still A Dust Bunny?
I’m just curious. Is it still a dust bunny when there are cobwebs, a piece of cereal and a dead beetle attached to it? Dust “bunny” evokes a sweet, cuddly image and this thing that I found behind my couch is anything but. It’s just another joy that you get to experience when cleaning.
Another favorite of mine is discovering that my children have vacuumed up a sock or an action figure or anything that gives the vacuum a bad case of indigestion. I generally figure it out after I’ve run the vacuum over about half the carpet before realizing that it’s not picking up anything. When I go to investigate, turning the machine upside down and peering at its backside, I begin to pull out treasure after treasure like the magician with the twelve foot scarf. Of course the next thing I find is that the belt has snapped and I never seem to have a replacement on hand.
I also love running the garbage disposal only to find that a spoon has been dropped in it. Half my spoons have scratchy edges from taking a spin in the garbage disposal. I can’t clean the kitchen without getting the belly of my shirt wet, and I will always find a sticky spot within half-an-hour of mopping the floor.
Why do I do it? Obviously that dust bunny has had no trouble living independently for months now and so I have to wonder why I bother trying to clean at all. It never ends and my house is never actually clean. Then I watch an episode of “Hoarders” and I don’t have to wonder any more. I clean my house so that I don’t have sleep on my counter in a sleeping bag because my bed has disappeared under a pile of junk. Extreme? Maybe, but it’s motivating.
Another favorite of mine is discovering that my children have vacuumed up a sock or an action figure or anything that gives the vacuum a bad case of indigestion. I generally figure it out after I’ve run the vacuum over about half the carpet before realizing that it’s not picking up anything. When I go to investigate, turning the machine upside down and peering at its backside, I begin to pull out treasure after treasure like the magician with the twelve foot scarf. Of course the next thing I find is that the belt has snapped and I never seem to have a replacement on hand.
I also love running the garbage disposal only to find that a spoon has been dropped in it. Half my spoons have scratchy edges from taking a spin in the garbage disposal. I can’t clean the kitchen without getting the belly of my shirt wet, and I will always find a sticky spot within half-an-hour of mopping the floor.
Why do I do it? Obviously that dust bunny has had no trouble living independently for months now and so I have to wonder why I bother trying to clean at all. It never ends and my house is never actually clean. Then I watch an episode of “Hoarders” and I don’t have to wonder any more. I clean my house so that I don’t have sleep on my counter in a sleeping bag because my bed has disappeared under a pile of junk. Extreme? Maybe, but it’s motivating.
June 20, 2011
Unbreakable? Of Course Not!
I feel like a magnet for disaster but that’s a little melodramatic—even for me. I’m more like a magnet for irritating little setbacks. This is a new development and I’m not very happy about it at all. I’ve been trying to figure out how to change my luck and I’m grasping at straws to say the least. I changed up my routine, just to see if that made a difference, I cleaned out my fridge, dusted off my gratitude journal, and surfed the Oprah website for tips to living my best life. It didn’t work. I’ve graduated to listening to my “The Secret” book on tape while making dinner, trying to visualize a meal that everyone in my family will eat without complaint. Apparently I’m not good at manifesting because more than half of the family refused to eat. At the rate I’m going, I may need to Google “The Psychic Network by Wednesday.”
It all began when we headed off to our first lake trip. I had spent two days packing, planning meals and preparing food. We arrived at the marina, excited to feel the wind in our hair for the first time since winter had passed. Unfortunately, we had boat engine trouble and spent exactly six hours on the lake, tied to the dock, while my husband peered at the engine and cursed under his breath and my children complained about our “lame” and “boring” our family vacations.
We returned home three days early so I took the kids to the mall to spend some hush money on them. On our way home, my car started to overheat, stalled and was towed to the repair shop where I got a truly breathtaking repair estimate. This was followed by a broken garage door. Then, when I was trying to roll down my window at Wendy’s to get my Frosty fix, the blasted thing dropped into the door, never to return. I had to drive home in 105 degree heat with the window down blowing like a hairdryer into my face.
And That’s not even the worst thing! Now my luck is rubbing off on people around me. My sister came to visit for a week with her kids and her two-year-old managed to find the only not-dried-out permanent marker in the entire house and scribbled all over my daughter’s bedroom. Surprisingly, this was the easiest and cheapest incident to clean up since my luck had turned but, and this is not a lie, I can never find a working marker when I need it so I can’t fathom how a two-year-old dug one up.
So, I fully anticipate that this blog post will get lost in cyberspace, or turn to jibberish the moment I post it because that’s just my luck. If you have any ideas on how I can change it, I’m all ears and the sooner the better. I have a wedding to attend at the end of the week and I don’t want to spill on the bride or accidentally bump the only vintage crystal vase on the gift table.
It all began when we headed off to our first lake trip. I had spent two days packing, planning meals and preparing food. We arrived at the marina, excited to feel the wind in our hair for the first time since winter had passed. Unfortunately, we had boat engine trouble and spent exactly six hours on the lake, tied to the dock, while my husband peered at the engine and cursed under his breath and my children complained about our “lame” and “boring” our family vacations.
We returned home three days early so I took the kids to the mall to spend some hush money on them. On our way home, my car started to overheat, stalled and was towed to the repair shop where I got a truly breathtaking repair estimate. This was followed by a broken garage door. Then, when I was trying to roll down my window at Wendy’s to get my Frosty fix, the blasted thing dropped into the door, never to return. I had to drive home in 105 degree heat with the window down blowing like a hairdryer into my face.
And That’s not even the worst thing! Now my luck is rubbing off on people around me. My sister came to visit for a week with her kids and her two-year-old managed to find the only not-dried-out permanent marker in the entire house and scribbled all over my daughter’s bedroom. Surprisingly, this was the easiest and cheapest incident to clean up since my luck had turned but, and this is not a lie, I can never find a working marker when I need it so I can’t fathom how a two-year-old dug one up.
So, I fully anticipate that this blog post will get lost in cyberspace, or turn to jibberish the moment I post it because that’s just my luck. If you have any ideas on how I can change it, I’m all ears and the sooner the better. I have a wedding to attend at the end of the week and I don’t want to spill on the bride or accidentally bump the only vintage crystal vase on the gift table.
May 17, 2011
Drawing Dreams
I was enjoying some pre-bedtime talk with my daughter tonight. She was talking about how hot she it was at school. It was so hot that she was wishing for rain so she got out the sidewalk chalk and proceeded to do something about it. She drew clouds and rain, rainbows and pots of gold while the sun beat on the back of her neck. I smiled at the story when she said, “And guess what? My wish came true!” She was so excited. Then she said, “It didn’t come true right away. It took a few days, but then it rained so my wish worked.”
