Suburban Matron

I Actually Think Mondays Are Fine

2012-01-24T00:37:00.003-05:00

This morning, while Hank was in preschool, I was sitting on the couch in my sun room drinking coffee and watching Novak Djokovic in the Australian Open. Yes, I hear you saying, "Becky, you work too hard. You need to slow down and take some time for yourself. You can't do anything for your family if you don't take care of yourself first." I agree with you, I do. But all that tennis is not going to watch itself.

It was pouring rain. I had just spied Hank's fuzzy crocs lying outside by the trampoline, absorbing twenty times their weight in water. I thought about going to fetch them. Then I had some other idea--can't remember but it didn't involve going out in the rain so I pursued that train of thought.

The game company boys appeared one by one. I greeted them and they trouped downstairs to their basement lair.

Matt appeared and I made him an omelette. He took it downstairs.

It's just a blog about nothin'.

Then I cleaned the kitchen, all while squinting and peering across to the TV screen. Please someone get busy doing the academic work on the spectacle that is the male tennis player's body in current celebrity sports culture. The tension between their much-vaunted machismo and the dwelling upon their fragile, injury-prone physiques. Those accumulated minutes and even hours of extreme slow-motion close ups. I mean, I think we know what they all look like naked. Juan Martin del Potro, call me.

(OMG, I just looked him up and he's only 23. Sorry Juan, stay in school, sonny! But I also just learned that he is 6'6", holy cats. So many feelings!)

Then I did bring in Hank's crocs.

Then I laundered things, and folded the things, all while watching the playing of the tennis. Then my phone made its little twinkling noise and I saw this text from my mother, "ETA: 2:30, rain is terrible." I was like, "Huh?" Then I realized that despite knowing that my parents were passing through town and stopping by my house, despite having talked to them about it the night before and having reminded the kids about it, I managed to forget it entirely in the time it took to brew a pot of coffee.

Then Lleyton Hewitt managed to take Djokovic to a fourth set, and I was like, "Guys, I have to go get Hank." But Djokovic won just in time and I wheeled the minivan over there through the rain. Hank got into the car chattering to his teacher about his grandparents coming by. So he remembered.

Then, back at home, I hauled the vacuum cleaner up the stairs and hoovered around. Then I did the downstairs, while making Hank fully a dozen PB&J sandwiches. Laura came in complaining about my not having met her at the bus stop to drive her the fifty yards to our front door. I offered her a shot of Toughen-Up. It wasn't actually raining anymore, geez.

Then she brandished a speech she has written for an oratory contest. The mandated topic for everyone is How Optimism Helps Me Overcome Obstacles. Laura writing a speech about optimism is like hearing what a bird thinks about feathers. She read it to me in the kitchen. It had some good moments and was written in her natural voice. I was surprised, though, that among her anecdotes, she mentioned my treatment for breast cancer, and said that my hair fell out and that I "wore a wig for a few weeks." A few weeks! I wonder if that seven months seems like a few weeks to her.

Then Mom and Dad did appear, bringing a dining room chair of mine they'd fixed and a huge bag of broccoli from our friend's farm. They stayed for just a little while; I couldn't get them to spend the night, they wanted to get up to the mountains to pursue their own selfish desires. Plus they left with my boxed series of The Wire on DVD.

Oh! But they didn't leave without my extracting their promise to take the kids to North Carolina this weekend, while Matt and I stay home and pursue OUR selfish desires.

Then I ate some sardines and avocado, then parented a bit more, then I went and worked out with Pretty Neighbor, and then I came home and it was time for Taco Night. After the last of Matt's guys left, I opened the door to the basement stairs and hollered, "TACO TOWN!"

Then we ate a bunch of food and then Matt and I lovingly logged it in our calorie-counting website together. I mean, we're still fun, right?

Then Matt wrestled the kids and I lay down with Hank for a few minutes. Then I had a cup of coffee with a tablespoon of unsweetened cocoa powder in it.

That is literally just what I did today. It was very ordinary, so what better place to relive it than here in my blog? It comprises my world. It was also a good day. As my sister would say, I didn't even have to use my AK.

Hey, look up at the top of my page on the left. Beth made me a couple of facebook/twitter buttons. So you can click on the facebook one and "like" SubMat on facebook! I mean, if you like me like that. Then you will never, ever miss any news of the tennis-watching, sardine-eating variety.

You have my love,
B

I Say Yes To A Bunch of That!

2012-01-21T21:15:00.001-05:00

I spend a fair amount of time fending off invitations to things in my neighborhood that are called parties but don't really sound like parties to me. You know, like buy-this-fancy-ice-cream-scooper-that-you-can't-put-in-the-dishwasher parties, pay-money-to-try-this-bad-make-up parties, and then there's bunco. Lordy, the bunco.

This morning, though, I got an email from my gravelly-voiced tennis friend inviting me to a dildo party. It is not strictly called a dildo party, it has some name like Celestial Throbbings or similar. I'm being for serious, the name is something like that. This is a first for this neighborhood, as far as I know. Most (okay all) of my friends, whatever their private proclivities, are too genteel or reticent to host such a thing. But this is the bunco crowd and they are a little harder-partying. Like, some of them smoke cigarettes. Which is basically not done in this sphere anymore, ever.

So I was all, "Dildo party, that's funny," and then I got to the best part. It's not only a dildo party, it's a spray tan party! The invite promises:

I have a woman coming to the house and she will set up in my master bedroom and one by one we will go upstairs and get gorgeous spray tans. It's only twenty dollars and trust me she won't miss a spot.

I don't want to quote the invitation at greater length, but I do want to convey to you that the whole communication, everything about it--diction, font choice and size, grammar and punctuation, everything--just exudes a past-its-prime good timey-ness that is a real breath of beery air. The hostess closes the invitation by saying, "The men would kill to be a fly on the wall at this party--LMFAO!" Then there really needed to be a belch emoticon, if one existed.

When I read this, I hollered "YEEEEEESSSSS!" My neighbors perusing sex toys and going upstairs "one by one" to be thoroughly spray tanned? No way will I miss the chance to go to this event so I can describe the scene for you. No way. I take my commitment to you guys too seriously for that, you can be sure, so relax. I'm on it.

So that's happening. And Matt and I have mixed doubles match tomorrow if it doesn't rain. Here it is after nine and my kids are still running free through the house. I'm going to go S that D. xoxo-B

It's A Vulnerable Time

2012-01-17T12:20:00.002-05:00

Most nights I lie down in Hank's room for a few minutes when he goes to bed. This is a nice time in many ways, as I get to stop moving for the first time in a while and Hank shares what's on his mind. (Last night's tidbits were, "Mom, I know what snot is for and also what its real name is," and "Dad says one of the hardest things of all is to imagine what it's like to be somebody else." Both important topics for reflection.) Then, after he falls asleep in mid sentence, I have a few minutes of quiet reading time.

So while this is a good part of the day mentally and emotionally, somehow biologically or physiologically (biorhythmically?) it has some not good effects. I lie down pleasantly full from supper--not too full--and feeling good about the food choices I made all day. I get up wanting to eat All The Things. Somehow in that few minutes, I shift phases from having been sufficiently nourished for the day into someone who would gladly rob a Hostess Twinkie truck. It's a good thing I don't have a gun.

It's a particular desire for something sweet that I know has to be related to tiredness and is not a dietary need at all. I don't have much of a sweet tooth at other times. Usually there is no junk food in the house, phew! So I can be satisfied by drinking my nightly cup of tea and maybe eating a few almonds. Those cocoa almonds are good for this.

It's possible that this is my body telling me I need to be going to bed at that time, but I am a terrible and habitual night owl.

Anyway. I'm coming to how the marital dialogue portion of this story. But first a detour through another part of our bedtime routine in this house. You'd might as well move in.

Matt and the kids have nightly wrestles up on our big bed. But the term "wrestle" is now a sort of catch-all for a range of activities that includes, but is not limited to, charades, trivia, tickling, interpretive dance, and physical challenges. It is their thing and I never witness it, I just hear the hollering and thumping. It has grown and gotten more ritualized and complicated, to the point where he now makes bets with them about different things and, the following day, doles out small rewards for amazing feats. I'm sure it's normal to have one's children perform for treats?

Which leads to the fact that he bought a bunch of 90%-off Christmas candy and hid it on a high shelf in the book room, for parceling out to them over time. Like, a really high shelf that I can't reach, and I wasn't even sure exactly which shelf it was.

So the other night I stumbled downstairs, having grown drowsy in Hank's room and developed a fairly raging craving for one small treat.

I cut right to the chase, "Where is that candy you got? I want one piece of it."

And he smiles and starts to get all "Oh you want candy! Well let's discuss this situation." Like, not in a lascivious way, or not only that way, but he's all ready for us to have the little kitchen flirtation moment we have after the kids are in bed and we can relax out of our day roles into different roles. I can change from having been super competent all day to wanting to be indulged and he can refocus his attention away from work, and then we can move on with our pursuits, severally or together. You know the kitchen moment I'm talking about.

But I had a monkey on my back and I did not want to play. I was like, "Give me the candy. Give it to me now. Please." Which he thinks is hilarious. And I can see how ridiculous I am being but I can't help it. I said, "GIVE ME THE CANDY. I don't want to play." And now he is getting the candy down from the shelf, while attempting to poke gentle fun at me and I am not having it, so I escalate by saying, "I don't get it. Are you hiding the candy from the kids or from me? Or from yourself? I DON'T GET THE WHOLE NARRATIVE OF THE CANDY."

"Oh ho!" Now he is just enjoying himself. "You don't get the narrative of the candy? Is that your PhD talking?" And then I am just wounded because that is a totally normal way to talk about something. Everything has a narrative of what it is and why it's where it is and oh never mind! Give me the candy.

Then, perhaps wounded himself by my stiff-arming his attempts to be playful, he brings the whole bag of candy into the kitchen and sits it on the counter. I take a piece and punish him by avoiding eye contact. Until two seconds later when I come to my senses and look at him and shrug. I apologize for being a crazy person. And somehow the whole thing serves as our kitchen moment anyway.

He has been married to me for almost seventeen years.

What are y'all up to? Any narratable kitchen moments?

xo

I'd Take That Bargain

2012-01-10T12:12:00.005-05:00

I had a nice exchange with my sis-in-law as she was passing through town on Friday.

I died. Then I texted her, "I just died."

Speaking of technology, and of my brother and sister-in-law, AND of things that practically lay me in my grave:

Not long ago, Dave mentioned on the facebook that he and Katie had spent a whole year with a laptop keyboard on which the 'p' and 'n' keys didn't work, but they had finally taken it to the Apple store, where it was fixed quickly and for free. I realized I faintly remembered this problem from when we visited them in DC in April, that their 'p' and 'n' keys didn't work. And this is their only computer, mind you.

Fjords! I mean, I can't even, it's too much.

Then he went on to say that when he needed a 'p,' either lower- or upper-case, he would google "Obama" because that would get him "President." Then I was like ARGLE BARGLE and I blacked out.

Blacked out with delight.

We are such tool-using monkeys.

Someone PLEASE devise an alphabet primer composed of the best google search for seeking out each letter, from A-Z, keeping in mind that the search terms cannot contain the broken letter. Please do that. Where are we on that?

What Is The Opposite of Birth Control?

2012-01-08T00:05:00.002-05:00

Is it this?

Because, dang.

I mean, seriously.

My nephew Gabriel almost makes me forget all my stuff about how I'm so glad my kids are older and getting more independent and blah blah blah...look at all that soft baby chub!

My own kids are cute, too, I guess, if you like them all big like that. Their legs are really long and they talk constantly.

LJ got a cover for her tennis racquet.

Hank got most of the Legos in the world.

Just didn't want to let the Christmas season go by without sharing a few pics. More are here.

If you have been persuaded by viewing the adorable baby, it is Saturday night! Go get on it! And be sure to report back!

xoxo
b

Good and Bad Behavior on The Tennis Team

2012-01-06T11:11:00.000-05:00

A fan letter Laura wrote. Roger always behaves beautifully.

