When Eat, Pray, Love came out, I, like millions of others, read the book cover to cover and dreamed of taking off for distant lands. Eating my way through pasta and pizza. Enjoying silence (in very scant supply around this house!). Remembering who I was before I was a wife and mother.
Then, I watched The Bucket List and saw the men's point of view. And, frankly, I identified far more with their List than the mid-life crisis of Elizabeth Gilbert. I started a List of my own. And that opened a Pandora's box of "what ifs" and slight regrets...
The point of a Bucket List is to have a certain number of things to do, or be, or see, or whatever before you die. I see it as almost a "to do list" for living. A list of things that don't have to do with laundry, or cleaning, or errands. It's a selfish list. A list only for me. Not of what I can do for others, but what I can do for myself. To make me feel alive. To feel rushes of adrenaline that have nothing to do with being late for the carpool line. To eat exotic, and sometimes disgusting, foods that I didn't have to make. To nourish my heart and soul.
And, after reviewing my List, I found a pattern.
Apparently, I have a taste for adventure. And roasted bugs.
Almost everything on my List is a place I'd like to travel to, a high adrenaline activity I'd like to participate in, or a native food I want to eat. And, I'm not talking wanting to go to Italy and eat pizza (although that would be divine...) No, I want to go on a rustic safari and eat roasted mealy worms. I want to work on an archaeological excavation site and eat fried crickets. I want to learn how to scuba dive and then eat raw eel or something.
Sure, there are "normal" things on my List, like owning a convertible and hiking part of the Appalachian Trail (I mean, it's only a hour or two away. It's practically beckoning to me.) and going white water rafting (ditto). But, that Explorer part of my personality, tucked away behind the overwhelming Negotiator and Builder, is desperate to get out.
When I was a teenager and in my early twenties, I did travel. Not a whole lot, but enough to whet the appetite. I went up and down the coast of Eastern Asia with my mom and aunt, and got to eat curry and yaki mandu for the first time. I discovered that I have a high tolerance for "gross" food--aka, the "ammonia bread" I ate in Bangkok (it was from a street vendor and I was half-starved for dinner. It was the best damn bread I have ever eaten--and it smelled like pee. There was a big bubble in the middle where it rose, and when you ripped it apart, it blew a puff of ammonia gas at you. My mom and aunt were totally repulsed. They were convinced it was boiled in urine. I just wanted another piece.) I found that if someone didn't tell me what a food was, I'd probably eat it. And ask for seconds.
There are stories of me eating a giant gray "meatball" of meat, with weird holes all over it, during dim sum at the Jumbo in Hong Kong. It was so delicious, I had another. Fragrant and warm, it almost fell apart on my tongue. It didn't need any sauce or condiment to enhance the flavor. It was meaty and delicious. And, to this day, my family jokes that I ate either lung or testicle...
Someday, I hope to continue on the List. To spend the night in a tree house. To dig for dinosaur bones. To see the Nile and the Amazon. To take a volunteer vacation and build a school or dig a well in a third world country where I don't speak the language. To live a slightly less strenuous version of Destination Truth or National Geographic. To prove to myself that I am braver than I believe, stronger than I seem, and smarter than I think (to paraphrase Christopher Robin to Pooh Bear).
But for now, my life is marriage and motherhood. And that's okay. In fact, that's how it's supposed to be. My only regrets are that I didn't travel and do more in my comparative youth. That I was too much of a "good girl" who worried about grades and money and parental approval. That I didn't take complete advantage of the years when I should have been a complete dumb ass and taken risks and made mistakes and embraced the whole carpe diem thing.
And, that's a lesson I hope to teach my kids. To take calculated risks, to take advantage of opportunities, to not worry so much about what others (and I) think. To follow their own drummer. Or band. To have a "past" that's not lily white, but would make for some awesome stories to tell their grandkids.
I don't think I have to worry about that with WMB, since he's the one most likely to call me from a satellite phone in Nepal when he's 16 to tell me he's missing curfew because he's hunting down a Yeti in the Himalayas. He's definitely my "wild man". I have no doubt that he'll wander the world live life on his own terms. He's got more of MacGyver's "who cares" genes in him, and I love that. I'll certainly miss him like hell when he's off climbing K2 or digging for Captain Whomever's treasure on a deserted island, but I'll be proud that he's following his own path and his own bliss.
My little Drama Queen, though, is more like me. And I want to know that you don't have to wait until you're grown to have a "List", that she should follow her dreams wherever they may lead all her life. To welcome mistakes and regrets. To live life (at least for a while) out of a backpack and with her passport in hand, if that's what she wants.
And for myself, I'm resolving to live life less safely. To take more risks. Calculated risks. Maybe I don't need to go base jumping, but maybe I'll try bungee jumping one day.
And, to take advantage of every opportunity to eat steamed balls and ammonia bread. And, to take seconds...
Monday, September 26, 2011
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Organizing My Clutter Closet
I, like millions of other Gen-X'ers, watched the show Friends through out the nineties. Unlike most, however, I didn't start watching it when I heard all the rave reviews or saw dozens of girls on my college campus suddenly show up with the "Rachel" haircut (and yes, I had the haircut too. But, in my defense, I will go down in history swearing up and down that I had it first. It was given to me at a hair show, and the hair stylist claimed it was the newest thing in Paris. I know now that he was full of crap on so many different levels, but I digress...)
Anyway, I started watching Friends after the bazillionth person called me "Monica". And, yes, this was well before the whole Monica Lewinsky saga, so let's not go there.
I wanted to know who this Monica person was, so I sat down with some friends of my own and watched the show. At first I was all happy and feeling great because I thought people thought I looked like Courtenay Cox (which, by the way, I really, really, really do not). Then, I realized it was because of Monica's little "issue". With cleaning. And organizing. And organizing the cleaning.
And while I lived with YEARS of snickering about being like Monica (complete with yelling at the TV screen that you should never use a Dustbuster to clean the outside of your vacuum--that's what a damp microfiber cloth with anti-bacterial soap is for, for crying out loud!), there is one part of Monica's character that I truly, deeply, and completely identified with.
Her clutter closet.
Remember that closet? The one next to the bathroom? Right next to the big window in the living room? The one that NO ONE was allowed to open. Remember how Chandler (and Rachel, I think) just had to find out what was in it? And, when opened, it was filled with crap? Like, lots and lots and lots of crap?
Yep, that's my guest bedroom closet.
So, now that my sweet munchkins are now the full responsibility of the public school system from 8:30 am until 3:45 pm each week day, I decided to make a list of all the household junk I've been meaning to get around to for, say, the last decade or so. Among the entries on this very long To Do list was "clean out guest bedroom closet".
Such a little sentence for such a huge job.
It's not the piles of outgrown kids' clothes that need to be taken to the consignment shop or Goodwill that's the problem. Or the shelves of children's gifts for the many inevitable birthday parties that either DQ or WMB are invited to all too often. Although these things take up a huge portion of my closet space, they are neatly labelled and fairly well up-to-date, with the dates printed on them for when the shop starts taking winter coats and fleecy clothes, and which gifts are for birthdays and which are for Christmas. It's my two trunks and two hanging racks of old clothes. My old clothes.
I've been dreading this chore since, pretty much, I had kids. You see, in my BC (before children) life, I was a stylish, slender fashionista. I even worked at Nordstrom for several years, spending my paycheck and employee discount on gorgeous shoes, boots, and clothes. I had a great haircut with double-process color (chestnut red with golden highlights), as well as gentle perm to encourage my wild half-Gorgon hair into pre-Raphaelite curls. My makeup was flawless, and touched up often at the cosmetics counters. I was fully waxed, buffed, and polished almost every day. And, I was thin. Very thin. Stylishly thin. Sample size thin. I was constantly told I was a dead ringer for Catherine Zeta Jones.
Now, not so much.
But, I kept so many of these clothes for many years. The sharply cut, shapely suits and designer high heels came in handy for my next job in a law office. I kept the high-maintenance hair and beauty regime. I had a facialist. I got massages. I spoiled myself rotten.
Then, after 9-11, I quit my job and decided to stay home and have kids. A decision I have never, ever regretted. After 9-11, I had a hard look at my life, and decided there was more to do than what I was doing. I wanted to create a stable, safe, loving home for MacGyver and I. I wanted to have mini-me's and baby MacGyvers. I wanted to stay home and surround myself with the warm feelings and smells of home. I dreamt of home cooked meals while babies and toddlers played happily on the floor near my feet. I imagined days spent at the playground and at Mommy-and-Me classes. And, I certainly got that. I've learned to cook fairly well, and I usually enjoy being at home with kids that, while not usually playing happily at my feet, are at least loved and well-cared for as they try to have a slug-fest over a stupid toy from a Happy Meal while under foot.