And here I am, rolling that story around in my head and wondering why I don’t think more like my daughter. By contrast, I’m generally the one acting like a five-year-old when I’m praying for a solution to a problem only to be frustrated and disappointed when the answer doesn’t immediately come crashing down from the sky to hit me on the head. I have no patience when it comes to my own wishes and goals. And, worst of all, I probably don’t recognize sought-after blessings when it takes a while for them to appear.
I want to change. I want to be like my daughter. I want to believe in my wishes, I want to have the patience to wait for them to come true, and I want to have gratitude even when the answers don’t come according to my timetable. I’m just not sure where to start. Perhaps I need to invest in a set of sidewalk chalk.
Just curious, what would you draw?
And here I am, rolling that story around in my head and wondering why I don’t think more like my daughter. By contrast, I’m generally the one acting like a five-year-old when I’m praying for a solution to a problem only to be frustrated and disappointed when the answer doesn’t immediately come crashing down from the sky to hit me on the head. I have no patience when it comes to my own wishes and goals. And, worst of all, I probably don’t recognize sought-after blessings when it takes a while for them to appear.
I want to change. I want to be like my daughter. I want to believe in my wishes, I want to have the patience to wait for them to come true, and I want to have gratitude even when the answers don’t come according to my timetable. I’m just not sure where to start. Perhaps I need to invest in a set of sidewalk chalk.
Just curious, what would you draw?
April 19, 2011
When Birthdays Were Fun
My daughter’s birthday is this week and she’s so excited that she’s practically vibrating with anticipation. She has already given me a list of all the things that she wants for her birthday and as soon as she wakes up in the morning she adds to the list, which proves that she’s also dreaming about presents. When another ad for another toy comes on T.V., she runs into the kitchen and drags me over to watch it—so that I’ll add it to her list.
It’s not just the toys that have her head spinning, it’s also the paper crowns we bought last month for her party. She has taken those paper crowns and built an imaginary party around them that includes a life-size Rapunzel castle with a curly slide that will drop her party guests at a table laden with petite cakes and mini-muffins—all served on teeny tiny pink china. The guest list rivals the royal wedding and includes several boys despite expressing my reservations about inviting Prince Charmings that would rather kick a ball into her tea party than wear knickers and matching silver crowns. Did I also mention that she’s planning on this being a swim party?
This frenzy took me back a few years (alright, a few decades) to times when I was actually excited about my birthday. I remember my sweet sixteen. My friends “kidnapped” me early that morning and took me out for IHOP pancakes smothered in strawberries and whipped cream. At school my locker was decorated and I wore a Miss-America-style sash announcing to anyone who cared that it was, in fact, my birthday. And I had already secured the all important first date since my parents wouldn’t let me date until I was sixteen. I was happy and even the photos of me with puffy eyes sitting in front of a plate of pancakes are a testament to my joy.
So why have birthdays become such drudgery? It probably has something to do with the fact that each additional candle on the cake stands for an additional crows foot, gray hair or varicose vein. It doesn’t help my outlook when I’m expected to plan my own birthday—if you can call it that. Frankly, if I was planning my own birthday it would include a good book, a babysitter, a big bath full of bubbles and sole possession of the remote control for the big T.V. (not the baby-sized one in the kitchen.) But the plan I’m expected to make includes a family friendly dinner (meaning a buffet—and I hate buffets), and a movie that we can all watch together. Bear in mind that my children are all several years apart so we’re generally hunkered down in a movie theater full of crying toddlers watching the latest CGI cartoon.
Still, watching my daughter has made me jealous. I want to be excited about another year and, instead of wishing I could turn back the calendar and erase a few years, I want to look forward to new possibilities. Maybe that’s why kids love birthdays. They dream of what they’re going to do when they’re 5 or 10 or 16 and they can’t wait to live that dream, but somewhere along the line we’ve forgotten to dream of later birthdays when we’re smarter and have a better idea of what will make us happy. I guess it’s time that I invest in a dream of what my life could be this year. Happy Birthday to all of us this year. I’m going to blow the dust off of my daydreaming skills and I hope you do the same. If nothing else, it will make turning a year older just a little more entertaining.
It’s not just the toys that have her head spinning, it’s also the paper crowns we bought last month for her party. She has taken those paper crowns and built an imaginary party around them that includes a life-size Rapunzel castle with a curly slide that will drop her party guests at a table laden with petite cakes and mini-muffins—all served on teeny tiny pink china. The guest list rivals the royal wedding and includes several boys despite expressing my reservations about inviting Prince Charmings that would rather kick a ball into her tea party than wear knickers and matching silver crowns. Did I also mention that she’s planning on this being a swim party?
This frenzy took me back a few years (alright, a few decades) to times when I was actually excited about my birthday. I remember my sweet sixteen. My friends “kidnapped” me early that morning and took me out for IHOP pancakes smothered in strawberries and whipped cream. At school my locker was decorated and I wore a Miss-America-style sash announcing to anyone who cared that it was, in fact, my birthday. And I had already secured the all important first date since my parents wouldn’t let me date until I was sixteen. I was happy and even the photos of me with puffy eyes sitting in front of a plate of pancakes are a testament to my joy.
So why have birthdays become such drudgery? It probably has something to do with the fact that each additional candle on the cake stands for an additional crows foot, gray hair or varicose vein. It doesn’t help my outlook when I’m expected to plan my own birthday—if you can call it that. Frankly, if I was planning my own birthday it would include a good book, a babysitter, a big bath full of bubbles and sole possession of the remote control for the big T.V. (not the baby-sized one in the kitchen.) But the plan I’m expected to make includes a family friendly dinner (meaning a buffet—and I hate buffets), and a movie that we can all watch together. Bear in mind that my children are all several years apart so we’re generally hunkered down in a movie theater full of crying toddlers watching the latest CGI cartoon.
Still, watching my daughter has made me jealous. I want to be excited about another year and, instead of wishing I could turn back the calendar and erase a few years, I want to look forward to new possibilities. Maybe that’s why kids love birthdays. They dream of what they’re going to do when they’re 5 or 10 or 16 and they can’t wait to live that dream, but somewhere along the line we’ve forgotten to dream of later birthdays when we’re smarter and have a better idea of what will make us happy. I guess it’s time that I invest in a dream of what my life could be this year. Happy Birthday to all of us this year. I’m going to blow the dust off of my daydreaming skills and I hope you do the same. If nothing else, it will make turning a year older just a little more entertaining.
March 23, 2011
The Great Procrastinator
My husband has a paper that’s due this week. He’s gone back to school and I’m pretty sure he’s not liking it. I don’t think he realized that it would be hard work or that he would struggle to put thoughts onto paper, but it’s been an eye-opener for him. My eyes have been opened in another way. Up to this point, I’ve always felt like a slacker next to my husband. He remodels a room, washes our family’s pile of dirty clothing and manages to jump on the trampoline with the kids in the time it takes me to think up something to make for dinner (that I have the ingredients for.) But now he is going to extraordinary lengths to procrastinate working on this paper. It’s a whole new side of my husband that I never knew existed.