So Matt and I have joined a mixed doubles team in our neighborhood. It just started up this fall, and it's made up of several of my buddies from the ladies' team and their husbands. First match is Sunday. The captain is my gravelly-voiced, rough around the edges, bunco-playing, into everything acquaintance. Friend? For me, familiarity always breeds fondness, so I would say we are friends by now. I've gotten used to her basically abrasive approach to the world.

Most of my girl pals joined the team in hopes of actually being partnered with their husbands. I thought that was the normal way to do things in mixed doubles, especially a C-level team, but apparently it's not, and it's up to the captain to pair men and women based on ability, not on who goes home together. Okay, I had an inkling of that, but I figured Matt and I would get to play together in a match sometimes. But my good buddy T--the one who uses the face cream made of foreskins--has chafed against this protocol, and when the line-up for Sunday was released, which had her and her husband playing in different lines with other people, she was upset.

She texted me that night after practice:

I hate the line-up. I wanted to play with my husband so we could do something together. This freakin' swingers' tennis sux.

I laughed at "swingers' tennis" (coming to a suburb near you!) but I figured she just needed to vent. Well.

Then yesterday morning, she copied me on this email that she sent to the captain:

[Hubs] and I wanted to play mixed double in order to do something together and this is not headed in that direction. The first few practices were great - rotating around- but as of the last couple of practices, we don't get to play together at all; I could understand you breaking us up if we didn't play well together, but we do; therefore the line-up doesn't make sense to us either. But I guess it doesn't have to because you are the captain, which was apparent in your attitude last night. If we were regular members of the team, we would suck it up and finish the season, but we are only alternates so we will play this Sunday and then we are done. If you decide you don't want us this weekend (which is probably now the case), just let me know.

Well, when I read that, I said, "Whoa." I don't think I'm overreacting in saying that, down here, in our cultural register, this is a relationship-severing email, especially for people who are just casual friends. T is a sweet girl, and I sympathized with her position and the impulse that led her to write that, but I would not have written that, and would have tried some honey instead.

All I said in response was, "Well, you definitely got your point across! Let me know what she says." Then Pretty Neighbor and I were all, "OMG, the captain is going to spray weed killer on her lawn." We anticipated lots of huffiness and hurt feelings all around. I was especially thinking that this would lead to an awkward Spring ladies season, as neither of those two are about to quit that team.

But gravelly-voiced friend surprised me. T forwarded her reply and it was:

Sorry for the misunderstanding about being able to play together all the time in the ALTA team. You and he will be able to play together some of the time. This week we need him to play line two and he could have been line one this week based on everyone’s availability.

When [husband] and I want to play together we play either T2 or Ultimate. (We get too much time together sometimes ;-)

We want you to play. You come to the practices all the time and that’s why you are in the line-up. We understand if you don’t want to continue playing, though. ;-( Let me know.

Tennis Captain has obviously imbibed the lesson that A Soft Answer Turneth Away Wrath. I have not been giving her enough credit. I was impressed that she didn't rise to the bitchy bait. And T forwarded me her reply and said something like, "Well! Okay then!"

And for me this is just a continuing exploration of how, as I get older, if I basically like a person and think she's decent, I'm willing to put up with some of her shit and it's no big deal. Especially a casual friend who doesn't live under my roof. Both these girls have had instances of Imperfect Conduct, and so have I. Yet I still enjoy moving in their circles. So whatever, here's to bitching out sometimes.

The email I sent to Pretty Neighbor about this was titled OMG TENNIS DRAMAZ!!!!1

We are enjoying ourselves here in the burbs.
xo
b

PS: Book club is next week. Yes!

Somebody Better Undeck Some Halls

2012-01-02T14:19:00.000-05:00

And I guess it will be me. We got back home last night from our holiday travels and today I'm staring Real Life square in the face. Unflinching! Being home will be good for my continuing plan to eat sensibly and healthily, as ham and frosting should not be the base of one's food pyramid.

The kids don't go back to school until Thursday, which is nice. Laura is making use of the last few days of vacation. This afternoon, she has rehearsed her talent show number with one friend and is now ice skating with another. Hank and I are about to play with his new Legos. I'm going to try to play with him at the same time that I clear the dining room table of Christmas decorations.

All that stuff will be put away today.

Speaking of which, did I ever show you my Marimekko panels after I got them hung in the dining room? I love how they look in there. My mom and dad helped me get them placed right, and it was like taking the math portion of the GRE. We didn't have any fancy lasers or picture hanging tools like that though. Have we already had this conversation?

So today needs to be spent tidying and regrouping and other acts of domestic administration. Are your kids still out of school?

I leave you with a brief video of Hank and Matt's stunt from the weekend.

xoxo
b

Oh Won't You Choo Choo Me Home

2011-12-31T19:04:00.001-05:00

We are in Chattanooga. How the heck are you? I have been hounded in three states about not blogging the last week, but since one of my Rules for Ladies is Never Apologize, Never Explain, I will just say: Hello and Merry Christmas! It is wonderful to see you. You look swell. Yes, those are cake crumbs on my face.

(My mother-in-law's dear friend brought a rum cake over to the house yesterday. Today when I thanked her and complimented her on its deliciousness, she said, "Oh, but you know what? I was out of rum when I made that rum cake so I used a lot of really good bourbon." That works.)

Today that friend and my mother-in-law Betty and a third friend hosted a ladies lunch downtown for everyone to meet my sister-in-law Robin. She's been in the family for two years now, but she's never visited Chattanooga, so this calls for a lunch. It was at the same south side restaurant where I had a bridal luncheon, 99 years ago. And today I was there with Laura, who was not even thought of on that long-ago afternoon. Time, it flies for real.

Blurry but happy.

In other Chattanews, Matt's mom put a new bed in a basement bedroom, so the sleeping situation described in this post is no more. Never say that this blog lacks influence.

It's New Year's Eve! What are you doing tonight? Matt and I went out last night with some friends, and found a place that served really cute drinks with hard-to-find liqueurs in them. This bar was in an old building that had been a bombed-out crack house when we used to live here. We sat on industrial-chic stools that I loved but which hurt Matt's behiney, and we were beautifully lit from below by a glowing tabletop. So that was a lot. Tonight we are going to stay in with his brothers and Robin and play Dominion or Ticket to Ride.

2011 was great--I really can't complain, so if 2012 could just keep it steady, that would be fine with me. Happy New Year from the Sub Mat family. I hope you have a sweet, cozy, or thrilling night with people you like and even love.

Dear Santa, Please See Attached

2011-12-22T13:29:00.001-05:00

Weeks ago, probably back in October, Laura took me by the arm and ushered me into the office. She pulled out the desk chair for me and seated me in front of the computer. After some lighting adjustments, she stood behind me in the corner of the room.

Then, as she used the wireless mouse to fire up Power Point from across the room, I realized that instead of writing a letter to Santa, she had created a multimedia presentation. After a flashy intro slide, it went:

There were snazzy fade in/segue effects between each slide. I murmured appreciatively at the clarity and succinctness of her bullet points. My girl. Then she turned the lights up, and, I kid you not, she served refreshments.

(I couldn't make this child up. She is one of the universe's most extravagant productions.)

She brought in a plate of cookies and a cup of juice for Hank. For me there was coffee.

And darned if she's not getting just about everything she asked for.

A note about the tween gossip magazine. She has no idea what "cheated" means, or I don't think she's put that term together with what she knows about the biological facts of reproduction. I imagine she thinks it means going around town with someone else. And what's funny about these magazines--they don't have any REAL gossip in them, like, you won't read a word about Justin Bieber's paternity suit. It's all about who lost her cat and whose mom was really sick but now she's all better. L-O-L. And I never bought her one of those, but I think various grandmothers have.

I think her last slide means that she is open to receiving things not listed, but that Santa would like to provide on his own initiative if he has any ideas. She's fine with that.

And yes, I guess this is another one of those moments when you don't just suspect but know with certainty that you are raising one of the most indulged creatures in history, ever, but then you kinda just want to admire your handiwork.

A couple of nights ago, at dinner, Laura opened her mouth to muse about what she would do if she won the lottery. Matt and I--we really have been together a long time--interrupted her and said in virtual unison, "You have already won the lottery. You won it before you were born." Then we kept shushing her until she shushed.

Y'all having a busy week? I'm like, eek! Ork! Argle bargle Christmas! Coming closer! Been making candy for the neighbors and trying to remember a bunch of little things. And loving it, loving it all. I agree with my sister, Christmas forever.

Ring ting tingle!
B

That Lock of Hair

2011-12-17T22:02:00.002-05:00

Back last year when I'd started chemotherapy, on the night we cut off most of my hair, I saved a little bit of it. It was my favorite piece, from right in the front. I snipped it off first, saying I'd keep it. Matt questioned me about it at the time. I wish I could remember exactly what he said, but it was something like, "Do you really want to keep that? When enough time has passed for that to be a souvenir, you will have grown new hair." Those weren't quite the words, but that was the gist.

I kept it though. I tucked it in the top of my jewelry box, not in a bag or anything, just lying there. And there it lay. Every day or two, when I lifted up the lid of the box to get a pair of earrings out or something, I would have to poke it aside gently with my fingers so I could find what I needed. After that night, the hair on my head went on and fell right out and then, in time, started growing again, and the seasons went around.

Months turned into a year, and then started rounding on year two, and still that lock of hair was there. A couple of times, I took it out of the box. I would smooth it in my fingers a little and admire its texture and color. I thought, "I need to save this to show my colorist when I get highlights put in my hair again." Then I would remember that my hairstylist has my precise color formula recorded in her little black book, just waiting to be called up. Then I would put the lock of hair back in the jewelry box.

Life continued to happen. I kind of stopped seeing the lock of hair at all. With one hand I would flip up the top of the box, nudge the hair aside, pick up my jewelry, and flick the lid shut again. It grew to be kind of a nuisance having it there, as you can imagine. You need to pick up a pair of little stud earrings and there's, like, some hair in the way.

Just as I ceased really seeing that actual curl of hair, the whole issue of having hair and losing it and regrowing it kind of fell out of my top stories. Like, it wasn't the headline anymore, then it slipped below the fold, then it got buried way, way back on like page E20. Maybe after Lifestyle but before Real Estate. No longer current events, no need to catch anyone up on it.

The other night, at my first book club meeting, there was a girl there who had a kid in the same class as Laura a few years back. We kind of recognized each other, but it took a few minutes to make the connection. She shook her head and said, "Oh, I didn't know it was you! Your hair was really long, right?" I said, "Yes, it was long." She kept on, making a kind of gesture with her hands, as though to indicate big, full hair. She goes, "I mean, it was like, really different!" There was a time in the not even distant past when I would have said, "Yes, I had to have chemotherapy and it all fell out, but it's all fine now," or something like that. But I just repeated, "Yep, it's short now!" And left it there. It is not something I find I need to process in conversation anymore.

This is what I would say to anyone who is facing chemo and the loss of hair, because I know that for many people, this is near the top of the list of their fears. But I would say that, believe it or not, not only will you get through being bald just fine, there will come a day when you don't even really regret that it happened, and you sure won't spend any time thinking about it. That day will come sooner than you think. As hard as it is to imagine when you're just starting down that road, the whole story of going bald and being bald will one day be boring to you. Like, over, done, next topic.

So, that lock of hair. Late last week and into the weekend, Matt was gone to California for work. The day before he was to come back, I wanted to freshen up our little bower for his return, so I decided to clean and organize the bathroom vanity. Because you know how husbands come home from trips and say, "Show me the bathroom sink!" Yeah. I also had a cute pedicure to show him. Like, "Let me see your feet, wife!"