But, I never quite got over the memories of those days when I had a reason to put on a suit or stilettos. I tucked a good portion of those fun skirts, flirty tops, and cute shoes in a couple of trunks and tried to forget about them. The trunks filled up, over the years, with even more clothes that I had technically out-grown, but I had hopes of fitting into again one day. I started claiming they were my "winter clothes" in summer, and my "summer clothes" in winter, to explain why they were burgeoning out of control and spilling over into every crevasse of the closet. Now, it's gotten to the point that you need to put on protective gear before even opening the closet, since you stand a damn good chance of getting an Issac Mizrahi (and NOT from Target) italian leather pump to the temple if you're not careful. (On a related note--why did I not believe other moms when they told me my feet would grow after each child? Why oh why? I could have saved a bundle of money at Saks Off 5th if I understood that...)
Then, over this past weekend, a post showed up on my Face Book wall from The Mom Challenge (https://www.facebook.com/?ref=home#!/themomchallenge). It challenged me to go into my closet and find three things I've never worn or won't (or shouldn't) wear again and donate them. I quickly went into my dresser and found a pile of Old Navy t-shirts that I bought for this past summer that were stained and misshapen, and I tossed them in the trash. Then I tossed all my socks with holes, or that were about to have a hole. I felt quite proud of myself, and went about my day.
But, the challenge must have sparked something in my subconscious. I kept thinking of my trunks and of the guest bedroom closet. I imagined how good it would feel to clean it up. And to get rid of all those things I stored that seem to laugh and heckle me--"Ha ha--you can't wear me anymore, and even if you could, where would you go? To gymnastics in a DKNY suit? To the PTA meeting in an Ungaro skirt? Face it, you're just a frumpy schlumpadinka who doesn't deserve anything nice to wear until you get your butt to the gym and starve yourself into a size 4 again!"
So, today, after I put the kiddos on the bus, I put my game face on and blasted Bruno Mars' Just the Way You Are on a loop, and pulled those trunks out of the closet.
Three hours later, I had three enormous bags of clothes and another bag of shoes that Goodwill will be inheriting later this week. I purged my trunks of clothes not only from a different life, but from a different century. At some point in the last few months, I realized that even if I ever lost this "baby weight" (can you still call it that, when you're youngest baby is 5 years old?), these clothes would be horribly out of style. Not to mention completely impractical for wearing around small beings who think my sleeve is a napkin and my pants are for wiping their mouths and noses.
So, I decided to get rid of it ALL. There was no point in knowing that I was hanging on to memories that would never again fit my life or my ass. I got rid of clothes that were stained, had holes, or were just plain fugly. Gone are my frumpy mom-clothes, too. The fleecy sweatpants, the stained sweatshirts, the "yoga pants" that never saw the inside of a yoga studio. I figured if I was giving up the physical manifestations of my memories as a "hot girl", I might as well get rid of (or, burn...) the ugly mom-clothes too.
Not only that, but I got my hair cut and highlighted. I may not be a curly red-head with golden highlights, but I've moved well on from "the Rachel" and I have a cute layered cut, long bangs, and golden highlights in my dark brown hair, that bring out my waves without making me look like Medusa's frumpier sister.
So, I'm ready to go out and look for clothes and shoes that fit me and my life now. Not in the past, or in some distant future. Now. And if those clothes or shoes come from Target or the clearance rack of an outlet store, then good for me for being so thrifty and frugal! I vow to only buy things that make me feel pretty "Just The Way [I AM]" (to paraphrase the song). And my old clothes and shoes can go mock someone else in the aisles of the local thrift store. Maybe someone will put an awesome Halloween outfit together with them...
And, just the other day, I was watching the Food Network when Nigella Lawson came on. WMB was watching intently (hey, if it involves knives, he's all into it!) and said "mommy, she's pretty!" I said "yes, she's very pretty". Sweet boy then said "She looks like you. And she cooks yummy like you too."
And, you know what? I'll trade in Catherine for Nigella any day.
Anyway, I started watching Friends after the bazillionth person called me "Monica". And, yes, this was well before the whole Monica Lewinsky saga, so let's not go there.
I wanted to know who this Monica person was, so I sat down with some friends of my own and watched the show. At first I was all happy and feeling great because I thought people thought I looked like Courtenay Cox (which, by the way, I really, really, really do not). Then, I realized it was because of Monica's little "issue". With cleaning. And organizing. And organizing the cleaning.
And while I lived with YEARS of snickering about being like Monica (complete with yelling at the TV screen that you should never use a Dustbuster to clean the outside of your vacuum--that's what a damp microfiber cloth with anti-bacterial soap is for, for crying out loud!), there is one part of Monica's character that I truly, deeply, and completely identified with.
Her clutter closet.
Remember that closet? The one next to the bathroom? Right next to the big window in the living room? The one that NO ONE was allowed to open. Remember how Chandler (and Rachel, I think) just had to find out what was in it? And, when opened, it was filled with crap? Like, lots and lots and lots of crap?
Yep, that's my guest bedroom closet.
So, now that my sweet munchkins are now the full responsibility of the public school system from 8:30 am until 3:45 pm each week day, I decided to make a list of all the household junk I've been meaning to get around to for, say, the last decade or so. Among the entries on this very long To Do list was "clean out guest bedroom closet".
Such a little sentence for such a huge job.
It's not the piles of outgrown kids' clothes that need to be taken to the consignment shop or Goodwill that's the problem. Or the shelves of children's gifts for the many inevitable birthday parties that either DQ or WMB are invited to all too often. Although these things take up a huge portion of my closet space, they are neatly labelled and fairly well up-to-date, with the dates printed on them for when the shop starts taking winter coats and fleecy clothes, and which gifts are for birthdays and which are for Christmas. It's my two trunks and two hanging racks of old clothes. My old clothes.
I've been dreading this chore since, pretty much, I had kids. You see, in my BC (before children) life, I was a stylish, slender fashionista. I even worked at Nordstrom for several years, spending my paycheck and employee discount on gorgeous shoes, boots, and clothes. I had a great haircut with double-process color (chestnut red with golden highlights), as well as gentle perm to encourage my wild half-Gorgon hair into pre-Raphaelite curls. My makeup was flawless, and touched up often at the cosmetics counters. I was fully waxed, buffed, and polished almost every day. And, I was thin. Very thin. Stylishly thin. Sample size thin. I was constantly told I was a dead ringer for Catherine Zeta Jones.
Now, not so much.
But, I kept so many of these clothes for many years. The sharply cut, shapely suits and designer high heels came in handy for my next job in a law office. I kept the high-maintenance hair and beauty regime. I had a facialist. I got massages. I spoiled myself rotten.
Then, after 9-11, I quit my job and decided to stay home and have kids. A decision I have never, ever regretted. After 9-11, I had a hard look at my life, and decided there was more to do than what I was doing. I wanted to create a stable, safe, loving home for MacGyver and I. I wanted to have mini-me's and baby MacGyvers. I wanted to stay home and surround myself with the warm feelings and smells of home. I dreamt of home cooked meals while babies and toddlers played happily on the floor near my feet. I imagined days spent at the playground and at Mommy-and-Me classes. And, I certainly got that. I've learned to cook fairly well, and I usually enjoy being at home with kids that, while not usually playing happily at my feet, are at least loved and well-cared for as they try to have a slug-fest over a stupid toy from a Happy Meal while under foot.
But, I never quite got over the memories of those days when I had a reason to put on a suit or stilettos. I tucked a good portion of those fun skirts, flirty tops, and cute shoes in a couple of trunks and tried to forget about them. The trunks filled up, over the years, with even more clothes that I had technically out-grown, but I had hopes of fitting into again one day. I started claiming they were my "winter clothes" in summer, and my "summer clothes" in winter, to explain why they were burgeoning out of control and spilling over into every crevasse of the closet. Now, it's gotten to the point that you need to put on protective gear before even opening the closet, since you stand a damn good chance of getting an Issac Mizrahi (and NOT from Target) italian leather pump to the temple if you're not careful. (On a related note--why did I not believe other moms when they told me my feet would grow after each child? Why oh why? I could have saved a bundle of money at Saks Off 5th if I understood that...)
Then, over this past weekend, a post showed up on my Face Book wall from The Mom Challenge (https://www.facebook.com/?ref=home#!/themomchallenge). It challenged me to go into my closet and find three things I've never worn or won't (or shouldn't) wear again and donate them. I quickly went into my dresser and found a pile of Old Navy t-shirts that I bought for this past summer that were stained and misshapen, and I tossed them in the trash. Then I tossed all my socks with holes, or that were about to have a hole. I felt quite proud of myself, and went about my day.
But, the challenge must have sparked something in my subconscious. I kept thinking of my trunks and of the guest bedroom closet. I imagined how good it would feel to clean it up. And to get rid of all those things I stored that seem to laugh and heckle me--"Ha ha--you can't wear me anymore, and even if you could, where would you go? To gymnastics in a DKNY suit? To the PTA meeting in an Ungaro skirt? Face it, you're just a frumpy schlumpadinka who doesn't deserve anything nice to wear until you get your butt to the gym and starve yourself into a size 4 again!"