He’s turned avoiding the computer into an art form. Last night he scrubbed the fingerprints off our walls, sat down with me to watch a Lifetime channel movie, and willingly did Yoga with me. The night before he volunteered to help with my son’s Scout project and he used a backhoe to dig a fountain out of the front yard. When he came in for dinner, he asked if I wanted him to bathe the cats. For the record, he doesn’t even like the cats.
When he finally sits in front of the computer to work on the paper he winds up surfing ads for garage sales or luxury cars. And, although he denies ordering it, a humungous tube-slide showed up at my front door courtesy of a local Craigslist advertiser. If I find out that we belong to the jam-of-the-month-club, or if a box of Omaha Steaks shows up in the mail, I’m going to kill him.
What is it about the stuff we just don’t want to do that scares us so badly? When you think about it, if he had just done the paper right away then he never would have had to dust the tops of the kitchen cabinets or vacuum the coil in the refrigerator. Or take his daughter pants shopping, or try his hand at buzz-cutting our son’s hair. But this entire series of bizarre chores were born out of his desire to put off today that which is due tomorrow. All I know is that I’m no longer going to feel guilty about curling up on the couch with a book or going out to the movies with my friends, especially since I’m not much of a procrastinator. After all, I already have my taxes done.
He’s turned avoiding the computer into an art form. Last night he scrubbed the fingerprints off our walls, sat down with me to watch a Lifetime channel movie, and willingly did Yoga with me. The night before he volunteered to help with my son’s Scout project and he used a backhoe to dig a fountain out of the front yard. When he came in for dinner, he asked if I wanted him to bathe the cats. For the record, he doesn’t even like the cats.
When he finally sits in front of the computer to work on the paper he winds up surfing ads for garage sales or luxury cars. And, although he denies ordering it, a humungous tube-slide showed up at my front door courtesy of a local Craigslist advertiser. If I find out that we belong to the jam-of-the-month-club, or if a box of Omaha Steaks shows up in the mail, I’m going to kill him.
What is it about the stuff we just don’t want to do that scares us so badly? When you think about it, if he had just done the paper right away then he never would have had to dust the tops of the kitchen cabinets or vacuum the coil in the refrigerator. Or take his daughter pants shopping, or try his hand at buzz-cutting our son’s hair. But this entire series of bizarre chores were born out of his desire to put off today that which is due tomorrow. All I know is that I’m no longer going to feel guilty about curling up on the couch with a book or going out to the movies with my friends, especially since I’m not much of a procrastinator. After all, I already have my taxes done.
March 9, 2011
I'm Moving In With The Palin's
Daylight savings is next week and I’m breaking into a cold sweat just like I do every spring. My breath is irregular and I’ve developed a twitch in my eye. It’s all because I know that summer, that dreaded swimsuit season, is just around the corner. I already miss fall with its hardy soups and roasted turkeys. I miss Christmas when people dropped off sugary goodies more regularly than the mailman brought my Christmas cards. I miss comfort foods and fuzzy slippers, pajama pants, and puffy coats that camouflaged my jiggly arms.
But the party is over and I’m throwing a fit that rivals my five-year-olds tantrum over a helium balloon in the dollar store (of course I caved—my sanity is worth more than a dollar.) I don’t want to face the scale. I don’t want to know how much my body loved homemade fudge and I certainly don’t want to know that the fudge actually weighs more once it’s been consumed than it did in the package. I’m in denial and I want to stay there. That’s why I’m seriously considering a move to Alaska. Not only is it cold ten months of the year, but they have entire weeks where they don’t even see the sun! I’m thinking that’s just a great excuse to rent movies and eat heaping bowls of popcorn. But unless I can convince my family that they want to live next to the Palin’s, I’m going to have to give up the popcorn—but I don’t have to like it.
But the party is over and I’m throwing a fit that rivals my five-year-olds tantrum over a helium balloon in the dollar store (of course I caved—my sanity is worth more than a dollar.) I don’t want to face the scale. I don’t want to know how much my body loved homemade fudge and I certainly don’t want to know that the fudge actually weighs more once it’s been consumed than it did in the package. I’m in denial and I want to stay there. That’s why I’m seriously considering a move to Alaska. Not only is it cold ten months of the year, but they have entire weeks where they don’t even see the sun! I’m thinking that’s just a great excuse to rent movies and eat heaping bowls of popcorn. But unless I can convince my family that they want to live next to the Palin’s, I’m going to have to give up the popcorn—but I don’t have to like it.
February 24, 2011
Winter Turns Me Into A Bear
I don’t know what it is about winter, but I turn into a bear and it’s not pretty. I walk around in vacuous state, my mind muddled by cold winds and teeth that rattle all the way to work. When I get home at night, I want to drop my head into a pot of hearty soup, wiping the sides clean with a big wheat roll. My preferred nightly activity is napping until bedtime. If my family tries to talk to me, I answer with incoherent grunts and groans, hoping that they figure it out on their own. And don’t even get me started about how much I hate taking off the clothes I’ve warmed up all day by wearing them, only to step into cold pajamas and an even colder bed.
I think the problem is that I don’t like winter and I’m going to bet that bears don’t like it much either. Who would enjoy sleeping in a hard, cold cave and living off their fat stores? I can’t blame them for wanting to drift off to slumber land, dreaming about chasing salmon up the stream and scratching their backs on tree bark, until spring wakes them up again. I’d love to roll out of bed tomorrow morning and find that summer has come with strappy sandals and wide brimmed hats (and that I’ve lived off my fat stores and I’m skinny—but that’s the impossible dream.) But I’m pretty sure I’m waking up to another day of icy rain that my awful windshield wipers are no match for. My sympathy to those of you that have to brave blizzards and snow drifts—I’m sure you wish you were a bear too.
I think the problem is that I don’t like winter and I’m going to bet that bears don’t like it much either. Who would enjoy sleeping in a hard, cold cave and living off their fat stores? I can’t blame them for wanting to drift off to slumber land, dreaming about chasing salmon up the stream and scratching their backs on tree bark, until spring wakes them up again. I’d love to roll out of bed tomorrow morning and find that summer has come with strappy sandals and wide brimmed hats (and that I’ve lived off my fat stores and I’m skinny—but that’s the impossible dream.) But I’m pretty sure I’m waking up to another day of icy rain that my awful windshield wipers are no match for. My sympathy to those of you that have to brave blizzards and snow drifts—I’m sure you wish you were a bear too.