Anyway, I was straightening our stuff and I opened my jewelry box and plucked out the lock of hair. I hadn't really looked at it in a long time, and it just seemed like a relic. Not in the good sense of something precious preserved, but like something that had once seemed important and was now just odd. Is that still lying around? Clutter. I picked up my phone, snapped a picture of it, feeling kind of ridiculous even doing that, and then tucked it down in the bathroom wastebasket.

You always hear personal organization gurus tell you not to hang on to unnecessary things. If it's not useful and it's in the way, get rid of it. If it's sentimental, take a picture of it, then keep the picture and get rid of the thing. So this blog post is my way of doing that.

xoxo
b

Things I've Learned about Making An Omelette

2011-12-12T11:34:00.001-05:00

For the last four months, I've had the same breakfast most days. I'm a big believer in the maxim that you should standardize one of your meals, especially if you are trying to lose weight or monitor your intake. My two-egg and cheese omelette has 220 calories, and it staves off hunger for hours. I reached my goal weight last week (GOOOOAAAAL!), but I'm still eating the same things, pretty much. Now I'm making this breakfast for Matt every day, and all modesty aside, I have gotten really good at it.

The Lord laid it on my heart to tell you this. Honestly, I was just now standing in my kitchen, and I thought, "I need to speak to my people of these things." Now that I remember, my dad tells a story of the only time he thinks God spoke to him, and it was to tell him to get my mom to eat a good breakfast every day. For real.

So:

1) Use a small pan. I have some kind of "green" nonstick pan. I hope this means that the nonstick coating isn't killing us.

2) I put a little olive oil, like not even a teaspoon, in the pan first.

3) Let the pan get hot before pouring your beaten eggs in. I did this wrong for about two months and the whole mess stuck like crazy. Hot pan.

4) Use a soft silicone spatula to nudge the cooked edges in and let the runny egg take its place.

5) Add your sprinkling of cheese to one half of the omelette, or a little chopped tomato if you go that way.

6) Use your soft spatula to fold the omelette over, lightly and gently, like you're covering up a baby.

Enjoy in health.

I had some other post for you but OBVIOUSLY this is more important, as it concerns eggs and cheese.

Happy Monday.

More Gravy Than Grave

2011-12-07T01:41:00.000-05:00

This happened tonight: Laura as Jacob Marley in the school production of A Christmas Carol. I don't know if anyone has ever played the role with more relish. Certainly no ten year-old girl has. Her Marley was just a little too happy to be wearing the chains he forged in life, and she brought a refreshingly brisk impatience to her exchange with Scrooge. Like, "Okay, dude, lemme break it down for you. You're gonna be visited by three ghosts. No, three besides me. Try to stop talking for a second. This is important." She speaks well, though. And of course I thought she was the best one, NATURALLY.

The whole performance made me think of this David Sedaris piece from Holidays on Ice.

Although the program listed no director, the apathetic staging suggested the limp, partially paralyzed hand of Sister Mary Elizabeth Bronson, who should have been excommunicated after last season's disastrous Thanksgiving program.

and

Once again, the sadists at the Jane Snow-Hernandez Middle School have taken up their burning pokers in an attempt to prod A Christmas Carol into some form of submission. I might have overlooked the shoddy production values and dry, leaden pacing, but these are sixth-graders we're talking about and they should have known better.

Laura asked us what our favorite part of the play was, and I told her it was when she first said, "SCROOGE!" from offstage. It was startling! And then she was clinking her chains. Jacob Marley gets a fine entrance.

She wore a pirate shirt from my old Halloween costume, a Mrs. Claus wig we bought at Party City today, and some dog chain my dad procured from the hardware store. She also gave great thought to the single, torn sock she wore. She wondered whether to rip the toe entirely off or leave it dangling. She decided that partially attached was more suitable to her vision of the character.

The girl doesn't have a nervous bone in her body. After the curtain calls, another mom came up to me and said, "If you could just get the child out of her shell a little." And Matt was like, "She's related to me how?"

Hank needed to tell how, at school today, they acted out the first Christmas in Chapel, and he got to be one of the Wise Men, the one with the gold, and there was no gold in the box but they pretended, and he got to wear a purple shirt and a purple sash, and it was very exciting because another Wise Man was the darling Annabelle, whom he loves.

So neither child is hiding any lights under bushels.

I hope you are all feeling festive out there.

That Is Not Festive

2011-12-04T14:42:00.000-05:00

Is your community plagued by the scourge of the inflatable Christmas yard decoration? This is my neighbor's house. I drive by several times a day, and Frosty, Santa, and Rudolph are ALWAYS lying down on the job. Rudolph looks like he just slipped in a puddle of his own Christmas cheer.

At least at night they're inflated. During the daytime, they lie there as wrinkled shells of themselves, looking for all the world like giant, discarded Christmas condoms. I kind of wish our HOA would institute a brutal crackdown. Eyesore! Litter!

Yes, I need to sip some wassail and chill.

I do think those inflatable things can be cute, maybe, if they're inflated. Eh, you know what, I was going to try to say something conciliatory so as not to alienate anyone, but we can just leave it with, inflatables are not to my taste.

Now, do we possess an adorable light-up tinsel Rudolph and tinsel penguin that we will be placing on our front porch tonight? Affirmative. So it's not all small white lights and fresh garlands from the Maine woods up in here. Heh.

We're going to get our Christmas tree today. Yay! I just like having a huge tree in the house. If it could stay there all year, that would be great. As it is, I tend to leave it up long enough to honor Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. My mother-in-law once redecorated hers with red bows and hearts for Valentines Day.

I also love all of your comments on my previous post. Matt and I have been reading them and exclaiming over them. Just, wow. Here's to some peace of mind and better days for those who need some.

Oh, hey, I have a nice Christmas playlist that I made, over on Spotify. If you have Spotify, you can click here I think to listen? I spent a ridiculous amount of time putting this together. Back in September. I'm all about readiness.

Smacks,
B

Let's Name Numbers

2011-11-30T23:59:00.005-05:00

Well, hey there, you who have been so kind as to come by and read me all month. This was fun! And here's a thing: today was not only the last day of my Month-Long Blogging Festival, it was the last day of the six months that I have had no health insurance, the six months that I needed to have no health insurance in order to be eligible for the federal government's Pre-Existing Condition Insurance Plan.

Made it! Exhalation.

I feel like there are too few people here in the US who are willing to lay bare the details of this issue and how it actually works out in their lives. It is partly from a sense of shame, I think, or something that has us convinced that our insurance status and our insurability is a personal, private problem and not a social, structural one. That if you don't have insurance, you have failed. But hi, have we met? I'm willing to share, I certainly don't think Matt and I have failed, and I thought the details might be of interest to somebody.

At the beginning of 2009, Matt got some money from the sale of another company he'd worked for, and was able to leave the job he had here in Atlanta and start his own game company. We continued our family group medical and dental coverage through COBRA. For those who don't know, having COBRA coverage is like still being a member of your employer's group plan, only you pay the premium yourself, with no employer contribution. That cost $1100 a month for the four of us and lasted for eighteen months. Somewhere around the thirteenth month of that coverage, I got diagnosed with breast cancer and started the full ride of surgery and chemotherapy, paid for by insurance.

As the summer of 2010 wore on, and I finished my chemotherapy, we started to work on what to do about insurance when our COBRA ran out. I discovered that if Matt were to divorce me, it would extend my coverage another eighteen months. Yet we decided to stay married. He and his business partner got an insurance broker and shopped for small group plans to cover themselves, the kids, and any future employees. I stayed out of their group because I knew that, as small as the group was, with my medical history they would either be denied outright by the underwriters, or would be charged a jacked-up premium.

I figured that I was on my own, insurance-wise. I wanted to avoid the individual market like the plague, as it is not subject to even the meager regulations of group healthcare. (Of course, what I now know is that with a cancer diagnosis in my medical history, I am uninsurable on the individual market, for any amount of money.) Then I discovered HIPAA, the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act of 1996.

Listen, 'cause you might need to know this, and nobody makes this info easy to find. What HIPAA meant in my case was that, because I had: a) been covered continuously for at least the previous 18 months, and; b) been last covered by an employer's group plan; and c) taken their COBRA coverage for as long as permitted, I was entitled to purchase an individual policy from the company who had been insuring me, as long as I converted to the individual policy within 63 days.

Do you get that? This is huge. If you are reaching the end of your COBRA coverage, your health insurer (or in some cases, the state you live in) is legally required to convert your group policy to an individual policy. And the premium they can charge you has some slight legal restriction upon it, it isn't completely unregulated like the pure individual market. So if you can pay, you will not lose your coverage.

BUT, and this is a big but, if you have anything wrong with you at all, they will not tell you about this HIPAA conversion, and when you call and ask about it, they will know nothing about it. That last part is not an act; the frontline customer service people will not know anything about this. If you are lucky, you may reach a department manager who might know what you're talking about, but they almost never deal with this, it seems. I understood why when I saw their rate sheet.

Lemme back up and tell you that the first time I called the insurance company and said I wanted to see about converting my COBRA into an individual policy, they said, "Okay, we'll send a conversion packet out to you!"

But they did not do that. Not the first through fifth times I called. Reader, I don't even remember the details of all the ways I escalated this. I do know that I emerged from all of it as some kind of hardy swashbuckler. At one point I got to someone semi-knowledgeable and she said, "Oh, the state of Georgia will handle your conversion policy," and I had to explain that yes, Georgia will do that if your previous employer group's benefits were self-funded. If not, as in our case, the conversion policy comes from the company that provided the group coverage. I had already talked to the state insurance commissioner's office, and I told the company this. They were like, OH, okay, right, got it!

What I thought, over and over again, was, "What do dumb people do?" Seriously, what if you don't have the time, wits, patience, and capacities to deal with this stuff? And I was feeling well. What if you are really suffering and vulnerable? This goes way, way beyond being your own advocate, like we're always told to do. I have asked that exact question, what do dumb people do, to a few different medical professionals. They all say some variation of, "It is a catastrophe and they die."

Okay, so finally, I extracted a heavily photocopied rate sheet for various individual coverage scenarios. Matt took one look at it and said, "Oh, these are the 'fuck you' prices." And they were. To continue our group coverage for the four of us would have cost over $3000 a month. It was clear, patently clear, that they don't expect anyone to buy these plans. No way. But with Matt and the kids safely enrolled in his company's new small-group policy, I ran my finger down the page and found an single individual option for just me. It cost $1368 a month, and I signed up.

During that period, I had radiation therapy and reconstructive surgery. We paid that premium until this summer, when I got notice that at my one-year coverage anniversary, it would go up to $1800 or so. If it continued. I had the feeling that they were constantly looking for a way to rescind the policy and end my coverage. And that $1300 a month, on top of everything else, was really hurting us.

I just thought, "How are people doing this?" I mean, Matt and I were not improvident, we were not reckless. One or both of us has always worked, and we have had continuous insurance coverage our entire lives. We are thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent. Also, and I'm no Max Weber, but by most any definition, we find ourselves in the upper middle class, and were lucky enough to afford the higher and higher rates that we had to pay to get this far. And yet, even though I don't think we made any "bad lifestyle choices," this situation was a total colossal fucking nightmare. I mean over and above the nightmare of life-threatening illness. So how are people doing this?

I've read that half of all Americans have what are considered pre-existing conditions that affect their insurability.

Around that time, my mother showed me an article about the PCIP part of the health reform act. I had looked at it before and noted that one of its eligibility requirements is that you have been uninsured for six months prior to enrollment. That always seemed wrong and unworkable to me. But I'd reached a point where my active treatment was over and my health was good. And I didn't know what else to do. I might have tried to get into Matt's small group plan, but even if I could have been added to it without waiting for open enrollment period, I thought that when their open enrollment came around, my medical history would swamp their little boat, and I didn't want to imperil the coverage they had found for their families.

So I stopped paying my continuation premium. I talked to Matt about it. I worried and sweated over it. Then I was like, well, I'm doing this. I checked to be sure there was a medical rider on our car insurance. Then I tried to stay healthy. I thought if I broke an ankle or something, if it amounted to less than the premiums would have been, we were ahead. And if the worst happened and my cancer came back, well, I thought, that's what bankruptcy is for.