So, today, after I put the kiddos on the bus, I put my game face on and blasted Bruno Mars' Just the Way You Are on a loop, and pulled those trunks out of the closet.
Three hours later, I had three enormous bags of clothes and another bag of shoes that Goodwill will be inheriting later this week. I purged my trunks of clothes not only from a different life, but from a different century. At some point in the last few months, I realized that even if I ever lost this "baby weight" (can you still call it that, when you're youngest baby is 5 years old?), these clothes would be horribly out of style. Not to mention completely impractical for wearing around small beings who think my sleeve is a napkin and my pants are for wiping their mouths and noses.
So, I decided to get rid of it ALL. There was no point in knowing that I was hanging on to memories that would never again fit my life or my ass. I got rid of clothes that were stained, had holes, or were just plain fugly. Gone are my frumpy mom-clothes, too. The fleecy sweatpants, the stained sweatshirts, the "yoga pants" that never saw the inside of a yoga studio. I figured if I was giving up the physical manifestations of my memories as a "hot girl", I might as well get rid of (or, burn...) the ugly mom-clothes too.
Not only that, but I got my hair cut and highlighted. I may not be a curly red-head with golden highlights, but I've moved well on from "the Rachel" and I have a cute layered cut, long bangs, and golden highlights in my dark brown hair, that bring out my waves without making me look like Medusa's frumpier sister.
So, I'm ready to go out and look for clothes and shoes that fit me and my life now. Not in the past, or in some distant future. Now. And if those clothes or shoes come from Target or the clearance rack of an outlet store, then good for me for being so thrifty and frugal! I vow to only buy things that make me feel pretty "Just The Way [I AM]" (to paraphrase the song). And my old clothes and shoes can go mock someone else in the aisles of the local thrift store. Maybe someone will put an awesome Halloween outfit together with them...
And, just the other day, I was watching the Food Network when Nigella Lawson came on. WMB was watching intently (hey, if it involves knives, he's all into it!) and said "mommy, she's pretty!" I said "yes, she's very pretty". Sweet boy then said "She looks like you. And she cooks yummy like you too."
And, you know what? I'll trade in Catherine for Nigella any day.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
I Trust You'll Treat Her Well...
Instead of a usual post, today I'm honoring the first day of school. Only the Drama Queen is going back today, since the Wild Man is in Kindy and they start a few days later.
Below is a poem that a virtual friend from iVillage would post on the first day of school each year. There is no author listed, but as far as I'm concerned, I give full credit to my friend. If anyone knows the author, please let me know so I can give them credit for a poem that brings me to tears every new school year...
I Trust You'll Treat Her Well
Dear World,
I bequeath to you today one little girl in a
crispy dress.. with two brown eyes...and a happy laugh that ripples all day
long, and a batch of light brown hair that
bounces in the sunlight when she runs.
I Trust You'll Treat Her Well.
She's slipping out of the backyard of my
heart this morning and skipping off down the street to her first day
at school. And never again will she be completely mine...
Prim and proud, she'll wave a young and
independent hand this morning, and say goodbye and walk with
little-lady steps to the nearby schoolhouse...
Gone will be the chattering little girl who
lived only for play, and gone
will be the delightful little gamin who
roamed the yard like a proud
princess with nary a care in her little world.
Now, she will learn to stand in lines...and
wait by the alphabet for her name to be called...
She will learn to tune her little-girl ears
for the sound of school bells, and for deadlines...
She will learn to giggle and gossip... and to
look at the ceiling in a
disinterested way when the little boy across
the aisle sticks out his tongue.
Now she will learn to be jealous...and now
she will learn how it is to feel hurt inside...
and now she will learn how not to cry.
No longer will she have time to sit on the front porch steps
on a summer day and
watch while an ant scurries across a crack in
the sidewalk... Or will she have time to pop out of bed with
the dawn to kiss lilac blossoms in the morning dew.
Now she will worry about important
things...like grades...and what dresses to
wear...and whose best
friend is whose. Now she will worry about the
little boy who pulls her hair at recess time... and staying after
school...and which little girls
like which little boys...And the magic of
books and knowledge will soon
take the place of the magic of her blocks and
dolls.
And she'll find her new heroes. For five full
years I've been her sage
and Santa Claus...her pal and playmate...her
parent and friend. Now,
alas, she'll learn to share her worship and
adoration with her teachers (which is only right).
No longer will her parents be the smartest,
and greatest in the world.
Today, when the first school bell rings,
she'll learn how it is to be a
member of the group...with all its
privileges, and, of course, its
disadvantages, too.
She'll learn in time that proper young ladies
don't laugh out loud...or
keep frogs in pickle jars in bedrooms...or
watch ants scurry across the
cracks in a summer sidewalk...
Today, she'll begin to learn for the first
time that all who smile at her
are not her friends. That "the group" can be
a demanding mistress...
and I'll stand on the porch and watch her
start out on the long, long
journey to becoming a woman.
So WORLD, I BEQUEATH TO YOU TODAY ONE LITTLE
GIRL in a crispy dress, with two brown eyes, a happy laugh that
ripples all day long, and a batch of light brown hair that bounces in
the sunlight when she runs.
I Trust You'll Treat Her Well
Below is a poem that a virtual friend from iVillage would post on the first day of school each year. There is no author listed, but as far as I'm concerned, I give full credit to my friend. If anyone knows the author, please let me know so I can give them credit for a poem that brings me to tears every new school year...
I Trust You'll Treat Her Well
Dear World,
I bequeath to you today one little girl in a
crispy dress.. with two brown eyes...and a happy laugh that ripples all day
long, and a batch of light brown hair that
bounces in the sunlight when she runs.
I Trust You'll Treat Her Well.
She's slipping out of the backyard of my
heart this morning and skipping off down the street to her first day
at school. And never again will she be completely mine...
Prim and proud, she'll wave a young and
independent hand this morning, and say goodbye and walk with
little-lady steps to the nearby schoolhouse...
Gone will be the chattering little girl who
lived only for play, and gone
will be the delightful little gamin who
roamed the yard like a proud
princess with nary a care in her little world.
Now, she will learn to stand in lines...and
wait by the alphabet for her name to be called...
She will learn to tune her little-girl ears
for the sound of school bells, and for deadlines...
She will learn to giggle and gossip... and to
look at the ceiling in a
disinterested way when the little boy across
the aisle sticks out his tongue.
Now she will learn to be jealous...and now
she will learn how it is to feel hurt inside...
and now she will learn how not to cry.
No longer will she have time to sit on the front porch steps
on a summer day and
watch while an ant scurries across a crack in
the sidewalk... Or will she have time to pop out of bed with
the dawn to kiss lilac blossoms in the morning dew.
Now she will worry about important
things...like grades...and what dresses to
wear...and whose best
friend is whose. Now she will worry about the
little boy who pulls her hair at recess time... and staying after
school...and which little girls
like which little boys...And the magic of
books and knowledge will soon
take the place of the magic of her blocks and
dolls.
And she'll find her new heroes. For five full
years I've been her sage
and Santa Claus...her pal and playmate...her
parent and friend. Now,
alas, she'll learn to share her worship and
adoration with her teachers (which is only right).
No longer will her parents be the smartest,
and greatest in the world.
Today, when the first school bell rings,
she'll learn how it is to be a
member of the group...with all its
privileges, and, of course, its
disadvantages, too.
She'll learn in time that proper young ladies
don't laugh out loud...or
keep frogs in pickle jars in bedrooms...or
watch ants scurry across the
cracks in a summer sidewalk...
Today, she'll begin to learn for the first
time that all who smile at her
are not her friends. That "the group" can be
a demanding mistress...
and I'll stand on the porch and watch her
start out on the long, long
journey to becoming a woman.
So WORLD, I BEQUEATH TO YOU TODAY ONE LITTLE
GIRL in a crispy dress, with two brown eyes, a happy laugh that
ripples all day long, and a batch of light brown hair that bounces in
the sunlight when she runs.
I Trust You'll Treat Her Well
Saturday, August 20, 2011
The Grand Canyon of Doubt
Today I was at Justice doing some back-to-school shopping with my little Drama Queen. DQ was happily scanning the sales rack and running around with her catalog (complete with circles around the "cool stuff") to match up outfits while I tried to ignore the groans my wallet was making. Yes, I was proud of myself because I brought her on a day when I could use my "J Bucks", my 40% FB coupon, and it was tax-free week. But, I was also reminiscing about shopping with my mom when I was a kid.
Back in the day, say, oh, 3 decades ago, my mom would grudgingly take us to Kmart or Sears to stock up on school clothes. By "stock up" I mean we got a few things, were told to not to mess them up because we weren't getting any more, and growth spurts be damned--those clothes were expected to last us the whole school year.
I used to hate back to school shopping. I knew I wasn't going to get anything fancy. And, I knew if it wasn't from the clearance rack, it wasn't coming home with us. My parents were comfortable, but frugal, and they certainly passed those genes on to me. But, I do remember looking at the girls whose parents (or, more accurately, their moms) bought them pretty Shetland wool sweaters and pleated skirts and tights without knee-holes in them. I always wanted a pair of shiny Mary Janes.