February 10, 2011
Only 120 Days Until Swimsuit Season
I’m two weeks into my new workout routine and I’m feeling it. Everything hurts. Last night I did power yoga and now all my toes hurt. I didn’t even think that was possible. Of course I also didn’t know that toes are used for balance either so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that they hurt. My neck hurts too. I suppose I knew that I had muscles in my neck, but I’d never thought about them before today when tilting my head became painful. I know that I have no right to complain, after all I am doing this to myself but I just didn’t think I was this out of shape.
I was doing power lunges, sweat running down my face, my legs as shaky as Jack Sparrow’s and my daughter is standing right next to me giggling as she mimics my moves. She finishes the lunges then does a summersault across my rug and starts hopping around on one leg with a big smile on her face. “This is fun, Mom, let’s do this some more.” I can’t believe it. I used to be a perky child, spry and energetic when jumping and skipping was fun. Now I think jumping rope is an aerobic workout and I’ll only do it if I know exactly how many calories it will burn off my backside.
The problem with exercise is that it saps all the fun out of eating. When you’re not exercising regularly, you never think about the fact that the bag of Cheetos you just polished off while watching Glee is thirty-six servings and contains enough calories to light up a small town on New Years Eve. You also don’t think about the fact that you haven’t had a glass of water in two days or that junk food isn’t even represented on the food pyramid. Life is bliss. Then spring comes and you remember that you will have to be in a swimsuit in less than 120 days and the party’s over.
Did you know that a serving size of cookies is one? I had no idea. It should be two or three since no one can eat a single cookie, but it’s not. I bet you didn’t know that there are as many calories in a glass of orange juice as there is in a can of soda or that just because it says “all natural” on the box doesn’t mean that it’s all natural. Dieting is a pain. You have to count nuts and measure cereal. You also have to think about food all the time when the last thing you should be obsessing about is food. Maybe that’s why I’m working out instead. It seems easier—at least until I have to do another freaking wall squat.
I was doing power lunges, sweat running down my face, my legs as shaky as Jack Sparrow’s and my daughter is standing right next to me giggling as she mimics my moves. She finishes the lunges then does a summersault across my rug and starts hopping around on one leg with a big smile on her face. “This is fun, Mom, let’s do this some more.” I can’t believe it. I used to be a perky child, spry and energetic when jumping and skipping was fun. Now I think jumping rope is an aerobic workout and I’ll only do it if I know exactly how many calories it will burn off my backside.
The problem with exercise is that it saps all the fun out of eating. When you’re not exercising regularly, you never think about the fact that the bag of Cheetos you just polished off while watching Glee is thirty-six servings and contains enough calories to light up a small town on New Years Eve. You also don’t think about the fact that you haven’t had a glass of water in two days or that junk food isn’t even represented on the food pyramid. Life is bliss. Then spring comes and you remember that you will have to be in a swimsuit in less than 120 days and the party’s over.
Did you know that a serving size of cookies is one? I had no idea. It should be two or three since no one can eat a single cookie, but it’s not. I bet you didn’t know that there are as many calories in a glass of orange juice as there is in a can of soda or that just because it says “all natural” on the box doesn’t mean that it’s all natural. Dieting is a pain. You have to count nuts and measure cereal. You also have to think about food all the time when the last thing you should be obsessing about is food. Maybe that’s why I’m working out instead. It seems easier—at least until I have to do another freaking wall squat.
February 1, 2011
What I Can't Live Without
I’ve been writing a true story that takes place around World War 2, and it’s made me feel like the biggest whiner when I complain about car pools and early-out school days. Don’t get me wrong, I probably won’t stop complaining about those things because they are incredibly frustrating to me but I feel a bit guilty nonetheless.
There are many conveniences that simply didn’t exist a generation or two ago and I thought it appropriate to make a short list of the things that I’m simply not willing to live without. I will also kneel down tonight and thank God that I wasn’t a pioneer—I don’t like animals enough for that.
So, naturally, the first thing I can’t live without is packaged meat. I don’t ever want to have to break a chicken’s neck and I really can’t imagine the painstaking process of plucking all the feathers off that bird. Long ago I forbade my husband and my nephews from bringing an elk home from the hunt unless it came back to me in white butcher paper with neat little labels. That’s why I’m pretty sure that their hunting trips consisted mostly of eating rice crispy bars and messing around with the satellite dish so that they could pick up the football games in the motor home. Plus, I discovered that they had forgotten to pack the ammo.
I also love my washer and dryer. If I had to clean soiled farmer clothes on a wash board, I may have been tempted to rub my forehead against it instead. I realize that hanging laundry is “green,” but it also turns bath towels into sandpapery boards that are great for exfoliation but not very comfortable on your more tender parts. The new dryers also steam clean and are big enough to dry a comforter. That’s convenience at its best.
Hot showers rank pretty high up there too. Actually I like everything that goes with a hot shower like disposable razors and really good conditioner. I lived with naturally curly hair through the 80’s when good hair products were nonexistent and big hair was the style simply because humidity ruled the land unopposed. Thank goodness for Paul Mitchell.
I have nothing but love for modern medicine. Nothing makes me happier than popping a couple of pills when a headache strikes knowing that I’m going to be pain free in about fifteen minutes. I also love NyQuil because it knocks my cranky kids out for a full 8 hours when they’re sick—you just can’t beat tranquility in a bottle. Vaccines get a bum deal these days but I bet a nasty bout of the Spanish flu or polio would remind people that they are little miracle shots. Thanks to modern medicine most mothers will never have to bury a young child—something that mothers two generations ago did with heartbreaking frequency.
My list could fill a book and then some. Yes, I love the internet and Netflix on demand rocks. My car, heck, any car makes me happy as long as it can get me from point A to point B without overheating. I like turning on every light in my house in the middle of the winter because gray days bite and I’m okay with basking in artificial light—even if I have to blame the big utility bill on my children when my husband complains about it (which he always does.) But the point is that sometimes I’m incredibly shallow and I forget what the women from my past went through just to raise their children into adulthood. They didn’t worry about their children going to head-start or whether their kid would make the basketball team without attending training camp. That’s what we worry about because we can. I’ll take that worry any day because I can’t bake a decent loaf of wheat bread to save my life.
There are many conveniences that simply didn’t exist a generation or two ago and I thought it appropriate to make a short list of the things that I’m simply not willing to live without. I will also kneel down tonight and thank God that I wasn’t a pioneer—I don’t like animals enough for that.
So, naturally, the first thing I can’t live without is packaged meat. I don’t ever want to have to break a chicken’s neck and I really can’t imagine the painstaking process of plucking all the feathers off that bird. Long ago I forbade my husband and my nephews from bringing an elk home from the hunt unless it came back to me in white butcher paper with neat little labels. That’s why I’m pretty sure that their hunting trips consisted mostly of eating rice crispy bars and messing around with the satellite dish so that they could pick up the football games in the motor home. Plus, I discovered that they had forgotten to pack the ammo.