And so far, knocking wood, nothing bad has happened.

So now I can apply to be covered in the pre-existing condition insurance pool in my state, and it will cost $264 a month for the standard plan or $356 for the extended plan. These PCIP pools are a temporary measure, designed to bridge the gap between now and 2014 with the health care exchanges are supposed to come into being. Don't know how that's gonna work.

Whew. Did anyone actually read this? That's my story. I don't actually know what to say by way of closure. I hope there was some helpful info in here if you are in a position to need it.

Love you guys,
b

Leverage, Baby

2011-11-29T22:53:00.000-05:00

Two days ago, the garbage disposal in my sink made a terrible noise and stopped working. It did the humming thing but nothing was moving. I figured something was stuck in it, so I did the thing they tell you not to do: I flipped off the switch, put on a rubber glove, and put my hand down in there. I did this quickly, before two things could happen: 1) Matt could come into the room and yell at me for doing it--I mean, he is really, really against putting your hand in the garbage disposal, I've seen homeboy turn it off at the circuit box; 2) Poltergeists could possess the electrical wires in our house and turn on the disposal with my hand in it like they did in that movie Amityville Horror 4: The Evil Escapes.

So neither of those things happened and I got my hand down there and fished up some glass beads, big ones, like the size of mini marshmallows. They were the remains of a little glass Santa bracelet Laura had. How they got down the drain, I don't know, except that I do know because we keep so much crap on the counter above the sink, naturally stuff gets knocked in. I try to tidy that area, but everything that comes into the house lands there. It is a very bad system.

So some of the beads were whole and some were broken, and I was not holding enough beads to reconstitute the bracelet, yet I couldn't feel any more down where the impellers are. I withdrew to think and study.

During this time of contemplation, I half-heartedly stuck a broom handle down there for some reason. And I complained to Matt a lot. He said that he would look at it later.

I decided to see what the internets knew. I found this beautifully simple and helpful walkthrough. With its help, I realized that the flywheel wasn't turning, though the motor was getting power, which must mean that it was still obstructed by a bead stuck somewhere. The guide instructed me to manually turn the flywheel to dislodge the obstruction, which can be done from above (the broom handle method) or by sticking a wrench in the little wrench hole on the bottom of the unit. What stopped me from carrying out this plan was that the guide says, "Use the wrench that came with your disposal." I was like, huh? We don't got that wrench. And I'm not wise enough in the ways of wrenches to know an alternative.

Some time later, I said to Matt, "Do you have an offset wrench? We need to, like, stick a wrench in this little hole down here." (By now I'm having flashbacks to our ball cock conversation. Why does this stuff always happen in the kitchen?) Matt's like, "Wrench?" And I'm like, uh huh, and he's like, figure out what kind of tool I need and I'll take care of it.

That had me stumped. I mean, I had just very clearly with my mouth formed the word "wrench." I don't really know where to go from there. He went downstairs to work and I continued to live with the nonfunctioning sink with the tiny puddle of muck in it. This went on for another full 24 hours.

But Reader, just like the young sapling in winter, during this period of latency, I was gathering strength and summoning my internal resources for the surge of power--the new world that was to be born.

Also during that time, I drank a cup of coffee with Kahlua in it at 11pm and slept like CRAP last night. Smart women, foolish choices. That threw off my whole morning and made me feel like butt and I didn't work out with my neighbor today, and it rained a bunch and I made two separate trips over to the pool/dojo, arriving home at 8pm to a sink with a tiny puddle of muck in it. Somehow that damn thing was not fixing itself.

Oh my God, there has never been a longer story of small appliance repair! I am proud.

While Matt was up starting the kid-bedtime process, I stood in the kitchen and made a small keening noise. I groped the disposal with the rubber glove some more and pulled out another half bead. Then my eyes alit on a plastic bag of odds and ends Matt had used to take apart a bed in Chattanooga. 'Nother story. I looked into the bag and there was a little pouch of something called "hex keys." Reader, here was something familiar! They looked like the little wrenches that come with Ikea products, ie, the only wrenches I've ever used. I wiggled my fingers into the pouch and picked out the chunkiest wrench.

Sitting on the floor in front of the sink, I tried the wrench in the little hole. It seemed to fit. The guide had said that the flywheel will be hard to turn but then, when the blockage is moved, it will turn freely. And that's what happened. First the thing wouldn't turn, and then it made a terrible noise, like two pieces of metal with bits of broken glass between them. I got it turning easily.

Then, checking to see that the little red reset button was pushed in, I stood up and turned on the switch. But I didn't just flip it on and leave it! No, you gotta pulse it like a blender. On and off, on and off, while water runs. At first the disposal was making the awful grinding noise, but it was turning. So I kept pulsing until I was brave enough to leave it running. And it cleared the junk away and sounded normal.

I whooped. Then I hollered, "Who just fixed the garbage disposal? ME. WITH A WRENCH. I am TAKING BACK THE NIGHT!" And I wasn't sure Matt had heard me, so I went upstairs and found him to tell him face to face. Then I tweeted it and then I put it on facebook. I almost texted my parents. And now I have blogged it. Hear me roar.

But it's funny, seriously, I studied the little diagram of the parts of a garbage disposal, and now it is in my head and it is mine. What was an opaque black box to me is now part of the mapped territory, and it will not trouble me again. Knowledge TRULY IS POWER, they were not kidding. Imagine if you could come to grok the workings of your car that way! Or something else hard! And there is information out there to help us learn! We have only to seize it!

Seize it!

(Jiggle it.)

Teach a man to fish!

Peace out,
B

You Mean, Like, Fudge?

2011-11-28T20:30:00.004-05:00

One day before Thanksgiving, I pulled up in the preschool car line to get Hank. His teacher helped him into the car. Then she said, "Becky, I told Hank I would speak to you about this when it happened the third time. Hank has been using potty words."

I said, "Oh, he has?" I was Very Serious.

She said, "Yes, today he said the f-word."

I don't know what my face looked like, but I went, "He said WHAT?"

She hastened to reassure me. "No, no, not that one, the other f-word."

The other f-word?

???

I'm sure I looked as blank as a cloudless winter sky. She was very solemn. I waited. Then she explained, "The word for passing gas."

Oh, FART. Hank said fart.

You know, fart. The "f-word."

I just don't even. I began laughing and have never stopped. I laugh in my sleep and even while eating.

But what I said was, "Oh, got it. Okay, thank you Miss L, we will talk about it."

Hank was sinking further and further into his seat while this conference took place. On the way home I talked to him about controlling his words, that he knows the right way to talk and he has better manners than that, that when he acts rude, it is embarrassing to both of us, etc.

The thing is, right after she said, "Hank said the f-word," I thought that it was perfectly possible he had finally said "fuck" in his classroom. He's never said that at home, but he has certainly heard this word in his lifetime. And we all enjoy that CeeLo Green song. I finally had to download the bowdlerized version because the kids liked the song so much and always wanted to sing it. I have long held the position that I don't really care what words are in songs the kids like, they're just words, we need not act like they have magic evil-summoning powers. But I also don't want to have many car-side conferences about my children's vocabulary.

(Fart is a really crude word. I would secretly rather he'd said fuck. At least that word has a tradition.)

Hank and I agreed that this unpleasantness would remain between the two of us. But of course when he wasn't around, I told Matt. We enjoyed the incident even more in the telling of it. Matt was like, "But her calling that the 'f-word' is the most adorable thing that has ever happened!" I was surprised he didn't get in the car, drive back to the school, and hug her neck. I mean, honestly.

Let's watch our language out there.

I Tried a New Workout DVD Today

2011-11-27T23:59:00.001-05:00

I have had this DVD lying around for actual years, and I never even put it in the player until today. It's the Tracey Anderson Method Mat Workout. Have you heard of this girl? She is, like, a fitness guru to the stars. I think saw her on Oprah one time with Gwyneth Paltrow. Since I pretty much do everything that Gwyneth Paltrow tells me to do, I ordered the DVD.

I just went to Amazon to look up the link for y'all, and I see that not only is the DVD no longer in print, Amazon will give me $14 if I trade it in. I am SURE that is more than I paid for it in the first place. And moreover, this is who I am: I will buy a workout video and keep it, untried, until it is a valuable collector's item, and then, only then, I will offer you a review of it.

I'm not sure how to describe this workout, exactly. It's not a full cardio-and-weight interval workout like my beloved Jillian Michaels regimen. It works on the large muscles in your hips and booty, then your upper arms and shoulders, and then your abs. For the first section, you stand holding on to a chair and do all kinds of leg lifts. In fact, I wish Tracey had mentioned that we'd need a chair for part of the workout, because I did the warm up and then she was like, "Now you need a chair for balance," and I had to go to the dining room and bring back a chair, which got me all out of my zone, you know. So she takes you through all these different leg movements, which are great, because the leg you're lifting is working, and the leg you're standing on is working too. I was starting to sweat during this part, even though it's hardly high-speed or seemingly very intense.

Then she says you're going to do some standing ab work, but what happens is that Tracey Anderson does a sexy little dance while you try to figure out exactly what's going on with her body. I think it is some kind of rib isolation move, but she doesn't really explain it much. So I just boogied very, very awkwardly while she got her groove on. I think when I do the workout again, I'll substitute a different move.

Then she does this arm section. OMGFG SHAZBOT!!!1! I thought, no problem. She's not even holding weights, she's just standing there waving her arms in tiny little circles, like you would if you were casting spells with two magic wands simultaneously. So I'm doing it along with her, la la la, and then it feels like my arms are going to just snap off and fall to the floor. My shoulders felt like they were on fire. And she just kept on going, with her little gyrations and her cutesy pouty face. I mean, how long would you think you could hold your arms up? It shouldn't be a problem, right? But if I'm sore tomorrow, it is going to be from that. GEEZ.

Then we got down on our mat and did a bunch more leg lifting, which was mostly manageable until there was this crazy part where we're lying on our stomachs, Tracey and me, and we've got our knees bent and our heels together, and we're supposed to crunch our backs and booties and lift our legs off the mat, which is awesome for you but I feel like I'm going to the light. And I'm all, "HALP!" and she's like, "Oh yes, ahhh!"

This is where it helps to note that this is not a beginner's workout, I don't think. Or you can start it if you're new to working out, but there are large parts where you're not going to be able to approximate what is on the screen. I feel that I've gotten to where I can do 90% of this Tracey Anderson thing only after months of working out pretty regularly. Yet she doesn't say much about the difficulty level of what you're doing or the strength that it takes. For a real, true beginner, I think it could be discouraging.

Then there's a more traditional ab section on the floor, where you are doing crunches, but your legs are straight. Then she's like, "Let's cool down," and I'm like, "We've been at this for at least 45 minutes, I don't have time for a cool down. My children are hungry."

To sum up:

Some of the moves in this are probably very effective. One reviewer on Amazon said, "I saw great results. Especially in the butt area." Yes, I would say that's right.

This is a workout that your significant other will want to watch you do.

She is not the clearest at explaining what the exact form is, but the camera is on her the whole time, so you can just watch her and figure it out.

It is no substitute for a workout that actually gets your heart rate way up while working those large muscle groups, but I could see doing it a few times a week in addition to my Jillian ripping/shredding. It's different.

I've come to the conclusion that any workout works if you do it.

I am 1% more like Gwyneth now. And Madonna. Girls, call me.

That was one thing I did today. It's my parents' 43rd wedding anniversary. Also our garbage disposal stopped working. That was also a workout, though a way less sexy-looking one, unless you're into the big yellow gloves. LOLZ forever.

Happy Monday, y'all.

En famille

2011-11-26T23:59:00.001-05:00

A few snaps from Thanksgiving Day.

Hank showing Uncle Larry his scrapbook.

You know she's engrossed when she doesn't look at the camera.