So, I've found myself doing for my kids what I wished my parents had done for me. Yes, I fell face first into that lovely, psychologically traumatic rabbit hole of giving my kids what I wanted at their age. I don't know exactly why so many of us do this, but it seems like it's a universal experience. Instead of looking with all the blessings and gifts our parents and extended family/friends gave us as children, we look at the "lack".
For me, I had the most incredible childhood filled with experiences. We travelled. Sometimes near (family in upstate New York). Sometimes far (family in San Diego and Hawaii). Granted, our vacations were always to visit family (and, thus, save on motel bills), but travel we did. In a green Chevy Nova with plastic seats, dents that looked suspiciously of bullet holes, and an electrical problem whereas you couldn't use the windshield wipers and the lights at the same time. Which made driving on rainy nights VERY interesting. You also couldn't use the windshield wipers and the radio at the same time either, but since all my parents listened to was "my wife left me and my dog died" country music with the occasional classical station, us kids didn't really care if the radio worked at all. We learned a long time ago if we wanted to listen to Air Supply or Journey, we were going to have to go to a friends' house who had a "hip" dad and listened to such music.
But, the side effect of travel was there wasn't a whole lot of money left for things like clothes. Or, at least, cool clothes. No penny loafers with the penny in the slot. But I do vividly remember a particularly awful pair of burgundy and "gold" (Redskins colors. No, we did not watch football. But, SURPRISE, they were on sale.) fake suede sneakers. They were horrid. And, the wrong size. They began as at least a size too big ("to grow into") and ended up, many many months later, as so small my big toe was hanging out of a hole in the front. But, clothes and shoes--in my family, at least--lasted until summer. Then you could be blissfully barefoot for three glorious months. Old short jeans became cut-offs. Crappy clothes were the penance we paid for all the time we spent on family reunions, Disney World, Disney Land, Hollywood Studios (where I got to "meet" Jaws!), and Niagara Falls. My mom was always up for an "adventure", and she would pack us kids up at the butt-crack of dawn to stand in line for a new museum exhibit or the White House Easter Egg Roll. I've seen the King Tut exhibit, slept through more foreign films festivals than I could ever care to remember, and met such alluring celebrities as Punky Brewster and the kids from the early '80's Nickelodeon (ahhh, I had such a crush on Alistair...)
On the other hand, my kids have clothes from Gap, Hanna Anderssen, Gymboree, and now Justice. Yes, they are heavily discounted, but they are replaced when they get too small. Their shoes are from Stride Rite and/or Nordstrom (hey--I worked there. Old habits die hard.) They never get to the point where their toes grow through the fronts of their shoes. Usually.
But, their penance is that we don't really travel. They've never been to Disney Land or Disney World. Never seen an Easter Egg Roll at the White House (it's way too hard to do the whole "lotto" thing now. I was better with the lines.) Forget celebrities--unless you mean Cha Cha the clown at our community's summer party. Poor Wild Man has never even been in a plane. And, frankly, I think most of America should thank us for that.
And, when we do travel, we don't do it in a car with plastic seats and negligible seat belts. Our wipers work fine in sun and rain.
Which has me torn. I wish I could give my kids every thing I had, as well as everything I wanted. I wonder if they'll grow up and say "gee, I wish mom and dad worried a whole lot less about having a safe minivan, and spent the money on travelling in a 30 year old Chevy Nova to the Grand Canyon." Or, "I was never all that excited about having shoes that fit. I'd gone barefoot for a chance at a Disney cruise."
But, at the moment, my little 9 year old baby girl is thrilled to have t-shirts with logos and peace signs. The little dude doesn't care all that much about clothes yet, but he's in bliss with his collection of Tonka firetrucks and construction vehicles. (That's another thing my parents didn't believe in--toys. Or, at least, the "fad" toys. My Barbie Dream House came from cruising on garbage day. And. it. was. awesome.) And I'm stuck in the inevitable and unenviable position of every parent that has ever existed in the history of mankind--hoping I've made the right decisions (however small they may be) for the kiddos and hoping I haven't spoiled or deprived them too much in anything. Or everything.
Back in the day, say, oh, 3 decades ago, my mom would grudgingly take us to Kmart or Sears to stock up on school clothes. By "stock up" I mean we got a few things, were told to not to mess them up because we weren't getting any more, and growth spurts be damned--those clothes were expected to last us the whole school year.
I used to hate back to school shopping. I knew I wasn't going to get anything fancy. And, I knew if it wasn't from the clearance rack, it wasn't coming home with us. My parents were comfortable, but frugal, and they certainly passed those genes on to me. But, I do remember looking at the girls whose parents (or, more accurately, their moms) bought them pretty Shetland wool sweaters and pleated skirts and tights without knee-holes in them. I always wanted a pair of shiny Mary Janes.
So, I've found myself doing for my kids what I wished my parents had done for me. Yes, I fell face first into that lovely, psychologically traumatic rabbit hole of giving my kids what I wanted at their age. I don't know exactly why so many of us do this, but it seems like it's a universal experience. Instead of looking with all the blessings and gifts our parents and extended family/friends gave us as children, we look at the "lack".
For me, I had the most incredible childhood filled with experiences. We travelled. Sometimes near (family in upstate New York). Sometimes far (family in San Diego and Hawaii). Granted, our vacations were always to visit family (and, thus, save on motel bills), but travel we did. In a green Chevy Nova with plastic seats, dents that looked suspiciously of bullet holes, and an electrical problem whereas you couldn't use the windshield wipers and the lights at the same time. Which made driving on rainy nights VERY interesting. You also couldn't use the windshield wipers and the radio at the same time either, but since all my parents listened to was "my wife left me and my dog died" country music with the occasional classical station, us kids didn't really care if the radio worked at all. We learned a long time ago if we wanted to listen to Air Supply or Journey, we were going to have to go to a friends' house who had a "hip" dad and listened to such music.
But, the side effect of travel was there wasn't a whole lot of money left for things like clothes. Or, at least, cool clothes. No penny loafers with the penny in the slot. But I do vividly remember a particularly awful pair of burgundy and "gold" (Redskins colors. No, we did not watch football. But, SURPRISE, they were on sale.) fake suede sneakers. They were horrid. And, the wrong size. They began as at least a size too big ("to grow into") and ended up, many many months later, as so small my big toe was hanging out of a hole in the front. But, clothes and shoes--in my family, at least--lasted until summer. Then you could be blissfully barefoot for three glorious months. Old short jeans became cut-offs. Crappy clothes were the penance we paid for all the time we spent on family reunions, Disney World, Disney Land, Hollywood Studios (where I got to "meet" Jaws!), and Niagara Falls. My mom was always up for an "adventure", and she would pack us kids up at the butt-crack of dawn to stand in line for a new museum exhibit or the White House Easter Egg Roll. I've seen the King Tut exhibit, slept through more foreign films festivals than I could ever care to remember, and met such alluring celebrities as Punky Brewster and the kids from the early '80's Nickelodeon (ahhh, I had such a crush on Alistair...)
On the other hand, my kids have clothes from Gap, Hanna Anderssen, Gymboree, and now Justice. Yes, they are heavily discounted, but they are replaced when they get too small. Their shoes are from Stride Rite and/or Nordstrom (hey--I worked there. Old habits die hard.) They never get to the point where their toes grow through the fronts of their shoes. Usually.
But, their penance is that we don't really travel. They've never been to Disney Land or Disney World. Never seen an Easter Egg Roll at the White House (it's way too hard to do the whole "lotto" thing now. I was better with the lines.) Forget celebrities--unless you mean Cha Cha the clown at our community's summer party. Poor Wild Man has never even been in a plane. And, frankly, I think most of America should thank us for that.
And, when we do travel, we don't do it in a car with plastic seats and negligible seat belts. Our wipers work fine in sun and rain.
Which has me torn. I wish I could give my kids every thing I had, as well as everything I wanted. I wonder if they'll grow up and say "gee, I wish mom and dad worried a whole lot less about having a safe minivan, and spent the money on travelling in a 30 year old Chevy Nova to the Grand Canyon." Or, "I was never all that excited about having shoes that fit. I'd gone barefoot for a chance at a Disney cruise."
But, at the moment, my little 9 year old baby girl is thrilled to have t-shirts with logos and peace signs. The little dude doesn't care all that much about clothes yet, but he's in bliss with his collection of Tonka firetrucks and construction vehicles. (That's another thing my parents didn't believe in--toys. Or, at least, the "fad" toys. My Barbie Dream House came from cruising on garbage day. And. it. was. awesome.) And I'm stuck in the inevitable and unenviable position of every parent that has ever existed in the history of mankind--hoping I've made the right decisions (however small they may be) for the kiddos and hoping I haven't spoiled or deprived them too much in anything. Or everything.