I also love my washer and dryer. If I had to clean soiled farmer clothes on a wash board, I may have been tempted to rub my forehead against it instead. I realize that hanging laundry is “green,” but it also turns bath towels into sandpapery boards that are great for exfoliation but not very comfortable on your more tender parts. The new dryers also steam clean and are big enough to dry a comforter. That’s convenience at its best.
Hot showers rank pretty high up there too. Actually I like everything that goes with a hot shower like disposable razors and really good conditioner. I lived with naturally curly hair through the 80’s when good hair products were nonexistent and big hair was the style simply because humidity ruled the land unopposed. Thank goodness for Paul Mitchell.
I have nothing but love for modern medicine. Nothing makes me happier than popping a couple of pills when a headache strikes knowing that I’m going to be pain free in about fifteen minutes. I also love NyQuil because it knocks my cranky kids out for a full 8 hours when they’re sick—you just can’t beat tranquility in a bottle. Vaccines get a bum deal these days but I bet a nasty bout of the Spanish flu or polio would remind people that they are little miracle shots. Thanks to modern medicine most mothers will never have to bury a young child—something that mothers two generations ago did with heartbreaking frequency.
My list could fill a book and then some. Yes, I love the internet and Netflix on demand rocks. My car, heck, any car makes me happy as long as it can get me from point A to point B without overheating. I like turning on every light in my house in the middle of the winter because gray days bite and I’m okay with basking in artificial light—even if I have to blame the big utility bill on my children when my husband complains about it (which he always does.) But the point is that sometimes I’m incredibly shallow and I forget what the women from my past went through just to raise their children into adulthood. They didn’t worry about their children going to head-start or whether their kid would make the basketball team without attending training camp. That’s what we worry about because we can. I’ll take that worry any day because I can’t bake a decent loaf of wheat bread to save my life.
January 28, 2011
Why I'm Like Shawn White
I’m watching the X-Games and wishing I was there. In my youth I was a pretty good skier. Definitely not the daredevil that these women are, but I spent every Tuesday on the slopes all winter long. And I can’t believe that now I’m watching snow on T.V. or that I’m sitting here with ice packs on my knees because my kids wanted a dance night last night. It’s not that I want a different life—I’d miss the one I have too much—but it’s the end of January and I’m itching for a challenge.
Generally I’ve got ideas on how to switch things up, but I’m coming up blank this year and it’s bugging me. Maybe it’s because so many of friends and family are uncharacteristically switching things up. My hubby just started school. He spends hours every night doing homework like my kids. My sister is looking into cosmetology school and my other sister is currently on a cruise ship somewhere deliberately ignoring her cell phone. I guess it’s no wonder that I’m feeling left behind.
So here’s my question for the day. Why is it that we don’t challenge ourselves as we get older? Why don’t we try something new? There are some rather obvious reasons, I realize. It’s much harder to hit the slopes when you have to outfit the equivalent of a basketball team in parkas, hats, gloves and skis. It’s also lots more expensive. When you have a family, everything you do requires extra planning and often extra packing as well. So I’ll agree that that we have to want it more as we get older because it just takes more work to get it. But that’s still a lame excuse. I’m a different woman now than I was in my twenties. Stronger, somehow and more comfortable in my skin than ever. You’d think it would be easier to figure out what to do, but I’m struggling this year. Guess I’m like Shawn White. I just watched him miss out on the Superslope finals. It seems we both need to decide what’s next. I’m open to suggestions.
Generally I’ve got ideas on how to switch things up, but I’m coming up blank this year and it’s bugging me. Maybe it’s because so many of friends and family are uncharacteristically switching things up. My hubby just started school. He spends hours every night doing homework like my kids. My sister is looking into cosmetology school and my other sister is currently on a cruise ship somewhere deliberately ignoring her cell phone. I guess it’s no wonder that I’m feeling left behind.
So here’s my question for the day. Why is it that we don’t challenge ourselves as we get older? Why don’t we try something new? There are some rather obvious reasons, I realize. It’s much harder to hit the slopes when you have to outfit the equivalent of a basketball team in parkas, hats, gloves and skis. It’s also lots more expensive. When you have a family, everything you do requires extra planning and often extra packing as well. So I’ll agree that that we have to want it more as we get older because it just takes more work to get it. But that’s still a lame excuse. I’m a different woman now than I was in my twenties. Stronger, somehow and more comfortable in my skin than ever. You’d think it would be easier to figure out what to do, but I’m struggling this year. Guess I’m like Shawn White. I just watched him miss out on the Superslope finals. It seems we both need to decide what’s next. I’m open to suggestions.
January 20, 2011
Mommy Sick Days
I didn’t post yesterday because I had the joy of coming home from work mid-day because of a migraine. I was able to rest for an entire hour before I had kids arriving home who were hungry and chatty and generally thought it would be fun to invade my couch space. And I realized how much I hate being sick and how much I once enjoyed the luxury of staying home when I was under the weather.
That’s because I was living with my parents and I was taken care of by my Mom. I do the same for my kids when they get the sniffles or something much worse and much messier. I make homemade soups and I rub their backs. I tiptoe around the house when they’re napping and I rifle through the junk drawers for their favorite movie. When their stomachs hurt I rush out to the 24 hour grocery store for Sprite and Pepto Bismal and I spend half the night scrubbing vomit out of the carpet because my kids are famous for not quite making it to the bathroom.
It all changed for me as soon as I moved out of my parent’s home. I noticed a stark difference when I had my first really bad flu in college. I was delirious and bedridden and can’t remember a full 36 hours of my life. I think my roommate tried to feed me because I stepped on a sack lunch when I got up to go to the bathroom. Otherwise everyone avoided being within breathing distance of me. I could have died in that room and no one would have noticed until I started to smell.
But when Mommy’s get sick it’s worse because we’re expected to continue on as normal for the sake of the children. Never mind that you’re hacking up a lung, there’s still basketball practice and an apron that has to be sewn before the next school day. My five-year-old daughter tends to try to care for me, which means that she tucks and re-tucks her stuffed bear in next to my face and she covers me with dozens of tiny little receiving blankets. She also wakes me up if I accidentally doze off—just to make sure I’m still okay.
When my husband finally arrives he gives me the cursory, “Oh, you look sick. Can I do anything?,” as he only half listens to the answer, picking up the remote and changing my television channel from a chick-flick to a ballgame. Generally I’ll ask him to make dinner, and he always digs out the blue boxes of macaroni and cheese—a dish I detest, so I wind up going to bed hungry unless I want to drag myself into the kitchen to find something to eat. And I’m still expected to do tuck-ins and get the kids off to school.
When my husband gets sick, he retires to his room and I run interference for him, making sure that the kids steer clear and that a sandwich or bowl of soup appears in between his naps on the couch with ESPN playing in the background lulling him to sleep.