Aunt Sande

Matt and Betty

Betty gave me a piece of Roseville for an early birthday.

Betty and Andy

Are you still afield or are you back in place? We got home tonight, pleasantly surprised by the not-crazy traffic. Though I do think the billboards on I-75 between Chattanooga and Atlanta are some of the tackiest in the world. Besides advertisements for various massages, "massage services," and massage-oriented truck stops, one giant billboard simply said, "Hell is real!" against a background of flames. Uh, thanks for that important message.

I loved seeing the 'Nooga folks, but I'm glad we're back tonight. I need a day to do laundry and gear up for a busy week. Or, alternately, I need a day to ignore laundry and watch tennis. Whichevah.

I hope you have a renewing Sunday. Hell is real!

No it's not.

xoxo
b

Silver Birds

2011-11-25T23:59:00.002-05:00

Here are the birds, newly silvered and at home in Matt's mom's house. I like how they turned out. Silvery! Hank helped me paint them (in a well-ventilated area). We also painted a leaf wreath, an ugly pitcher from Michael's, and the toes of Hank's crocs. The shoes just got a light misting though.

Today was another quiet day on Signal Mountain. The weather seems lodged in some perpetual mid-October of sun and mildness. Matt and I played a set of tennis back behind the country club. The kids helped decorate Betty's Christmas tree. We were remarking that people seem to gravitate toward the same shape of Christmas tree every year. Don't you think? Betty likes the round fat variety and I like the tall conical ones.

Matt and I were all set for a night out on the town, then we got in the car and remembered that we don't need to spend money on a night on the town at this moment. Adulthood is dumb, gah. So we got out of the car and came back inside. The kids were glad to see us back so soon. Then I put on corduroys, watched The Devil Wears Prada, drank bottles of fizzy water, and threw my empties in the corner.

Not the bottle-throwing part.

This has become one of those blogs where I tell you what I did every day.

We did not shop. Did you? I was thinking about the time my dad accidentally went shopping on Black Friday.

We'll be back home in the ATL tomorrow evening. Signing off, stay sweet!

Bed Geometry

2011-11-24T23:54:00.003-05:00

Happy Thanksgiving to you Americans! The rest of you, why are you so ungrateful?

I kid. I hope you had a nice day wherever you are.

That picture up there, which I know you're thinking was surely done by a professional graphic designer, was actually created by me to illustrate for you the sleeping situation here in Matt's childhood home. He just isn't compatible with a foot board. It's a good thing that I am comfortable sleeping with my knees bent all night long, though sometimes I do stretch my legs out and entangle them with his feet, or nudge him to turn over and bend his knees. And yet, no worries, we make it work. See, our stick figures are smiling.

We slept in and Matt's mom got up with the kids. I knew they were watching the Macy's parade on TV when I heard Hank yell, "WHOA, THAT IS SNOOPY!" I don't know if he'd ever seen it before.

Then I got out of bed to drink a cup of coffee and peel and slice sweet potatoes. While doing that I snacked on homemade pimento cheese spread. Matt's brother came in with these little bruschettas topped with fig preserves, pear slices, bacon, and muenster cheese. Dear sweet Moses. Then before long, it was mimosa time while the meal came together.

We had:

turkey
green beans
spicy creamed spinach
sweet potato-cauliflower au gratin
mashed potatoes
dressing, with oysters and without
giblet gravy
grape salad
rolls
a pecan pie and a pumpkin pie

It was all delicious and I ate some of everything. Then we lounged around the living room and visited with Matt's aunt and uncle, who had brought the kids early Christmas presents. Laura opened and then read the entire new Wimpy Kid book in the blink of an eye. Hank put together a Lego alien space craft. I sat in a wing chair and murmured and sipped coffee. I may have unbuttoned my jeans, discreetly.

Then we played Ticket to Ride, then we watched some of Elf, then the kids went to bed. Then I blogged. Tomorrow we will surely be more active, but it was a truly lovely and classically Thanksgiving-y day.

Wishing you a cozy night with your sweetie.
xoxo
B

Unstructured

2011-11-23T23:59:00.001-05:00

Tonight we're in the house Matt grew up in on Signal Mountain, in Chattanooga. We lived in this town for the first five years of our marriage, and I still love it, even though that time feels like several chapters ago. I'd live in Chattanooga again in a minute. Every time we come to Signal Mountain, I make Matt drive down this one street so I can see if my dream house is for sale. It looks kind of like a big green barn. Back years ago, before we left to live in California, it was for sale. And I remember that the price was $340,000, and I thought, "Well just ask for the moon, why doncha? As though anyone could afford that!"

I don't know if it is still my dream house, but it was for a long while. Different dreams for different times.

We have no fixed plans for the next few days, except tomorrow is starting with mimosas in the kitchen, and I have to throw together that grape salad that I had at the neighborhood luncheon where I heard that my friend uses face cream made of foreskins. I am also making sweet potato-cauliflower au gratin.

Laura's been out of school all week, and her swimming is on break, so I've loved having unstructured and relaxed time with the kids. Laura's gotten into watching tennis with me, because this week is the ATP World Tour finals in London. We have various crushes and antipathies for the top players, and we giggle and moon over them. Other than that and blogging and exercising, I have not been up to much.

One year ago exactly, I brought you this post on grampoo. It is still helpful as many of us are traveling away from home.

Have a nice day tomorrow! I will be checking in, obvs.
Smooch.

My Newest Oldest Thing

2011-11-22T23:42:00.002-05:00

My great grandmother's table.

My dad and my Uncle John have taken to making furniture in my uncle's backyard workshop. Or I think they are mostly chatting and drinking beer back there, and sometimes, incidentally, a piece of furniture is produced. They call their venture Mo Goodnuff, Inc, and have gone to great lengths to create promotional materials and an intricate and colorful biography for their founder and guiding figure, that tower of adequacy, Mo Goodnuff.

If you think those two have too much time on their hands, shhh! They give me things!

So the other day I mentioned that I wanted a work table for my office, and Dad pulled his granny's old table out of the garage. It had been gathering dust out there my entire life. The last time I remember seeing it actually being used in our house, I was three or four years old.

Before.

It was in rough shape. The top is over a hundred years old, but the legs, Dad said, are only fifty years old or so. We agreed they should be painted. I love that it isn't a "farmhouse style" table, it is a farmhouse table. His people were farmers and this was their table.

Dad asked what color I thought for the legs and apron, and I said, "Get mom to pick out an antique gray." Some days went by. Then I got a text message with that top picture attached. "I ignored your color preference," it said. "If you don't like it, we'll keep it."

Isn't that service with a smile? He should really be a high-priced design consultant.

But I love the blue! Mom picked two colors from the Eddie Bauer paint line, Ballard Blue and Antique Blue.

Authentically distressed.

I think they just cleaned and polyurethaned the table top, and it came back to life. The planks are cupped, but as Dad said, none of us will look perfect at 110.

I'm thrilled to have it. I just hope Mo Goodnuff delivers for free. From Florida.

Y'all cookin' today?

This Book Club Might Be A Tiny Bit Weird

2011-11-21T23:59:00.003-05:00

There was no wine there, and it could have used some.

Earlier today I got an email addressed to the whole book club distribution list, about twenty people. It was from this lady whom I've never met or heard of, and it started out as just a note to let everyone know she wouldn't be at the meeting tonight. Even early in the message, though, I thought we might be riding a Crazy Train, because her explanation for missing the meeting was way too detailed. It's what we call a soft sign.

The hard sign came in the next paragraph, which read:

On a side note: I'm sure everyone is wondering what happened at my daughter and son in law's home [in our neighborhood] last Monday and I'm aware that someone on [street] is causing alot of issues trying to find out. Please know that none of the neighbors nor their children were in any danger, we were very concerned for my son in law and fortunately everything has turned out well. All I ask is that if you know someone is asking please ask them to respect my family's privacy as I know you all will.

Um...do what now?

Hi Neighbor! Of what are you talking? I HAVE NOT THE PLEASURE OF UNDERSTANDING YOU.

The next message in my inbox was from Pretty Neighbor, forwarding me the above message with just a single comment: Why the face? I was all, it's like they WANT me to blog about them.

I'll just say that if her goal was for everyone to respect her family's privacy, this was an odd move, as it immediately caused a dozen people to leap onto the phone trying to scare up some information. I texted my tennis friend T, because she usually knows everything, and all she had was that there were five or six police cars outside this family's house on the day in question, and the wife of the house sitting cross-legged in the street. Pretty Neighbor's theory was Suburban Meth Lab, my theory tends toward Son-in-Law having a psychotic episode. Her saying that the neighbors weren't in any danger makes me think there was a gun involved. It seems clear that there is some episode of human pain and bad stuff behind this, but the way she aired it in this email is ridiculous.

When we got to book club, T opened with, "So what's up with that email?" Nobody had any hard intel, but EVERYONE said, "Why did she send that? None of us knew anything had happened OR were prying into it." Buzz buzz! But I bet they will do some prying now. If I were that woman's daughter (or son-in-law), I would be mortified.

Then there was, like, a book that we discussed, kind of. One of the organizers read aloud some of the questions in the "Readers' Guide" at the end of the paperback edition and people responded to them. I came clean right up front that I'd only read 106 pages of the book and I just couldn't get into it. This didn't seem to be a criterion for exclusion from the meeting. One girl said, "I know we've had meetings where nobody had finished the book." LOL. It sounded like the last half of Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet might have been better, though. Sometimes in the discussion there were odd detours into unrelated subjects, but I think this is par for the book club course? It was fine.

I was glad Pretty Neighbor had finished the book, or we would have looked like assholes.

They were all nice ladies, even and especially the two older ladies who could not return my or Pretty Neighbor's calls for months. I enjoyed meeting them, and I enjoyed eating the snacks. Next month is The Red Queen, by that lady who has written a separate novel about every single Tudor, Lancaster, and York, or that's how it seems. Then, for January, I got them to agree to Serena, by Ron Rash. Yay!

Yes y'all, at my first book club meeting, I got a book on the schedule. Thug life.

xoxo
Me

Well Then Come Right In

2011-11-20T23:59:00.001-05:00

This evening at 5:55, Laura was at her friend's for a sleepover (she has the whole week off from school), Matt was in the basement working, Hank was finishing his first supper in the dining room, and I was walking in that mom circuit from the kitchen to the laundry room to the living room to the dining room. Do you have that circle in your house? I've worn a groove.

The doorbell rang. I opened it to see my two little foster children from two houses over, Conspiracy Guy's daughters. I greeted them. They never say anything at the door, like "Hello," until they're prompted. They just stand there with faces of mute expectation. After a moment they let it be understood that they wanted to come in and play with Hank.

Now, at 5:55 at my latitude today, it was dark. So I said, "Girls, do your mom and dad know you're here? It's dark, don't they want you at home now?" The little one shook her head. "They said we can stay until 7."

Oh, well that's all right then. Super, if your dad says that you can show up here at dark and stay for an hour, then what concern could I possibly raise?

Hank scrambled down from the bench and led them to the trampoline. After they'd jumped for about ten minutes, they all three filed through the back door, ready to begin the indoor play portion of the visit. I said, "Okay girls, it's nighttime. Time to go home!" And so they did.

(I probably would have let them stay out on the trampoline longer, but lately I have developed an intolerance for seeing able-bodied children sitting around on my furniture.)

Reader, if you had told your child that she could set out at dark to a neighbor's house and stay until 7pm, and then your child was sent home again in ten minutes, would you take any sort of lesson or mental note from that experience? 'Cause these people won't.

Stat Shot: Where Does That Guilty Feeling Come From?

2011-11-19T20:29:00.001-05:00

What's clouding your conscience?

Zip Zip Zip, From Tree to Tree

2011-11-18T23:59:00.002-05:00

Strapped.

Have you ever been on a zip line? Last month, when my sis and her family were visiting from Australia, four of us went zip lining in the Nantahala Gorge.