Monday, August 15, 2011
On Being a Luddite
It finally hit me last night as I was watching the Extreme Couponing marathon on TV with DQ and WMB (and, with MacGyver in his lazy-boy throne wondering if we were all crazy...) that my 8 year old daughter knows more about how to manage the TV/Cable/DVR remote than I do. I'm pretty sure my 5 year old wild man does too.
We missed a crucial moment in seeing how old a certain raggedy looking couponer was, and a large bet involving cookies and/or candy was at hand. I was betting she was in her mid-40's. DQ insisted she was 24 and just "looked rough". But, hey--it was on regular cable and not DVRed, so we can't hit rewind. Right?
Ah, no. DQ immediately took control, hit a few buttons (did you know you can fast forward or reverse in 5 minute increments? Okay, show-offs... Well, I had no clue.) and started wigging out about the sign that said the lady was 24. I tried valiantly to claim it was a massive typo, but I lost that argument, and AirHead taffy was distributed to the winning party. Then, just to make me feel more ancient and techno-stupid, DQ hit the "live" button (never knew what that was for!) and magically the program resumed at the current scene.
It was like freaking magic. Black magic.
It was at this point that I had to admit I've become a total Luddite. Not the crazy-assed British arsonists who were burning down factories and causing some very annoying destruction in industrial age England. But, the more colloquial Luddite who has been consciously and stubbornly adhering to the "old ways".
Let's put this in list form:
(1) I do not own a smart phone. Or an iPhone. I own a POS flip phone that is so old that batteries aren't made for it anymore. And, when I asked the vendor about any additional batteries or accessories (preferably reconditioned, since I'm cheap as can be), he paused. A little too long. I heard crickets.... Then, I'm sure I heard a muffled snicker. Apparently, I need a new phone. One that was made in the 21st century. My phone ranked up there with avocado green appliances and rotary dial phones as far as Verizon was concerned.
(2) My family does not have an HD TV. We're up in the air about whether or not we want to. Or, more to the point, MacGyver and I aren't too sure. It seems like an awful lot of money to spend on an appliance that will be mostly used to watch Arthur and Max and Ruby. I find the news upsetting enough--I'm not sure I need to see any more graphic depictions of death, destruction, or famine in high def. And, most importantly, I really, really don't want to watch my personal favorite TV shows in such a way that I can see the size of the actor's pores. Or liver spots. I have an unnatural adoration for NCIS, and it has very little to do with the story lines. It's Jethro Gibbs I watch for. I admit it--I'm a Gibbs girl. And I really would rather watch him in soft focus so I can pretend he's not as old or older than my parents. In my old, 14 year-old 32" Emerson, I can squint a bit and still pretend it's the same Mark Harmon from Summer School. And I like that.
(3) My family was so far "behind the times" that my brother, on numerous occasions, has simply bought me tech-toys that he felt we "needed". Like a DVD player. And a digital camera. And a DVD player for the van. And a ionizer. Okay, the ionizer I think was a hint that my old house smelled like cat poo, and it was a blatant hint to air the house out and clean the litter box more than once a day. But still. The poor man feels so bad for us that he feels the need to by my a DVD player because he heard me freaking out that I can't buy VCR tapes much anymore. He introduced me to the joys of not having to hit "rewind" before returning a tape to Blockbuster. Which, incidentally, doesn't really exist anymore. And, certainly doesn't rent VCR tapes. Then, I'm sure I heard him mutter something about "getting with the times." And, just to let you know, this was at a point in time when everyone else in the world was upgrading to Blue-Ray, and I was refusing to let go of my VCR...
(4) I didn't own a CD player until a few years ago. Seriously. When I graduated high school in 1990, Cd's were becoming the new "big thing" and I stupidly thought they were a fad. For fifteen straight years. I clung to my cassette tapes like a life-raft in the ocean of life. Heck, my car in college was so old that it still had a functioning 8-track player. I was the only person in my sorority (and, quite possibly my entire university) that listened to 8-tracks. I think my Rod Stewart one was my favorite, until my dad used it (along with a roll of electrical tape and a handful of toothpicks) to hold my new car battery in place. After my brother saw me crying about losing my precious 8-track, he set me up with an awesome, ghetto Alpine stereo system with remote controls for the back seat and a 6-CD changer. Of which I had no Cds to put in it. But my 1978 Buick Regal was rockin' with a great pair of sub-woofers and tweeters and all that shawatata-bing-bang! All the better to play Peter Cetara and A-ha. Hey--don't laugh. It was the early nineties, and I was awesome.
(5) I am writing this on a notebook that is as old as the DQ. When it, a Sony Vaio, first came out, I thought our family totally rocked! I mean, we had a Vaio well before Oprah gave one away to all the teachers at her "Greatest Things" episode. I finally felt ahead of the pack, since I had this awesome, tiny notebook. I mean, no laptops for me! And CPUs were so last year... Yeah, did I mention my awesome computer was hooked up to dial up. Yes, dial up. We didn't get "high speed internet" until I convinced MacGyver that it was actually cheaper to get the Comcast Triple Play then pay Erols (remember Erols? Am I dating myself?) separately for internet dial up and then AT&T for phone and long distance. And Comcast for cable. And, back then, Comcast Triple Play was still dial-up, just faster dial-up. Our neighbors were getting high-speed DSL, and I was just getting used to the incredibly faster dial-up of a national company. I thought it was totally normal to get kicked off the internet every 20 minutes, and that it took minutes to load a simple page. When we finally splurged on high-speed, everyone else was moving on to Verizon fiber-optic something-or-other. I expect will catch up to that in another 10 years or so...
Needless to say, I'm a bit behind the times technology speaking. For a girl that worked for the Department of Defense's MIS division (yes, that's the Management Information Systems--as in, computers and software) for their DoDDs schools through college, I've sunk a long way down in the techno-gadget world. I used to order high end computers and printers (back when color printers were brand new and cost $10K), and would help organize and teach software classes in WordPerfect and Word for Windows and Excel. Now, WordPerfect doesn't even exist anymore. The world has marched on, and programs like PowerPoint and Photoshop are old-school. And I have absolutely no idea how to work them. At all. Oh, and have I ever mentioned that MacGyver is a computer programmer. This "stuff" is second nature to him, and therefore totally uninteresting. He gets toplay work with techno-gadgets all day, so he has absolutely no desire to deal with them at home. Why do I need a better computer? To play on Face Book and order things from Amazon.com? Digital cameras, to him, are convenient--but their picture quality isn't as good as a 35mm, so why bother? HDTV? For watching Clifford? Am I kidding?
While I wouldn't have traded anything in the world for all these years I've spent at home, and I have no regrets in that department, I do wish I had kept a bit more up-to-date with the world and technology surrounding me. I managed to create this lovely, happy bubble of domesticity. My house is clean and uncluttered (usually), and smells of wonderful home-cooked meals that didn't come out of boxes or bags whose direction include "just add water". When it comes to ovens and dishwashers and refrigerators, I'm all for technology. Heck, my new washer and dryer rock my world! Our water bill has plummeted and I can actually dry a huge load of towels in 20 minutes. Tops. But, unless it's a domestic machine, it's certainly not "new fangled" around here.
And, I still don't know where I stand on it. A part of me wants all the pretty toys. I want the same phones as everyone else (even though I never remember to turn mine on. And, when I do, it's usually out of batteries.) I love watching a movie in HDTV at someone else's house and marvel at the crispness and clarity of the picture. I fawn over the newest digital cameras when I see them whipped out at a school concert or sports practice.
But, there's that other part of me that resents the modernization of society. I long for simplicity, not technology. It's seems like such as dichotomy to desire gizmos and equally desire a class in canning my own jams, jellies, and pickles. I read Radical Homemakers and wanted to drop it all to run away and buy a farm and tend to chickens and cows and pigs (yes, when MacGyver heard that, he laughed his sweet little ass off. Me? On a farm? Shoveling moo poo? Yeah, that was going to happen in this lifetime...) Then, I see all the other mommies in the waiting room at the dentist this morning, playing Angry Birds or whatever on their smart phones and texting away with the cyber-buddies while I read the latest Ladies Home Journal and copied down some recipes. And realized that I left my POS phone at home. Because the battery was dead. Again. And, I admit I was jealous. Just a bit.
But, I'm now at the stage when both my bunnies will be in school, full-time, starting next week. I will have the time to take those computer classes and maybe even get a very-part-time job to help pay for an HDTV for when the 32" Emerson finally blows up. Maybe, what's really happening, is that I'm finally coming out of my cocoon. For almost 9 years I have been surrounded by wee-ones. Taking care of the basic needs of my munchkins left very little time to stay current with the world around me. In just a few days, watching the news will be a daily occurrence, not a few minutes watching the headlines of the Today show while jumping out of the shower and before tending to the kiddos. I'll suddenly have the time to read more than the front page and the comics (and, I'll admit it, the horoscopes) in the Washington Post. And, that makes me a bit nervous. I'll be re-entering a world that went on without me for almost a decade. And while the skills I had in my previous employed positions are now basically obsolete, I have to remind myself that I'm not. I can slowly dip my toes into the technology pool, and then (if I like it) I can dive in.