It just doesn’t seem fair, but I can’t seem to change it. My mom has a friend with lots of kids who loved going to the hospital to have her babies. She’d check in for a week minimum and let the nursery care for her new little one while she rested and had turkey sandwiches delivered from the cafeteria. She was smart. She knew how to cheat the system. Now if only I could convince my family that the standard treatment for a Mommy cold is to check into a hotel—preferably one with a spa, then I wouldn’t mind getting sick.
That’s because I was living with my parents and I was taken care of by my Mom. I do the same for my kids when they get the sniffles or something much worse and much messier. I make homemade soups and I rub their backs. I tiptoe around the house when they’re napping and I rifle through the junk drawers for their favorite movie. When their stomachs hurt I rush out to the 24 hour grocery store for Sprite and Pepto Bismal and I spend half the night scrubbing vomit out of the carpet because my kids are famous for not quite making it to the bathroom.
It all changed for me as soon as I moved out of my parent’s home. I noticed a stark difference when I had my first really bad flu in college. I was delirious and bedridden and can’t remember a full 36 hours of my life. I think my roommate tried to feed me because I stepped on a sack lunch when I got up to go to the bathroom. Otherwise everyone avoided being within breathing distance of me. I could have died in that room and no one would have noticed until I started to smell.
But when Mommy’s get sick it’s worse because we’re expected to continue on as normal for the sake of the children. Never mind that you’re hacking up a lung, there’s still basketball practice and an apron that has to be sewn before the next school day. My five-year-old daughter tends to try to care for me, which means that she tucks and re-tucks her stuffed bear in next to my face and she covers me with dozens of tiny little receiving blankets. She also wakes me up if I accidentally doze off—just to make sure I’m still okay.
When my husband finally arrives he gives me the cursory, “Oh, you look sick. Can I do anything?,” as he only half listens to the answer, picking up the remote and changing my television channel from a chick-flick to a ballgame. Generally I’ll ask him to make dinner, and he always digs out the blue boxes of macaroni and cheese—a dish I detest, so I wind up going to bed hungry unless I want to drag myself into the kitchen to find something to eat. And I’m still expected to do tuck-ins and get the kids off to school.
When my husband gets sick, he retires to his room and I run interference for him, making sure that the kids steer clear and that a sandwich or bowl of soup appears in between his naps on the couch with ESPN playing in the background lulling him to sleep.
It just doesn’t seem fair, but I can’t seem to change it. My mom has a friend with lots of kids who loved going to the hospital to have her babies. She’d check in for a week minimum and let the nursery care for her new little one while she rested and had turkey sandwiches delivered from the cafeteria. She was smart. She knew how to cheat the system. Now if only I could convince my family that the standard treatment for a Mommy cold is to check into a hotel—preferably one with a spa, then I wouldn’t mind getting sick.
January 18, 2011
To Delegate or Discontinue
The laundry list of tasks I’d love to delegate or just plain stop doing altogether is long. Housekeeping tops the list followed by filling my car and running forgotten homework to school. Most women would be just as happy to give up those chores as I am, but there are other less conventional things I have on my list. For instance, I wish someone could just shower for me and I would vicariously come out clean. I know it sounds silly, but most of the time I’m too tired to want to shower. I’d rather hit the snooze button than shave my legs. That’s another thing I hate doing—shaving and all of the other beauty routines that we’re slaves to because men like their women smooth, shiny and smelling good. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not willing to be the first woman to ditch the hair dye and the blowout in an effort to create a revolution, but if every woman gave it up I’d be excited to join their ranks.
I’d also give up eating in a New York second mainly because mealtimes are so painful. If I can even manage to come up with an idea for dinner that uses ingredients that I actually have on hand, then my kids won’t eat it. They’ll complain and ask for something different—generally a dish that I can’t make without a grocery run or they all ask for something different like I’m a short-order cook. What they don’t realize is that I could happily munch on a bowl of chips and salsa every single night and call it dinner—if only they could be brainwashed to call it dinner too. When the meal in a pill comes out I’ll be the first in line.
Family vacations are another thing I could live without. They’re horribly expensive and almost impossible to budget since, once you’re away from home, even stupid things like shot glasses and plastic necklaces become must have items. The kids always fight, or as in the case with our last trip to Disneyland, they ask if they can go back to the room and play Game Cube rather than spend the afternoon posing for pictures with Mickey. But the worst thing about family vacations is sharing the hotel room. I think it would be perfectly lovely if we all agreed that the kids need to spend time with their grandparents while Mom and Dad reconnect and unwind. I’m sure Disney would boycott the idea with increased advertising on Nickelodeon, but I’d be happy.
I could go on, but I have to quit to perform another chore I’d rather not. Because, let’s face it, there’s not much I like to do.
I’d also give up eating in a New York second mainly because mealtimes are so painful. If I can even manage to come up with an idea for dinner that uses ingredients that I actually have on hand, then my kids won’t eat it. They’ll complain and ask for something different—generally a dish that I can’t make without a grocery run or they all ask for something different like I’m a short-order cook. What they don’t realize is that I could happily munch on a bowl of chips and salsa every single night and call it dinner—if only they could be brainwashed to call it dinner too. When the meal in a pill comes out I’ll be the first in line.
Family vacations are another thing I could live without. They’re horribly expensive and almost impossible to budget since, once you’re away from home, even stupid things like shot glasses and plastic necklaces become must have items. The kids always fight, or as in the case with our last trip to Disneyland, they ask if they can go back to the room and play Game Cube rather than spend the afternoon posing for pictures with Mickey. But the worst thing about family vacations is sharing the hotel room. I think it would be perfectly lovely if we all agreed that the kids need to spend time with their grandparents while Mom and Dad reconnect and unwind. I’m sure Disney would boycott the idea with increased advertising on Nickelodeon, but I’d be happy.
I could go on, but I have to quit to perform another chore I’d rather not. Because, let’s face it, there’s not much I like to do.
January 17, 2011
Anti-Resolutions
I struck a nerve when I wrote my short and ever expanding list of things I refuse to apologize for. Apparently I’m not the only one sick of pretending that I’m actually going to change just because the calendar rolled over to a new year. My friends peppered me with tons of activities they refuse to give up in the name of appearances. And I agree wholeheartedly that there is nothing wrong with putting on your pajama pants as soon as the sun sets—even if it’s 4:30. I also applaud screening phone calls and using Facebook as your link to the extended family. I think ponytails work in any situation and I will never own a ball gown so I have no reason to own a pair of Spanx.
In honor of my new honesty, I am putting an official ban on resolutions this year because I refuse to feel bad when I don’t lose 10 pounds in two months or fail get a book published this year--again. I already feel bad about my crows feet and the creepy looking veins that have recently appeared on my legs so I see no reason to feel bad about stuff that I think, for one insane moment on January 1st, that I can change.