It is awesome. The first thing that happens is that you drive out into the woods. Seeing as you are already out in the woods, this will be a feat in itself. Then some rustic gentlemen help you don a complicated system of nylon straps. That is a novel experience in itself, potentially worth the price of admission. The gentlemen have names like Tbone, Porkpie, Grizzly, and Chad. One of them, perhaps Chad, will be playing an honest-to-God banjo while this is happening.

I liked the strapping-up part. Any safety fears I had went away when we got all that gear on our bodies. (Amy was still nervous though, I think.) Each strap could hold, like, a school bus, and it just feels pretty secure. And I first thought the helmet was unnecessary, but I can't tell you how many times I went on to conk my head against the cable.

Then we had a brief tutorial in how to start and how to stop. Starting is easy. But here's a fun fact: On a zip line, the brake is your gloved hand pushing down on the top of the cable. I was a little worried that there wasn't more technology involved. Push harder to stop faster. Do not grip the cable, however, as then your body will be traveling, quickly, away from your clenched hand, and your shoulder does not like that. I did that once, ouchy.

I had nervous butterflies for the first zip, but then it felt wonderful, not quite Segway wonderful because nothing in this mortal plain will ever feel that good, but still really good. Amy was a little scarified, so every time they would give us instructions or tell us about a line coming up, one of our guides would look at her and say, "Amy, don't freak out." Old Tbone and/or Chad really had an astute grasp on that girl's personality.

Again, look at her selling it.

It's a great squirrel's eye view of the woods, but one tricky part is when you're out in the canopy and all ten or twelve people must stand on a platform the size of your kitchen table, if your kitchen table had a tree growing up through the middle of it. Your safety line is always clipped to a cable, but if you slipped off the edge, it would be a bruising experience.

40 or 50 feet up.

My Zip Buddy, Brother Dave

Up in the trees.

We did this for almost three hours, but I could have gone on longer. I discovered that by leaning way back in my harness and pulling my knees up, I could go faster, though sometimes this sent me in to slow spins that I could not control. And Amy was like, "How do you do that?" And I'm all, "I'm a natural."

Y'all, if you get a chance to do this, you should. It was great as a way to see the woods, and it was cool to get out and do something new and different with my people. We had lots of adventures that trip, actually. One thing I love about being in the mountains is that the adults get out and play. Aside: One of my favorite mountain memories ever was the time we found some fallen apples and took turns pitching them to each other and whacking them with a bat, just to see who could bust one into the most pieces. Then we went after some old potatoes. Why don't we do stuff like that all the time?

Here's a quick video my brother-in-law Jason took of me on our last zip run, which was about 600 feet. Or was it 600 yards? I dunno, it was really long. Observe my balletic grace. RIGHT?

Zip lining: gentle thrills and a fun time for all.

Love,
Me

A Few Little Projects

2011-11-17T23:59:00.002-05:00

'Tis the season when I want to start spray painting crap. I've blogged about spray painting things white, and I pondered whether to paint my owl lamp (it's in its pristine state as of this writing). This year I did not paint any pumpkins, as I have in the past, so I have an itchy trigger finger. Meet the next victims.

Anyway, this is becoming one of those spray painting blogs, but I can't help it, because I did not dumpster dive these birdies, my mother-in-law brought 'em to my house and said, "Help me figure out what color to spray paint these guys." Then she left them with me so I could study their personalities. What I've decided is that they want to be silver for Christmas.

This might be a good time to review my post from last year, How Tacky Do You Let Yourself Get For The Holidays. Pretty sure we decided that the sky's the limit. So those guys are going to be silver, and this very unremarkable metal wreath I have that doesn't show up against my front door, it's going to be silver too. Anything else that gets in my way?

Silver.

Also around the house, I've been slowly getting my dining room and office together following their repainting. I think that was in September? Geez. But these things need to ripen. I've had a few big fabric panels sitting folded on a shelf, like forever, that I wanted to frame and hang. The other day I finally did. These two are Marimekko, and as you can see they're the same design in different colorways.

Here's a better view of where I'm going to put them, both together on that wall. I wanted a big bold thing going on there, and I think these fit that bill.

After I got them onto the stretchers, I texted my friend David a picture of them and said, "I'm thinking of putting these right next to each other on the same wall. Or have I lost my mind? Talk me down." He said, "In theory, that's nuts. But I'm seeing it. Do it." So I'm going to hang them. I've left them leaning together against the wall so I could try them on, but now I'm ready.

I also framed the fabric I bought at Ikea that time my sister threatened to punch a guy. That's going in my office. I'll show a pic when I get it all together.

If you have a piece of fabric you'd like to make a wall hanging of, it is dead simple. You just need four of those wooden stretcher pieces (they have them at Michael's or art supply stores), an iron, and a staple gun. The trick is figuring out which part of the image to show, and then getting it straight on the stretchers. Then it's easy peasy lemon squeezy.

And if you have any little pieces left over and you don't want to waste them, you could do what my sister did and put them in embroidery hoops. Like so. This is in my sunroom.

I'm going to give this treatment to some old toddler t-shirts and sentimental things of the kids' that I still have. Like, cut out the design and put it in a hoop, then hang it on Hank's wall and leave it there until he goes to college. Then after he drives away, I'll walk into his empty room and sit on his bed. Then my eyes will land on the little embroidery hoop containing a piece of his old "100% Love" shirt, and then I'll have a good soaking cry. So thanks for that, embroidery hoops.

(I should say that my finally getting to the fabric panels was inspired by Aimee and her excellent 30 Days of No Procrastination project. Props to her!)

Y'all got any Holiday craftiness going on?

xo
b

I Mean I Really Love That Thing

2011-11-16T23:30:00.002-05:00

Are you familiar with the Tervis Tumblers? I swear, this is not a paid post but it totally should be, because I have a significant and meaningful Personal Brand Relationship with Tervis Tumblers and I strive to be a Thought Leader in this area. Ooh, and I just saw on that website that the 16 oz. size comes with a handle now!

Okay, so these are these plastic cups that don't sweat, whatever. I have a set of six of them, and they're basically the glasses we use all day long now. Though I have six tumblers, I have only one snap-on travel lid. It is red. And by some unspoken understanding, nobody in the house uses it but me. I make a to-go coffee in the morning to fortify me for the preschool drop-off, I take a glass of water with me to my workout, and I've even been known to take a travel cocktail out of the house in my Tervis tumbler. That travel lid enables a non-stop beverage party.

Yet I only have one. Sometimes I can't immediately lay a hand on it and it takes a moment to find it. When my eyes alight on its red contours, hidden in the top rack of the dishwasher or in a drawer, I feel glad. It is just a piece of plastic, but I feel fondly towards it. That travel lid is my sturdy and good friend.

Twice now, TWICE, I have stood in a store where Tervis travel lids were sold, on the brink of buying another lid. It seems like a smart and prudent idea, in the moment, to double my supply of lids and perhaps avoid the pain of needing it and not having it. The way that parents of babies who use pacifiers strive to distribute NUKs in an even layer all over the house.

But I have picked up the new lid, held it, and put it back on the rack. Twice I have done this. My fear is that, once it is not a unique object that some dedicated portion of my brain keeps track of, but is a duo of identical objects, I won't pay attention to either one and they'll be clutter and I won't have a lid when I want one.

Is this, like, Brain Science? Or just my weirdness? I'm going to say that it is science. Please someone come along with a relevant citation, kthx!

It makes me think of that old nugget about how a man with one watch always knows what time it is, but a man with two watches is never sure. Oh yes, it's exactly the same.

Are there any unique objects in your house that you feel this way about?

My sister's post today is far more interesting and is awesomely about how her brain works. You should really read that post instead of this one.

(Too late, heh.)

Those People Are Not My People

2011-11-15T23:26:00.001-05:00

There is a certain species of parent who seems to crave attention and approval from her child's coaches and teachers. Attention and approval not for her child, even, but for herself.

Have you observed this?

This afternoon at Hank's karate class, I witnessed an especially squirmy sub-type of the attention-hogging parent. I don't even know what to call it. The mom who wants validation of her mothering from the youngish male karate instructor. The mother who wants to have just-us-girls laughs with this dude about the humdrum details of her domestic existence (that's what blogging is for, duh). And this karate teacher is like, a dude's dude, but in that also-great-with-little-kids way, so I could kinda see why she thought he might want to pull up a chair in her kitchenette and listen to how totally bananas everything is at her house right now, how she's just a cute poster kitten on a tree branch Hanging In There, but he does not want to pull up that chair. He does not.

Hank and I were at the dojo early. They like the parents to hang around and watch the class, because sometimes we help hold pads and stuff. I had just come from working out, so I was already parked in a chair having my cool down, and Hank was already in his place sitting on the edge of the mat, when the second mom came in. She was all blustery and hausfrau'd, with an actual red face from blustering around. Like, everything she does is done with maximum effort and you better know it. She made a whole kabuki thing out of finding her son's index card in the little file and all the other pre-class business, talking to herself at normal conversational volume the whole time. The teacher greeted her son, and she took that as an invitation to start talking in his direction. I had not yet tuned in to her actual words, but gradually the tones of their voices made me look up from my ancient Veranda magazine.

Blustery lady was standing at the edge of the mat, and Mr. Karate was standing on the mat facing her, but looking at a spot maybe to one side of her knees. I'm not sure of this guy's age. He could be 28 or he could be 35. It was clear that he'd given her his attention for a moment and was now trying to withdraw it. She said, "As if our lives aren't crazy enough!" I don't know what this was in regards to, but she clearly hoped he'd encourage her to go on. What he did was to look over at the children coming in the door and begin to shift his attention in that direction. I knew before she spoke again that she was going to repeat herself, and she did: "AS IF OUR LIVES AREN'T CRAZY ENOUGH!" At this point I began to feel a painful embarrassment for her, sympathy for him, and just pure pleasure to already be installed in a comfortable chair for this performance. I mean, I don't think I can convey the awkwardness of this.

When she spoke in that heightened tone, he dragged his eyes back to her and made some slight noise of encouragement. She never let him speak a whole word, but took that as her cue to launch into a long brag disguised as exasperation about how her son is now part of some science olympics thing, in which he is going to study rocks. I don't know, but it involves fourteen practices. She kept repeating that, "FOURTEEN practices." The way I have just told it to you is electrifying compared to her narration.

Then, THEN, the teacher, who I know used to be a geologist before he began teaching karate, opens his mouth and says, "I'll bring in some of my nice rock samples for him..." AND SHE DOES NOT LET HIM FINISH. She talked over, sideways, and through him, on and on. All on the theme of gracious sakes, she is the busiest mother in the world! It was so rude. And so BORING. I mean, you would have faked your own death at about nine points in this monologue. And the whole time, her body language was strangely aggressive, she was leaning forward into the mat, his space, and projecting at top volume. Aggressive, but there was a little Kathy-Bates-in-Misery about her too. ODD.

And oddly transfixing. I might have let my mouth fall open a little bit. I know because I saw myself do it in the giant entire-wall mirror.

It is a delicate distinction that I'm not getting across, but her performance wasn't that of someone who just talks too damn much all the damn time, it was that she somehow needed validation from Mr. Karate for all her hard work.

Fortunately, before Mr. Karate had to gnaw his leg off to get away, enough other kids came in that her effect was diluted. I kept my eye on her the entire class. Like, seriously, I kept looking over at her to see if she was going to do something crazy.

So I'm not sure if she is a subspecies of the Attention Hogging Parent, but she might be. What has your fieldwork in this area gleaned?

I think that, from the point of view of Laura's, and now Hank's, various coaches, I probably come off as almost aloof. I think it's partly because I want to bend over backward to not get in the coach's business. I don't want them to think that I need them to be my friend, or that I want to pump them for info/praise of my child, or that my idea of my own or my child's worth is even based on their impression of my child's performance. Whew, I will tell you, the mental gymnastics I've got going on over here are exhausting. But do you know what I mean? All of this adds up to a relationship conducted in a pleasant but distant mode.