I already have put that first toe in. Yesterday, I ordered my new phone. An Android. I have no idea how to work it, so I may be calling some of you friends in to help me. And please don't laugh when I tell you I don't know what an App is. Or that I have never, ever sent a text. This was my first step, and I'm kind of excited! Who knows, maybe I'll actually get a real iPod (not just the Shuffle that I never use because I can't see what's playing and it doesn't plug into the iPod stations at the gym or on those fancy-schmancy radios).
But, I draw the line at a Kindle. I'm still to old fashioned there. I like my books to smell like paper and I love the sound of flipping pages too much to go there yet...
We missed a crucial moment in seeing how old a certain raggedy looking couponer was, and a large bet involving cookies and/or candy was at hand. I was betting she was in her mid-40's. DQ insisted she was 24 and just "looked rough". But, hey--it was on regular cable and not DVRed, so we can't hit rewind. Right?
Ah, no. DQ immediately took control, hit a few buttons (did you know you can fast forward or reverse in 5 minute increments? Okay, show-offs... Well, I had no clue.) and started wigging out about the sign that said the lady was 24. I tried valiantly to claim it was a massive typo, but I lost that argument, and AirHead taffy was distributed to the winning party. Then, just to make me feel more ancient and techno-stupid, DQ hit the "live" button (never knew what that was for!) and magically the program resumed at the current scene.
It was like freaking magic. Black magic.
It was at this point that I had to admit I've become a total Luddite. Not the crazy-assed British arsonists who were burning down factories and causing some very annoying destruction in industrial age England. But, the more colloquial Luddite who has been consciously and stubbornly adhering to the "old ways".
Let's put this in list form:
(1) I do not own a smart phone. Or an iPhone. I own a POS flip phone that is so old that batteries aren't made for it anymore. And, when I asked the vendor about any additional batteries or accessories (preferably reconditioned, since I'm cheap as can be), he paused. A little too long. I heard crickets.... Then, I'm sure I heard a muffled snicker. Apparently, I need a new phone. One that was made in the 21st century. My phone ranked up there with avocado green appliances and rotary dial phones as far as Verizon was concerned.
(2) My family does not have an HD TV. We're up in the air about whether or not we want to. Or, more to the point, MacGyver and I aren't too sure. It seems like an awful lot of money to spend on an appliance that will be mostly used to watch Arthur and Max and Ruby. I find the news upsetting enough--I'm not sure I need to see any more graphic depictions of death, destruction, or famine in high def. And, most importantly, I really, really don't want to watch my personal favorite TV shows in such a way that I can see the size of the actor's pores. Or liver spots. I have an unnatural adoration for NCIS, and it has very little to do with the story lines. It's Jethro Gibbs I watch for. I admit it--I'm a Gibbs girl. And I really would rather watch him in soft focus so I can pretend he's not as old or older than my parents. In my old, 14 year-old 32" Emerson, I can squint a bit and still pretend it's the same Mark Harmon from Summer School. And I like that.
(3) My family was so far "behind the times" that my brother, on numerous occasions, has simply bought me tech-toys that he felt we "needed". Like a DVD player. And a digital camera. And a DVD player for the van. And a ionizer. Okay, the ionizer I think was a hint that my old house smelled like cat poo, and it was a blatant hint to air the house out and clean the litter box more than once a day. But still. The poor man feels so bad for us that he feels the need to by my a DVD player because he heard me freaking out that I can't buy VCR tapes much anymore. He introduced me to the joys of not having to hit "rewind" before returning a tape to Blockbuster. Which, incidentally, doesn't really exist anymore. And, certainly doesn't rent VCR tapes. Then, I'm sure I heard him mutter something about "getting with the times." And, just to let you know, this was at a point in time when everyone else in the world was upgrading to Blue-Ray, and I was refusing to let go of my VCR...
(4) I didn't own a CD player until a few years ago. Seriously. When I graduated high school in 1990, Cd's were becoming the new "big thing" and I stupidly thought they were a fad. For fifteen straight years. I clung to my cassette tapes like a life-raft in the ocean of life. Heck, my car in college was so old that it still had a functioning 8-track player. I was the only person in my sorority (and, quite possibly my entire university) that listened to 8-tracks. I think my Rod Stewart one was my favorite, until my dad used it (along with a roll of electrical tape and a handful of toothpicks) to hold my new car battery in place. After my brother saw me crying about losing my precious 8-track, he set me up with an awesome, ghetto Alpine stereo system with remote controls for the back seat and a 6-CD changer. Of which I had no Cds to put in it. But my 1978 Buick Regal was rockin' with a great pair of sub-woofers and tweeters and all that shawatata-bing-bang! All the better to play Peter Cetara and A-ha. Hey--don't laugh. It was the early nineties, and I was awesome.
(5) I am writing this on a notebook that is as old as the DQ. When it, a Sony Vaio, first came out, I thought our family totally rocked! I mean, we had a Vaio well before Oprah gave one away to all the teachers at her "Greatest Things" episode. I finally felt ahead of the pack, since I had this awesome, tiny notebook. I mean, no laptops for me! And CPUs were so last year... Yeah, did I mention my awesome computer was hooked up to dial up. Yes, dial up. We didn't get "high speed internet" until I convinced MacGyver that it was actually cheaper to get the Comcast Triple Play then pay Erols (remember Erols? Am I dating myself?) separately for internet dial up and then AT&T for phone and long distance. And Comcast for cable. And, back then, Comcast Triple Play was still dial-up, just faster dial-up. Our neighbors were getting high-speed DSL, and I was just getting used to the incredibly faster dial-up of a national company. I thought it was totally normal to get kicked off the internet every 20 minutes, and that it took minutes to load a simple page. When we finally splurged on high-speed, everyone else was moving on to Verizon fiber-optic something-or-other. I expect will catch up to that in another 10 years or so...
Needless to say, I'm a bit behind the times technology speaking. For a girl that worked for the Department of Defense's MIS division (yes, that's the Management Information Systems--as in, computers and software) for their DoDDs schools through college, I've sunk a long way down in the techno-gadget world. I used to order high end computers and printers (back when color printers were brand new and cost $10K), and would help organize and teach software classes in WordPerfect and Word for Windows and Excel. Now, WordPerfect doesn't even exist anymore. The world has marched on, and programs like PowerPoint and Photoshop are old-school. And I have absolutely no idea how to work them. At all. Oh, and have I ever mentioned that MacGyver is a computer programmer. This "stuff" is second nature to him, and therefore totally uninteresting. He gets to
While I wouldn't have traded anything in the world for all these years I've spent at home, and I have no regrets in that department, I do wish I had kept a bit more up-to-date with the world and technology surrounding me. I managed to create this lovely, happy bubble of domesticity. My house is clean and uncluttered (usually), and smells of wonderful home-cooked meals that didn't come out of boxes or bags whose direction include "just add water". When it comes to ovens and dishwashers and refrigerators, I'm all for technology. Heck, my new washer and dryer rock my world! Our water bill has plummeted and I can actually dry a huge load of towels in 20 minutes. Tops. But, unless it's a domestic machine, it's certainly not "new fangled" around here.
And, I still don't know where I stand on it. A part of me wants all the pretty toys. I want the same phones as everyone else (even though I never remember to turn mine on. And, when I do, it's usually out of batteries.) I love watching a movie in HDTV at someone else's house and marvel at the crispness and clarity of the picture. I fawn over the newest digital cameras when I see them whipped out at a school concert or sports practice.
But, there's that other part of me that resents the modernization of society. I long for simplicity, not technology. It's seems like such as dichotomy to desire gizmos and equally desire a class in canning my own jams, jellies, and pickles. I read Radical Homemakers and wanted to drop it all to run away and buy a farm and tend to chickens and cows and pigs (yes, when MacGyver heard that, he laughed his sweet little ass off. Me? On a farm? Shoveling moo poo? Yeah, that was going to happen in this lifetime...) Then, I see all the other mommies in the waiting room at the dentist this morning, playing Angry Birds or whatever on their smart phones and texting away with the cyber-buddies while I read the latest Ladies Home Journal and copied down some recipes. And realized that I left my POS phone at home. Because the battery was dead. Again. And, I admit I was jealous. Just a bit.
But, I'm now at the stage when both my bunnies will be in school, full-time, starting next week. I will have the time to take those computer classes and maybe even get a very-part-time job to help pay for an HDTV for when the 32" Emerson finally blows up. Maybe, what's really happening, is that I'm finally coming out of my cocoon. For almost 9 years I have been surrounded by wee-ones. Taking care of the basic needs of my munchkins left very little time to stay current with the world around me. In just a few days, watching the news will be a daily occurrence, not a few minutes watching the headlines of the Today show while jumping out of the shower and before tending to the kiddos. I'll suddenly have the time to read more than the front page and the comics (and, I'll admit it, the horoscopes) in the Washington Post. And, that makes me a bit nervous. I'll be re-entering a world that went on without me for almost a decade. And while the skills I had in my previous employed positions are now basically obsolete, I have to remind myself that I'm not. I can slowly dip my toes into the technology pool, and then (if I like it) I can dive in.