This year I’m refusing to make any goals whatsoever. No more feeling bad about the unused stack of flash cards my daughter’s teacher sent home with her. No more pretending that I’m going to be any better about enforcing bedtimes or organizing my closets. I’m flying into the new year with a new attitude and not a single idea what I want to do with my life. The possibilities are endless! Okay, so chances are pretty high that my lack of planning is going to result in well, nothing. But at least I won’t be disappointed.
In honor of my new honesty, I am putting an official ban on resolutions this year because I refuse to feel bad when I don’t lose 10 pounds in two months or fail get a book published this year--again. I already feel bad about my crows feet and the creepy looking veins that have recently appeared on my legs so I see no reason to feel bad about stuff that I think, for one insane moment on January 1st, that I can change.
This year I’m refusing to make any goals whatsoever. No more feeling bad about the unused stack of flash cards my daughter’s teacher sent home with her. No more pretending that I’m going to be any better about enforcing bedtimes or organizing my closets. I’m flying into the new year with a new attitude and not a single idea what I want to do with my life. The possibilities are endless! Okay, so chances are pretty high that my lack of planning is going to result in well, nothing. But at least I won’t be disappointed.
January 11, 2011
Unapologetic
When it comes to being a woman, there are a few things that I’m never going to apologize for. Believe me, I say “I’m sorry” more times a day than is healthy but there are just some things that are never going to change so it seems counterproductive to apologize for them.
I will not apologize for:
1. Being unwilling to commit to a car pool. I don’t want to drive car pool to a child’s extracurricular activity because it’s extra—meaning that there will be days when I simply don’t feel like fighting my kid about the need to earn a merit badge or practice hitting a ball. If they don’t want to go, I’m okay with it and I don’t want to be committed to take some other person’s kid anyway.
2. Locking the bathroom door. Granted the act of giving birth to a baby abolishes all previously conceived notions of modesty or privacy, but I don’t think it’s much to ask that I get the bathroom to myself. And I will stoop to pretending I’m not there when little fingers waggle under the door, even when they cry and say, “I know you’re in there, Mom!”
3. Not getting up to clean even though my husband is on a cleaning rampage. It never fails that the one night I get home from work and I don’t start picking up backpacks and loading the dishwasher and vacuuming up the after school snack, my husband does. He walks around the house with an annoyed look on his face, a dishcloth slung over his shoulder and a squirt bottle of Windex in his hand. And I know he wants me to feel guilty, get up and pitch in but I’m not going to. I will be kind enough to lift my feet when he tries to vacuum the rug under them.
4. Sneaking upstairs before bedtime. There are nights when I can’t handle tucking the kids into bed. The reasons vary, but it usually boils down to the fact that I want to lay in bed and read early enough that I’m not too tired to remember what I just read. I figure my husband can take a break from fantasy football at least one night a week to handle good night kisses.
5. Serving finger foods for dinner. I’m absolutely convinced that my family has no idea the stress dinner causes me. I don’t get stressed preparing dinner, I get stressed trying to come up with an idea for dinner every single night. I’m not that creative—believe me. Since my family is never any help with ideas, I have been known slice bread and cheese and drop olives and pickles on a plate and call it dinner. They hate it, but it works for me.
What about you? I have a feeling you can add to my list. I’d love to hear it.
I will not apologize for:
1. Being unwilling to commit to a car pool. I don’t want to drive car pool to a child’s extracurricular activity because it’s extra—meaning that there will be days when I simply don’t feel like fighting my kid about the need to earn a merit badge or practice hitting a ball. If they don’t want to go, I’m okay with it and I don’t want to be committed to take some other person’s kid anyway.
2. Locking the bathroom door. Granted the act of giving birth to a baby abolishes all previously conceived notions of modesty or privacy, but I don’t think it’s much to ask that I get the bathroom to myself. And I will stoop to pretending I’m not there when little fingers waggle under the door, even when they cry and say, “I know you’re in there, Mom!”
3. Not getting up to clean even though my husband is on a cleaning rampage. It never fails that the one night I get home from work and I don’t start picking up backpacks and loading the dishwasher and vacuuming up the after school snack, my husband does. He walks around the house with an annoyed look on his face, a dishcloth slung over his shoulder and a squirt bottle of Windex in his hand. And I know he wants me to feel guilty, get up and pitch in but I’m not going to. I will be kind enough to lift my feet when he tries to vacuum the rug under them.
4. Sneaking upstairs before bedtime. There are nights when I can’t handle tucking the kids into bed. The reasons vary, but it usually boils down to the fact that I want to lay in bed and read early enough that I’m not too tired to remember what I just read. I figure my husband can take a break from fantasy football at least one night a week to handle good night kisses.
5. Serving finger foods for dinner. I’m absolutely convinced that my family has no idea the stress dinner causes me. I don’t get stressed preparing dinner, I get stressed trying to come up with an idea for dinner every single night. I’m not that creative—believe me. Since my family is never any help with ideas, I have been known slice bread and cheese and drop olives and pickles on a plate and call it dinner. They hate it, but it works for me.
What about you? I have a feeling you can add to my list. I’d love to hear it.
January 4, 2011
Digging In
What was I thinking? Here I was, excited for things to get back to normal except I forgot that normal means running around like crazy people, trying to get to the bus and school on time. It means losing one glove and realizing shoes are still outside and wet. I forgot to send the check for school lunch and I had to go back home because I forgot my wallet this morning. Who forgets their wallet?
When I got to work I realized that, while I love taking time off, I still have the same amount of work to complete, but I have less hours to do it. So I’m rushing along when a breaker blows, taking the server offline. Once that’s back to running, I have a problem with a form that sends me another hour behind. And then I remember—this is normal. This is my life.
You know how you hear reporters interviewing the latest Powerball millionaire and they say that they aren’t going to change—they’re even going to keep their job? They are lying through their soon-to-be-professionally-straightened teeth. They’re going to move to a nicer neighborhood, hire landscapers and housekeepers, buy a car that actually blows warm air from the bottom vent (mine doesn’t), and tour Europe. And so would I. I’m pretty sure that my husband would more closely resemble George Clooney if we were leisurely touring Italy than he does now when the sexiest thing we see each other do is dishes.
And maybe that’s why we daydream about running away—even if we’d never really do it—because a life of leisure looks so trouble free. As it is, I don’t have the luxury of planning a trip to Paris, or a trip to see my parents for that matter. I’m digging in for the long haul. If you’re going anyplace fun, send me a postcard.
When I got to work I realized that, while I love taking time off, I still have the same amount of work to complete, but I have less hours to do it. So I’m rushing along when a breaker blows, taking the server offline. Once that’s back to running, I have a problem with a form that sends me another hour behind. And then I remember—this is normal. This is my life.