But clearly, other parents have a different approach. They're the ones buttonholing the coach the minute he appears at the pool/field/court, preventing him from attending to the group with some unnecessary story of Aunt Fanny and a Russian sleigh ride. Then they're engaging the coach's attention whenever possible during the practice, then they're trailing after him and standing by his car, complaining or fishing for compliments or just chewing the air.

Speak to me of this.

Mattress Open

2011-11-14T23:59:00.003-05:00

Sometimes you lie down in your five year-old's room at bedtime and then three hours go by. Then you awaken, hot and resentful, a possible crick in your neck. Yes, a "crick." Do you suffer from these or is it a Southern malady? C-R-I-C-K. So I got me a big ol' crick in my neck and I'm lying there out of sorts and then the knowledge that I have to blog pulls me to alertness, gets me to my feet, and brings me in here to you, Reader.

I was dreaming that Matt put all the beds in the house on the living room floor, and we hosted a wrestling tournament called the Mattress Open. True dream.

In real life I would push for it to be a bit more Mattress Invitational.

Earlier, Pretty Neighbor asked me what I'd been up to today and I could not give a satisfactory answer. I do know that I went to her house for our twenty-five minute workout and it took two-and-a-half hours. First we had our preliminary chatting, which is tinged with procrastination. Then our combined five children, who are all in the house, needed to seek our attention for various things. Then we actually worked out. Then we drank a beer and had postliminary chat while it got dark. Some days that twenty-five minute workout can take as little as thirty five minutes to complete, but other days, we need the long form. I think everything in my day must have been similarly time-inflated.

She is farther along in Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet than I am, and she is not finding it so execrable, so I recommitted to finishing it.

The news of the evening was that Laura has been cast as Jacob Marley in the 5th grade performance of A Christmas Carol. This is somehow hilarious to Matt and me, and Laura is tickled. She feels that finding the exact right piece of chain will help her get to the emotional core of the character, and her "Scroooooge!" is really something to hear. Think of a pretend ghost from Scooby Doo, one unmasked by Shaggy and Velma at the end of the episode. Got it? You're there.

She wears the chains she forged in life.

For supper, I'd made a split pea soup that only Matt and I liked. Hank asked if it was "frog toes boiled in frog juice."

Somebody must have been boiled in brat juice.

Maybe I will be back tomorrow with something, anything, to say. Please continue to rock onward.

Sugar And/Or Spice, As Needed

2011-11-13T23:21:00.000-05:00

One time way back in my blogging career, I got an email from a reader--nobody I knew--asking if it hurt Laura's feelings that I obviously favored Hank and that I might want to think about blogging about her more to balance things out and in addition I might want to examine my inner self to root out the source of this unfairness.

I was like, UM HUH WHAT NOW? And then I hit delete.

People on the internet can be so generous with their opinions. Their crazy, crazy opinions.

Can you imagine?

But let's check in with Laura. What is she up to?

Mostly swimming. A month ago, her swim coach called me and said he wanted to move her up to the next team. She was eager to do it, so I wasn't about to say no. This means a lot more swimming for her. They want 6-8 practices over each two-week period, and the practices are from 5:45-7:30, and now consist of a thirty minute dry-land workout, then an hour and fifteen minutes of swimming. It's a lot. And it's a logistical puzzle for me, the getting her there, and deciding whether to leave again or wait, to take Hank or not, when to feed everyone, etc. I am getting the Home Ec issues worked out, and Hank taking karate next door helps some too.

With this ramp up in commitment, we are now at that point that I think a lot of kids reach in their various activities at 10 or 11, it's kind of an up-or-out moment. Laura is enjoying it and shows no signs of burn-out, the exercise is unbeatable, and I've read and bought into that book Positive Pushing, so we are going for it.

Her week is pretty packed. She has chorus after school on Monday, and tennis on Wednesday, and then swimming the other three days. It doesn't feel like too too much, though, because chorus and tennis don't require extra transportation. That's the key for me. I feel like being in the car too much drains our life force.

Oh, this is fun: Laura and her friend are going to sing a duet in the school talent show, "What Is This Feeling" from Wicked. It's the "Loathing" song that the two sister witches sing. It's very funny, a perfect number for two sassy girls to do. Her friend's mom is fairly musical, and she said to bring Laura over and she'd help them learn their parts. I took Laura over there today, and they have a white baby grand piano in their living room. Handy for such occasions as these. When you see a grand piano, do you want to go over and drape yourself across it? Just me?

When I came back to pick her up, they did their act for me and I was amazed at how great they're doing. They have to audition in early December (this is serious business for elementary school) and then the performance isn't until February. I will try to arrange a live webcast of this event. In the car, Laura said, "Casey's mom has an Emmy! Lots of them! I got to hold one." And I was like, "She has an Emmy for music?!? She told me she was a music minor in college!" And Laura said that no, they're from her work at the Weather Channel. Oh, okay.

I think that white baby grand piano turned my head around. Gracious.

In her free free time, Laura is watching Biggest Loser on Hulu, and reading Beverly Cleary's autobiography, A Girl from Yamhill. She is also known to write a number 13 on her hand with marker, because that's what Taylor Swift does. And from dawn until bedtime, she never, never stops talking.

It's All Ball Bearings Now

2011-11-12T21:03:00.001-05:00

Last weekend I mentioned that I had tried and failed to fix one of our toilets, and that Matt brought home a kit of new toilet tank parts. Actually, he brought home two because our downstairs toilet takes two hands to flush. He thought since we were fixin' toilets, we'd do that one too. So the bag containing the two toilet kits sat in my breakfast room all week. We find that these chores need time to season.

This afternoon, though, I said, "Honey, do you feel like poking around in the toilet?" I thought it would be relatively simple to swap the bad parts for good ones. But he was upstairs for a really long time, then came down and went straight out the door to the hardware store. He came back empty-handed and said they didn't have what he needed. Then he went down to research the problem on the internet. I guess he was watching YouTube videos? I stayed away because I didn't want any part of the job to adhere to me. Then there was some more toilet-study time in the bathroom and then a second trip to Home Depot. By now it was getting dark. I had folded laundry, watched both of the semifinal matches from the ATP Paris tournament, gone to the grocery store (taco night!), and read the entire September Elle, the one with Gwyneth on the cover, all while the toilet situation was unfolding. So we both had important jobs to do.

Taco Night was well underway when Matt returned from the store, but he had business with both toilets. Then he stepped into the kitchen to give me a status report. Because he is the way he is, the report started with a lesson in toilet anatomy. Apparently there's a flush valve and a fill valve, and each toilet had a different thing wrong, and replacing the relevant valves was made difficult by our toilets' antique status. It seems that in the fifteen years since this house was built, toilet technology has moved on, and the inside of a toilet tank looks very different.

I asked him what he meant, and he started explaining about how something called the "ball cock" was this and that and they don't do it that way anymore, and he just kept saying "ball cock" and I was tittering and saying, "Stop saying 'ball cock' hee hee!" and laughing like an eleven year-old Japanese girl. Ball cocks! And he went on because I think he was still honestly trying to get me to understand the technology. Then he reached an absolute crescendo that involved this actual sentence being said by him, "So, with the ball cock you really need to jiggle it, but the one with just the shaft and ring should take care of itself just fine."

!!!

I looked at him, looked deep into his soul to see if he was just messing with me, but he's a hard one to read.

Ball cock.

Sorry.

Jiggle it.

Okay, done.

So I think the toilet situation is resolved? The issue of my juvenile sense of humor is unresolved.

Did you have a good day? It was pretty low key here. I also took Hank to an early karate class--it was at 9 and I just never get out that early on a weekend morning, then I did some parental admonishing and adjudicating, cleaned the kitchen forever, straightened all the things, and ate a tablespoonful of Bonne Maman cherry preserves. Which is the best store-bought jelly. Listen to me, "store-bought." Like I am one of the freaking Waltons.

Good night, Johnboy!

Inappropriate Attire

2011-11-11T23:23:00.001-05:00

Guess who was a minute late for preschool drop-off at the curb, and had to park and walk her child in wearing shortie compression shorts, her husband's sweatshirt, and Uggs? WINNING. I mean, these shorts, you put them on and you're still not really wearing pants. Perhaps I should not have set out into the world dressed this way, but I do not make my best decisions first thing in the morning. When I walked back into the house in this ensemble, Matt looked me over and said, "Well, I mean, each of those is technically an item of clothing. I don't see a problem."

Then, tonight, we had our mixed doubles practice at 7. It was nippy, somewhere down in the 40's, so I pulled on these spandex-y running leggings.

Yes, they have a sort of an outrageous tie-dyed pattern, but what are we, Amish? I thought they were cute, and they have a fuzzy lining, very cozy. But the following remarks were addressed to me by my lady teammates:

1) "I have to ask you where you got those." This was said not in a "I want some for myself" kind of way, but more in a "The selling of those pants is a crime against humanity and I want to know where to address my letter of protest" kind of way.

2) "Is there even a pocket in those?" No, that's what the jacket is for.

And, my favorite, from the "is there a pocket" girl's husband, who was not even playing on my court at that moment and spoke to me out of nowhere:

"Are those pants comfortable?" he said. I don't know exactly how to characterize this utterance, except it was odd to be addressed about one's pants by a male acquaintance. I answered that they were comfortable. Perhaps he wanted to seek out the male version for his own use? Or perhaps he's in the garment business and it was an impromptu focus group? Not sure. Then he spoke to me one other time while I was serving, some non sequitur, and I smiled at him and said, "You play on your court, and we'll play on ours." I said it sweetly 'cause I'm a lady and all.

But the Nike running pants are apparently some kind of Federal Case. WHATEVER, BITCHES. I can't help it if I'm fabulous.

Just classin' up the burbs on a Friday.

Weather has turned chilly, though it's still so beautiful and sunny. The trees were wonderful here this last week; it takes a long time for the oaks down here to get to peak color. Now the leaves are dropping like crazy. There's already a lot more light coming through the trees into my breakfast room. I have to get used to the way winter looks again.

Also, winter is going to look like my tie-dyed spandex ass. Maybe I will wear these to bookclub.

What have y'all got going on this weekend? Raking?
xo
b

An Update On Some Lovable Characters

2011-11-10T23:59:00.000-05:00

This was baby Hank in his first Halloween costume, a ferocious bear.

Rawrr.

And here is my nephew Gabriel making that costume his own.

Urge to squeeze him...overwhelming! Seeing him in that bear suit, I know that my heart will go on. I love seeing the kids' hand-me-downs on other kids in the family. He and Hank do look remarkably alike to me. Anyway, Baby G continues to grow in stature and wisdom. I have a couple of little video clips from our time together in the mountains last month. If you like things that are adorable, you might want to watch.

Genius baby. Watch in high def for maximum cute.

And here is my sister absentmindedly holding him while I film her. This was pretty much the scene. One of us holding him and somebody else capturing the moment.

G checks out Matt.

Hmm now. My post title promised you "characters" plural and I have only given you one baby character. Let's see. I've also been meaning to tell you how Normal Neighbor is doing with her cancer treatment. When I last mentioned her, she was in consultation about whether to have this somewhat investigative procedure. She and the surgeon decided not to do that (whew) and instead to do radiation therapy targeted at this one remaining lymph node. So she is about halfway through her 30 treatments right now.

When she was telling me the treatment plan, she was dreading the daily driving down into the city, and I agreed that it was an awful grind. But get this: some folks from her husband's club (he's a golf pro) have given her a car service. A large black man in a large black cadillac picks her up every morning and drives her to Emory, over an hour away. That has got to be the greatest gift you can give someone in that situation. Just awesome. These same friends have also got someone cleaning her house. Those friends are good friends to have.

So I think she is going to be okay, and that this will be the last thing. I hope it is. Her treatment has dragged on longer than mine did. It has been this entire year. At this point, my cancer treatment seems kind of like a bad weekend I had once.