I already have put that first toe in. Yesterday, I ordered my new phone. An Android. I have no idea how to work it, so I may be calling some of you friends in to help me. And please don't laugh when I tell you I don't know what an App is. Or that I have never, ever sent a text. This was my first step, and I'm kind of excited! Who knows, maybe I'll actually get a real iPod (not just the Shuffle that I never use because I can't see what's playing and it doesn't plug into the iPod stations at the gym or on those fancy-schmancy radios).
But, I draw the line at a Kindle. I'm still to old fashioned there. I like my books to smell like paper and I love the sound of flipping pages too much to go there yet...
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
The Summer "Hunger Games"...
I don't know what it is about summer. Or, just being home in general. But, when the kiddos are home, it seems like all they do is eat. And eat. And eat.
I know this is a totally common complaint, and while all us moms (and dads) complain about the amount of food (and, subsequently, toilet paper) that gets consumed in the house every day, no one that I know of has come up with a really good reason why. Is it that they're fattening themselves up, like bears before hibernation, for the 9 long months of school with no snacks for hours at a time? Is it simply that they know that there's food in the pantry (or van), and the idea that it's there is simply more than they can resist? Is it that they're moving and running and swinging and swimming more when they're home and they need the extra nutrition?
Or, are they just trying to drive me crazy? Or, into bankruptcy?
I've said before that DQ and WMB are like hobbits without the hairy feet. They eat breakfast, second breakfast, snack, brunch, elevenses, noonsies, lunch, snack, etc... Our food bill is second only to our mortgage, and I'm an avid couponer (labeled an "organized couponer" by this past Sunday's Parade magazine in the Washington Post! Oooo, I feel so special!) with a mini-stockpile of nummies that never seems to last long enough. While others may fear the attitudes and impulse control issues of their childrens' imminent teenage years--I fear the food bill. If I can barely keep up with them now, I figure I'm totally screwed in about 6-7 years.
I love the fact that my kids have tons of reasonably healthy (if you can consider Pirate's Booty and organic juiceboxes healthy) snacks at the ready, but just keeping up with them is exhausting. Who hasn't gone grocery shopping one day, and come home proud as a proverbial peacock about all the delicious munchies they picked up, only to find the cupboard bare the next day. Or, worse yet, later that same evening.
"Couponing" (can you believe that's even a verb these days?) has always been part of my life. I was raised by a mother that knew how to "work a deal" and was amazing at scouting bargains. I never knew that buying food or household items without a coupon was even possible, and eating meat that didn't have an orange markdown sticker on it was almost unheard-of. Once when I was little, my mom was making dinner and I noticed the meat package wasn't "marked down". I loudly asked "hey mom--are we having company for dinner?" "yes dear. why?" "because we aren't having discount meat!"
Yes, as you can probably guess, the "company" was in the next room and heard it all. Thank Maude they just laughed... Heaven knows, they probably understood completely.
Of course, when your little, you don't realize how hard your parents work to put food on the table. And, as a teenager, I just found it completely humiliating that my mom used coupons and scoured the markdowns and dented can shelves. Now--I understand.
So, I went back to my mom and re-learned how to use coupons and match them to sales. I learned about the RiteAid Single Check Rebates and haven't paid full price for OTC meds again (hint, around October, RiteAid has a huge OTC SCR event where you can get enough cold and flu medication to last all winter). I taped and watched (and rewatched) every episode of "Extreme Couponing" and joined a bazillion couponing and frugal living sites. And, I've got the whole stacking thing down pat (use a store coupon with a manufacturer's coupon when the things you want are on sale, and you get a triple bargain!).
But, I still barely keep up with the hobbits. And, don't even get me into talking about MacGyver. Entire boxes of crackers mysteriously disappear when he's around.... (And, how is it that the guys can eat junk to their hearts' content, and we gain weight just watching them snack? Huh? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?)
So, I'll just have to continue with the constant grocery shopping, cooking, and serving for my pint-sized vacuum cleaners (they "hoover" everything in their way). And hope that I can find either a really well paying job or a money tree in the backyard by the time they hit their teenage years. Because by then I'll need an addition to the house to hoard their snacks, as well as a well-stocked checkbook to pay for their granola bars and grapes.
In the meantime, I'll enjoy their not-so-tiny gastronomic desires and the funny way they cram as much as they can in their cheeks like a pack of chipmunks, so they can run off and play with their friends with their snacks at hand (or, in mouth). I'll try not to get exasperated when I'm cleaning DQ's room and find her "stash" of snacks ("in case I get hungry at night, mommy!") and juice boxes. And, I'll keep clipping my coupons for Charmin and White Cloud, since we all know what happens when you eat that much. What goes in, must come out. And that's a whole other post...
Because, one day in the hopefully not-so-near future, I'll only be shopping for two. Suddenly, a windfall of disposable income from the lack of feeding Frodo and Merrie every 30 seconds will appear, and I suppose MacGyver and I will use it to start checking off things from our bucket lists (it should only take a few weeks of not feeding Hobbit appetites to save enough for a eco-vacation to Costa Rica at this point...) And, I'll look back at these years filled with the sounds of munching, slurping, and burping with great nostalgia. Maybe.
Or, maybe I'll just re-read Lord of the Rings...
I know this is a totally common complaint, and while all us moms (and dads) complain about the amount of food (and, subsequently, toilet paper) that gets consumed in the house every day, no one that I know of has come up with a really good reason why. Is it that they're fattening themselves up, like bears before hibernation, for the 9 long months of school with no snacks for hours at a time? Is it simply that they know that there's food in the pantry (or van), and the idea that it's there is simply more than they can resist? Is it that they're moving and running and swinging and swimming more when they're home and they need the extra nutrition?
Or, are they just trying to drive me crazy? Or, into bankruptcy?
I've said before that DQ and WMB are like hobbits without the hairy feet. They eat breakfast, second breakfast, snack, brunch, elevenses, noonsies, lunch, snack, etc... Our food bill is second only to our mortgage, and I'm an avid couponer (labeled an "organized couponer" by this past Sunday's Parade magazine in the Washington Post! Oooo, I feel so special!) with a mini-stockpile of nummies that never seems to last long enough. While others may fear the attitudes and impulse control issues of their childrens' imminent teenage years--I fear the food bill. If I can barely keep up with them now, I figure I'm totally screwed in about 6-7 years.
I love the fact that my kids have tons of reasonably healthy (if you can consider Pirate's Booty and organic juiceboxes healthy) snacks at the ready, but just keeping up with them is exhausting. Who hasn't gone grocery shopping one day, and come home proud as a proverbial peacock about all the delicious munchies they picked up, only to find the cupboard bare the next day. Or, worse yet, later that same evening.
"Couponing" (can you believe that's even a verb these days?) has always been part of my life. I was raised by a mother that knew how to "work a deal" and was amazing at scouting bargains. I never knew that buying food or household items without a coupon was even possible, and eating meat that didn't have an orange markdown sticker on it was almost unheard-of. Once when I was little, my mom was making dinner and I noticed the meat package wasn't "marked down". I loudly asked "hey mom--are we having company for dinner?" "yes dear. why?" "because we aren't having discount meat!"
Yes, as you can probably guess, the "company" was in the next room and heard it all. Thank Maude they just laughed... Heaven knows, they probably understood completely.
Of course, when your little, you don't realize how hard your parents work to put food on the table. And, as a teenager, I just found it completely humiliating that my mom used coupons and scoured the markdowns and dented can shelves. Now--I understand.
So, I went back to my mom and re-learned how to use coupons and match them to sales. I learned about the RiteAid Single Check Rebates and haven't paid full price for OTC meds again (hint, around October, RiteAid has a huge OTC SCR event where you can get enough cold and flu medication to last all winter). I taped and watched (and rewatched) every episode of "Extreme Couponing" and joined a bazillion couponing and frugal living sites. And, I've got the whole stacking thing down pat (use a store coupon with a manufacturer's coupon when the things you want are on sale, and you get a triple bargain!).
But, I still barely keep up with the hobbits. And, don't even get me into talking about MacGyver. Entire boxes of crackers mysteriously disappear when he's around.... (And, how is it that the guys can eat junk to their hearts' content, and we gain weight just watching them snack? Huh? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?)
So, I'll just have to continue with the constant grocery shopping, cooking, and serving for my pint-sized vacuum cleaners (they "hoover" everything in their way). And hope that I can find either a really well paying job or a money tree in the backyard by the time they hit their teenage years. Because by then I'll need an addition to the house to hoard their snacks, as well as a well-stocked checkbook to pay for their granola bars and grapes.