You know how you hear reporters interviewing the latest Powerball millionaire and they say that they aren’t going to change—they’re even going to keep their job? They are lying through their soon-to-be-professionally-straightened teeth. They’re going to move to a nicer neighborhood, hire landscapers and housekeepers, buy a car that actually blows warm air from the bottom vent (mine doesn’t), and tour Europe. And so would I. I’m pretty sure that my husband would more closely resemble George Clooney if we were leisurely touring Italy than he does now when the sexiest thing we see each other do is dishes.
And maybe that’s why we daydream about running away—even if we’d never really do it—because a life of leisure looks so trouble free. As it is, I don’t have the luxury of planning a trip to Paris, or a trip to see my parents for that matter. I’m digging in for the long haul. If you’re going anyplace fun, send me a postcard.
January 3, 2011
New Years Resolution Roundup
The kids are going back to school. Yahoo! I’d do a back flip, but getting in shape is one of my New Years resolutions for this year, not last year. Okay, so it was on my resolutions list last year too, but that’s just how things go. We spent a relaxing, completely joyful holiday at home—my absolute favorite so far and I’m so ready to get back into the comfortable routine. Maybe routine is the wrong word. It may be a rut, but it’s mine and I’ve been missing driving in it.
My kids went completely bonkers today. We live in the “no snow zone,” which is a-okay with me but my kids are always hunting the skies for flakes that never come, so imagine my surprise when we woke up to three inches of powdery white stuff on the ground. The kids were digging through boxes of ancient sweater gloves and folding their feet into last years sneakers. They were introduced to the concept of layering and to the reality that I can get really mad when they track wet footprints on my freshly mopped floor.
Somehow I wound up with a completely snow-free lawn and a really strange looking snowman that had fallen on its face by noon and had disappeared entirely by three. They tried snowboarding down our ski-ramp driveway using a piece of plywood and were surprised when it didn’t work. They came in to brain-storm a solution to the problem with me. “Um, it’s not working because snow-boards have a slick surface on the bottom,” I told them. They looked at me like I’d just revealed the seventh secret of the pharaoh.
I know—they’re sheltered. I grew up in snow and in skis. I understand the limits of four-wheel drives (they’ll get you up the mountain, but you’re still sliding like a fool back down it), and that there’s a reason why people carry blankets in their trunks. But my kids have no concept of this. So I’ll take them up to the mountains this month and let them spend the day riding a tube up and down a hill of snow.
I know I’ll take them because that’s one of my other resolutions, to do more activities with my kids. I’m sure I’ll do it. It wasn’t on my list last year, was it? Maybe I’d better pull that list out again. Darn. It was on last years list. It looks like I’m going to need to give myself a big pep-talk about this year’s resolutions. Yep, that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to talk myself into keeping my resolutions this year. As a matter of a fact—I’m putting it on my list!
My kids went completely bonkers today. We live in the “no snow zone,” which is a-okay with me but my kids are always hunting the skies for flakes that never come, so imagine my surprise when we woke up to three inches of powdery white stuff on the ground. The kids were digging through boxes of ancient sweater gloves and folding their feet into last years sneakers. They were introduced to the concept of layering and to the reality that I can get really mad when they track wet footprints on my freshly mopped floor.
Somehow I wound up with a completely snow-free lawn and a really strange looking snowman that had fallen on its face by noon and had disappeared entirely by three. They tried snowboarding down our ski-ramp driveway using a piece of plywood and were surprised when it didn’t work. They came in to brain-storm a solution to the problem with me. “Um, it’s not working because snow-boards have a slick surface on the bottom,” I told them. They looked at me like I’d just revealed the seventh secret of the pharaoh.
I know—they’re sheltered. I grew up in snow and in skis. I understand the limits of four-wheel drives (they’ll get you up the mountain, but you’re still sliding like a fool back down it), and that there’s a reason why people carry blankets in their trunks. But my kids have no concept of this. So I’ll take them up to the mountains this month and let them spend the day riding a tube up and down a hill of snow.
I know I’ll take them because that’s one of my other resolutions, to do more activities with my kids. I’m sure I’ll do it. It wasn’t on my list last year, was it? Maybe I’d better pull that list out again. Darn. It was on last years list. It looks like I’m going to need to give myself a big pep-talk about this year’s resolutions. Yep, that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to talk myself into keeping my resolutions this year. As a matter of a fact—I’m putting it on my list!
December 15, 2010
The Worst Gift I Ever Got
Start talking about presents this time of year and the ghosts of bad presents past haunt everyone whether they’re Scrooge or Bob Cratchet. It always starts off with flashbacks to a time when you opened a gift that was a total miss and you wonder just what in your DNA made your husband believe that pink-handled tools were “made for you.” News flash—we really want you to hang the picture, not give us tools so that we can hang it ourselves. There’s also the present with a not so hidden meaning. My friend’s future mother-in-law gave her the Zone Diet book for Christmas, saying excitedly “whenever I need to lose a few pounds this is my go-to Bible for it!” Nice. I guess it’s a good thing they never got married. A lot of laughs came from presents that weren’t really for the recipient, but for the giver. Case in point, a friend received a Mexican cookbook even though her husband knew she was allergic to chilies. I also think that’s why a big television isn’t really a gift at all because it wasn’t me that wanted to watch the football game in HD—I was hoping for Sleepless in Seattle.
But the hardest gift to understand is the one where you can’t begin to imagine what they were thinking. I remember one year when I had dropped hint after hint about a CD I wanted from a particular artist. Imagine my surprise when I opened my present to find a country artist instead of the rock artist I had asked for. Thank goodness for gift receipts.
Still I appreciate the effort. Gift cards seem easy and I can understand the draw since the shipping often exceeds the cost of the gift, but there’s something special about knowing that someone tried. It’s sort of like a leap of faith. You take a shot that the recipient will agree that you have just anticipated a want or need they hadn’t identified on a list. When you’re right, it’s magic. But you have to take the chance that you’re going to crash and burn and actually pick out a present. That’s why the CD I mentioned earlier is still one of my favorite gifts. My husband explained that he picked it out because one of the songs just always made him think of me. Ah, magic.
But the hardest gift to understand is the one where you can’t begin to imagine what they were thinking. I remember one year when I had dropped hint after hint about a CD I wanted from a particular artist. Imagine my surprise when I opened my present to find a country artist instead of the rock artist I had asked for. Thank goodness for gift receipts.
Still I appreciate the effort. Gift cards seem easy and I can understand the draw since the shipping often exceeds the cost of the gift, but there’s something special about knowing that someone tried. It’s sort of like a leap of faith. You take a shot that the recipient will agree that you have just anticipated a want or need they hadn’t identified on a list. When you’re right, it’s magic. But you have to take the chance that you’re going to crash and burn and actually pick out a present. That’s why the CD I mentioned earlier is still one of my favorite gifts. My husband explained that he picked it out because one of the songs just always made him think of me. Ah, magic.
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