In the meantime, I'll enjoy their not-so-tiny gastronomic desires and the funny way they cram as much as they can in their cheeks like a pack of chipmunks, so they can run off and play with their friends with their snacks at hand (or, in mouth). I'll try not to get exasperated when I'm cleaning DQ's room and find her "stash" of snacks ("in case I get hungry at night, mommy!") and juice boxes. And, I'll keep clipping my coupons for Charmin and White Cloud, since we all know what happens when you eat that much. What goes in, must come out. And that's a whole other post...
Because, one day in the hopefully not-so-near future, I'll only be shopping for two. Suddenly, a windfall of disposable income from the lack of feeding Frodo and Merrie every 30 seconds will appear, and I suppose MacGyver and I will use it to start checking off things from our bucket lists (it should only take a few weeks of not feeding Hobbit appetites to save enough for a eco-vacation to Costa Rica at this point...) And, I'll look back at these years filled with the sounds of munching, slurping, and burping with great nostalgia. Maybe.
Or, maybe I'll just re-read Lord of the Rings...
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Unholy Piles of Crap
I found myself shouting this at my kiddos the other day--
"Two words for you, just two words!!! SNOW SHOVEL!!!!!"
No, I wasn't talking about winter time, or snow, or sleet, or days off school to go sledding down the hill at the park. I was talking about the playroom.
Or, more accurately, our basement that is covered in unholy piles of crap.
There are pieces of at least five different board games colonizing a village made of blocks and Lego pieces. Apparently it's still under construction, since a dozen Tonka and CAT construction machines of various sizes and shapes are surrounding it like the Romans on Masada. The gingerbread men from Candy Land are keeping house in the village, along with the cardboard children from Chutes and Ladders.
There are craft supplies everywhere. I mean EVERYWHERE. All the markers (name brand, washable, in every color available) are out of their containers and spread, tops off, in every conceivable nook and cranny. Forget finding the crayons. They've been stripped of their paper wrappings, leaving bits of confetti looking trash across the carpet. Glue sticks are dried up. Glitter is covering the floor like psychedelic fairy dust, and every single piece of paper (construction, poster board, drawing paper...) is out of their perfectly labeled drawers and spread out like a multi-colored red carpet for visiting dignitaries.
And. The. Toys.
They're everywhere.
Toys I swear I've never seen before. Toys from yard sales. Toys from birthdays and Christmases. Toys from Happy Meals and Wendy's. Piles and piles of toy infested crap.
Hence, the snow shovel threat.
It seems like at the end of the summer and the after Christmas are the two times of the year when all the mothers walk into their kids' rooms (and, playrooms) and take a look around. And sigh. Or cry. And then startscreaming talking about throwing everything away. Every darn Polly Pocket, Littlest Pet Shop, Lego, and Matchbox car. Every crayon and marker. Every block, book, and toy. We imagine using a shovel (in my case, a snow shovel. They're bigger, lighter, and can carry more crap per load) to fill dumpsters with plastic and paper.
We imagine a sparkling clean room with no stains on the carpet or crayon drawings on the wall. We fantasize about solid wood wall cabinets with matching, monogrammed baskets with labels like "dolls", "trains", "wooden blocks made out of renewable resources and painted with non-toxic paint". Our kids' size tables aren't made of plastic and weren't handed down through three different families to ours and covered with 15 years of glitter glue and Sharpie drawings. We pretend they're solid maple with matching chairs, where our children are sitting (clean, hair brushed, teeth brushed, in perfectly pressed and matching clothes and hair bows) and coloring in loving drawings of our family to be hung on our perfectly clean, fingerprint free, filled with organic fruits and veggies, refrigerator (in stainless steel, of course!).
Ah, yes. I'm back to my Pottery Barn Porn dreams....
Oh, what?! That's right, I was talking about purging the playrooms. Oops! There goes my mommy ADD again...
So now I have plans. At precisely 8:26 on the first day of school, I will place my precious children in the loving care of the public school system (though, I admit I've hit that "time of the summer" when I start contemplating boarding school. And military school. And convent school), and I will make myself a strong coffee and take it downstairs to the basement. Along with a full box of extra-strength trash bags, the vacuum, and a really bad attitude.
And. I. Will. Clean.
There will be no wall units with pretty baskets. The old table (made by hand by MacGyver and his dad, and that I absolutely adore) with the unmatched chairs (solid wood, unfinished, garage sale, $5) will remain in their place of honor in the middle of the room. The craft supplies will make their way back into their labeled drawers, and the tops will be found for every PipSqueak and Crayola Washable. Glue sticks will be replaced. Glitter tubes refilled. Broken toys and games thrown away, waiting to be replaced by birthday and Christmas gifts.
For one glorious morning and early afternoon, the room will be clean. Purged of junk. Sparkling (well, as sparkling a partially finished basement with a 20 year old carpet and florescent lights can be) and smelling of vinegar and essential oils.
I might even take a picture to remember the moment...
And then, the kids will come home. They will grab their snacks, give me a kiss, and run down to their lair. DQ will squeal with delight at all the new glue and glitter. WMB will shriek at the sight of all his cars and trucks and fire engines lined up in a row. Yippie!!
Hopefully it will take more than 5 minutes before they start complaining that I threw all their crap away, and try to break into the garbage cans.
And chaos will once again prevail.
Oh well. I can look forward to doing it all again after winter break--right?
"Two words for you, just two words!!! SNOW SHOVEL!!!!!"
No, I wasn't talking about winter time, or snow, or sleet, or days off school to go sledding down the hill at the park. I was talking about the playroom.
Or, more accurately, our basement that is covered in unholy piles of crap.
There are pieces of at least five different board games colonizing a village made of blocks and Lego pieces. Apparently it's still under construction, since a dozen Tonka and CAT construction machines of various sizes and shapes are surrounding it like the Romans on Masada. The gingerbread men from Candy Land are keeping house in the village, along with the cardboard children from Chutes and Ladders.
There are craft supplies everywhere. I mean EVERYWHERE. All the markers (name brand, washable, in every color available) are out of their containers and spread, tops off, in every conceivable nook and cranny. Forget finding the crayons. They've been stripped of their paper wrappings, leaving bits of confetti looking trash across the carpet. Glue sticks are dried up. Glitter is covering the floor like psychedelic fairy dust, and every single piece of paper (construction, poster board, drawing paper...) is out of their perfectly labeled drawers and spread out like a multi-colored red carpet for visiting dignitaries.
And. The. Toys.
They're everywhere.
Toys I swear I've never seen before. Toys from yard sales. Toys from birthdays and Christmases. Toys from Happy Meals and Wendy's. Piles and piles of toy infested crap.
Hence, the snow shovel threat.
It seems like at the end of the summer and the after Christmas are the two times of the year when all the mothers walk into their kids' rooms (and, playrooms) and take a look around. And sigh. Or cry. And then start
We imagine a sparkling clean room with no stains on the carpet or crayon drawings on the wall. We fantasize about solid wood wall cabinets with matching, monogrammed baskets with labels like "dolls", "trains", "wooden blocks made out of renewable resources and painted with non-toxic paint". Our kids' size tables aren't made of plastic and weren't handed down through three different families to ours and covered with 15 years of glitter glue and Sharpie drawings. We pretend they're solid maple with matching chairs, where our children are sitting (clean, hair brushed, teeth brushed, in perfectly pressed and matching clothes and hair bows) and coloring in loving drawings of our family to be hung on our perfectly clean, fingerprint free, filled with organic fruits and veggies, refrigerator (in stainless steel, of course!).
Ah, yes. I'm back to my Pottery Barn Porn dreams....
Oh, what?! That's right, I was talking about purging the playrooms. Oops! There goes my mommy ADD again...
So now I have plans. At precisely 8:26 on the first day of school, I will place my precious children in the loving care of the public school system (though, I admit I've hit that "time of the summer" when I start contemplating boarding school. And military school. And convent school), and I will make myself a strong coffee and take it downstairs to the basement. Along with a full box of extra-strength trash bags, the vacuum, and a really bad attitude.
And. I. Will. Clean.
There will be no wall units with pretty baskets. The old table (made by hand by MacGyver and his dad, and that I absolutely adore) with the unmatched chairs (solid wood, unfinished, garage sale, $5) will remain in their place of honor in the middle of the room. The craft supplies will make their way back into their labeled drawers, and the tops will be found for every PipSqueak and Crayola Washable. Glue sticks will be replaced. Glitter tubes refilled. Broken toys and games thrown away, waiting to be replaced by birthday and Christmas gifts.
For one glorious morning and early afternoon, the room will be clean. Purged of junk. Sparkling (well, as sparkling a partially finished basement with a 20 year old carpet and florescent lights can be) and smelling of vinegar and essential oils.
I might even take a picture to remember the moment...
And then, the kids will come home. They will grab their snacks, give me a kiss, and run down to their lair. DQ will squeal with delight at all the new glue and glitter. WMB will shriek at the sight of all his cars and trucks and fire engines lined up in a row. Yippie!!
Hopefully it will take more than 5 minutes before they start complaining that I threw all their crap away, and try to break into the garbage cans.
And chaos will once again prevail.
Oh well. I can look forward to doing it all again after winter break--right?
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