Another lovable character: Frenemy Neighbor. One weekend night lately, Matt and the kids and I were up at the tennis courts. Matt and I were playing in earnest and the kids were whacking balls around. FN texted and asked if Laura could play, so I told her to just bring P up to the courts and the girls could hit. FN gets there, and instead of making the drop-off, saying hi, and leaving, she hangs on the fence and wants to talk to Matt and me. Now, we had not left our court positions and showed no inclination to chat. We were engaged in the playing of tennis. The fact that we kept calling out the score and playing points could have been a clue. But she was all talky talk talk with the talking. And then, THEN, a new and unsuspecting neighbor wandered up, and she turned her attention away from us and proceeded to suck the very life out of him. I enjoyed watching it, because what he was going through was what I must have looked like six years ago when we moved here. She gave him the full interrogation, whipping out her phone to enter his and his wife's contact info and quizzing him on their occupations and livelihood. She left him a desiccated husk. I say that in a loving way. She lovingly sucked the life out of him and I'm lovingly reporting it to you. I am all about the love.

So now you are up to date on some of the haps.
xo
b

And This Is A Problem Because...

2011-11-09T23:16:00.007-05:00

Hank's pre-K class has been having parent conferences and my turn was last week. His teacher, Miss L, led me to a coffee shop they have there in the church/school. It is called Holy Grounds. Yes it is.

So I am bright and eager to have this conference because I always love to chat about my kids, but I am not in any great suspense as to his "readiness" or academic performance. I can tell he is happy and busy there, and unlike last year, there is no fussing about going to school, praisallujah, so that is truly all the academic performance I care about.

Miss L began, "Hank is a very creative thinker, and I can tell that he really thinks about things." I can tell there is a "but" coming from the moment she opens her mouth.

As the wise PeeWee Herman hath said, "Everybody's got a big but."

"But," she continued, "he is very easily distracted." Full stop. I was caught up short because I was kind of waiting for something worse, like, "But...he shows a tendency towards cannibalism." I don't know, something. I asked her what she meant, and she explained that when he has work to do, like a worksheet that involves cutting and matching and gluing or something, he takes forever. I think that was her word, he takes forever because he will dawdle and draw the task out. She cited a time when a worksheet called for scissors and markers, and Hank sat and figured out every way to play with the scissors and markers together instead of starting on the work. Miss L said that, often, in order for a task to get finished, she has to sit with him and prompt him to focus on each step. Now cut, now match, now glue, now color, whatever. Miss L said, "Is he like that at home?"

"No," I said. "But we don't give him worksheets to do at home." She said, "Well how about when you give him a job to do, like pick up his toys?" I said, "Well, I ask him to do a discrete thing, like put the blocks in the box or pick up legos, and then I have to prompt him about twice before the job is done, which is par for a five year-old boy, I think."

She seemed a bit skeptical that I wasn't engaged in a daily struggle with The Problem of Hank's Dawdling.

It was instantly clear to me what is going on: Hank, when faced with a task he is not interested in, is giving it the slow play in hopes that the task will vanish or be de-prioritized. Miss L's point is that a child should learn to quickly dispatch with the "have-to's" (her phrase) to get to the "want-to's." That is no doubt true, but I've certainly never learned it and I don't think that particular virtue exists anywhere in my genetic line. We are all of us a bunch of dawdlers, doodlers, and noodlers. We make up for these defects with what other modest strengths we possess.

I said, "Do you think that what you're seeing is his resistance to doing the work?" I outlined briefly how, in his four year-old class, there had been an excessive amount of "tablework" and that Hank sometimes dug in his heels about it. I told her that those teachers had some less-than-effective techniques of managing it, and had once put him in time-out for not finishing his work in a timely way. And that time-out was just fine with him if it meant he could not do what they were asking. I did not tell her that he said, "I don't care, my mama loves me no matter what."

Miss L said she would never put a child in time-out for that reason, but that there wasn't a lot of this kind of work expected of them, and she wanted them to finish it. She talked about how this is a huge part of Kindergarten readiness--the ability to stay on task--and that if he didn't improve, he would be "lost next year" with the longer, busier day. At this point I said an inner "oh please." I just don't think so.

Now, before we say this teacher is crazy or has unreasonable expectations, I should make it clear that I think this is a much, much better program than his previous one. The amount of "written" work that comes home is very small. They are not a sweatshop of cutting and gluing like they were in the fours' class. They have an enriched curriculum going on, he is very into it and comes home talking about things they're learning and doing. It is not the crunchy U of Cal preschool that Laura was in, but it is good.

I guess I don't disagree that she is getting kids ready for Kindergarten. It's more that if a kid like Hank is not considered "ready" for Kindergarten, then Kindergarten needs to be different. I was telling Pretty Neighbor, I guess I am That Mom. Maybe you can't tell me anything about my kids that I will think is a problem. Or that's not true, it's just that my values for him are very different at this point. To me, the entire conference could have answered these three questions, the most important ones in my mind:

1) Is he happy during the day?
2) Is he sociable and kind?
3) Does he take correction or redirection cheerfully and easily?

That's kind of it. I just don't have any worries about the other stuff. I know his mind could light up this town, and believe me, when he wants to stay on task, the kid stays on task. He is like his daddy: infinite focus for what is important to him, you have to drag him by the feet for the rest. I mentioned this to Miss L, and she asked what Matt does for a living. I told her that he's a video game developer, and she got a look on her face like, "Okay, I guess that's a job." I loved that moment.

She did say that when he does it, his work is good, and in her "baseline assessment" of his development and abilities, he aces almost everything. He missed one question. When shown a picture of a frog, a key, a sun, and a mop, and asked, "Which do you have if you start with "turkey" and take away "tur"? Miss L said that Hank said "Turnip!" and laughed as though he'd told a joke. So he kinda missed the point there.

Longest post ever. And if I were new to this blog, I would be thinking, "Oh, this mom has one of those difficult kids who, while bright, is a total handful she is expecting the world to love dealing with." But I swear it's not true! Hank is the sweetest little guy in the world, and the most agreeable. But I would say that, gah!

And Miss L did appreciate his virtues. She commented on "what a nice little boy" he is and how he has an "interesting, almost adult vocabulary." When she described his vocabulary as "interesting," I assumed it's because he's been singing "Boom Boom Pow" at school again. It's his favorite song. You haven't really heard that song until you've heard Hank sing, "Them chickens be jockin' my style, they try to copy my swagger, I'm on that next shit now."

Okay, so okay. This issue of Hank being "easily distracted" is a thing and Miss L thinks it is a problem. So I told her that I would reinforce with him at home about how, when given a chore to do, even if it seems complicated or you aren't that into it, it is good to do your best and not waste time. And that is where we left it.

Then I came home and told Matt all about it, which required me to say, "I don't know, it's just that..." a lot. I don't know if Miss L and I got on the same wavelength or not. Am I weird? And Matt commented that I was missing the hippy preschool of yore and I said yes, everything was child-led there, which worked just fine for us. There can be no dawdling when dawdling is the point.

Another way of looking at this situation, for you Meyers-Briggs aficionados out there, is that most teachers are SJ's, and we are a family of N's. It is a problem, you know?

He is having fun and I'm going to keep him in this pre-K, but this teacher be jockin' our style.

I apologize for the length of this post; I did not have time to write a shorter one.

I love you all.
b

But When You Rub It, It Turns Into a Suitcase

2011-11-08T22:24:00.001-05:00

Today the captain of our ladies' tennis team had a lunch at her house for us to celebrate the end of our season. Not that we had a particularly triumphant season, but that we got through it and nobody cried. This girl is wrapped a little tight--she's an anxious perfectionist about her house--but is a genius cook. These are good traits in a luncheon hostess. She made all the food herself: butternut squash soup, two different kinds of small quiches, asparagus wrapped in prosciutto, grape salad, champagne. Simple, but good and lunchy. That's not what I came in to tell you though.

While we were eating--we were just eight at the table--my partner T told us that she uses a face cream made with cells from human foreskins. She was all, "I use a face cream made of foreskins. Yes, you know, foreskins. More prosciutto anyone?"

I enjoyed hearing this fact. So this is a thing? I thought it was only an episode of Nip/Tuck. We all complimented her on her skin at that point, and it is very lovely. The funny thing is that she is not the character you would expect to bust out with that personal grooming tidbit. I figured her for a Noxema girl, straight up.

Then talk turned to our tennis coach. She is what any non-stone blind observer would recognize as a butch lesbian. But she is long married to a man and is the mother of three children with him. She has home schooled them all and coached them to be excellent tennis players. This situation needed discussing, since we don't usually get together when we are not in her presence. I confessed that I found her kind of attractive, or that I responded to her masculine aspects. Several heads around the table were nodding. Then that situation needed discussing.

Then I got the name and price of the foreskin serum from T and then that was lunch.

Any interesting chat in your day?

Smell-O-Vision

2011-11-07T23:59:00.001-05:00

Hank had some new playdough the other day, and I sat down at the breakfast table to open it up with him. I opened the first jar and held it up to my nose. I took a sniff, and as I did, I saw a face in my mind. It was as clear as could be, like a picture flashed on a screen. An older, almost elderly lady with white hair in an old-fashioned bouffant style, a smiling face, and crinkly eyes. Who was that? I closed my eyes and sniffed again. Same face in my mind's eye.

I lost track of what Hank was saying for a moment as I thought about that face. I was searching my memory for who that could be, or I don't know how to describe what I was doing. It was that strange mental operation you carry out when you're trying to place someone, a process that seems like feeling around in the dark, but which must have some logic and method that is hidden from us.

Very quickly it came to me that in my Kindergarten class, there had been an assistant teacher, and it was her face I was seeing. I just knew it. Now, I remember my head Kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Gainey, very well, even though I was just four years old when I started school. But I swear to you, in thirty-some years I had never thought or remembered that there had been another teacher in the classroom that year. I couldn't remember her name and I can't now, but it was like the memory warmed in my hands and I knew it was right.

I've read here and there about smell being the sense most strongly linked to memory, and especially to long-term emotional memories. Something to do with the olfactory organ being part of the limbic system. I have often had a smell remind me of another time and place, but I have never had an intact, out-of-nowhere, and wholly forgotten memory surface like that.

I've smelled playdough countless times in my life. So what brought up her face right then? Maybe it was the added nudge of sitting down at the table with a little child? I don't know, but it is kind of mysterious and wonderful to me, the way the mind works.

Just the day before, I'd had one of my standard conversations with Laura, along the lines of, "Right now your brother worships you, and when you are both old, he will be your best friend. Daddy and I will be gone and you and Hank will be the only ones who remember each other as children. How you treat him now will matter all your lives. If you are dismissive of him or contemptuous of him on a regular basis, now while he's little and you have all the power, he might not exactly remember later but he will put the feeling in his heart."

Okay it reads a little heavier than it came off. But Hank overheard part of this and said, "What do you mean put feelings in your heart?" So I tried to talk about how we remember and learn from feelings and experiences that happen even when we're just babies. So then the playdough moment happened, and I thought, "Do we really forget anything, or is it all still there in some occult way?"

Anyway, this is fascinating to me. Has something like this happened to you? Tell me. Or write about it on your blog and come tell us so we can go read.

xo
B

I've Infiltrated The Book Club

2011-11-06T23:59:00.001-05:00

Have I told you this? A couple of years ago, Pretty Neighbor and I got the idea that we would join our neighborhood book club. Every monthly newsletter contained an announcement of that month's book and the date of the meeting. It didn't say the time or the place, just gave a couple of phone numbers to call. So I called. And Pretty Neighbor called. We left messages. One of the phone numbers had been disconnected. During this time, we were busy reading The Poisonwood Bible to get ready for book club night, at which we would shine with our book-discussion skills and make lots of new bookish friends. But nobody got back to us, so we didn't go.

Then the next month we did it all again. The calling, the messaging. I don't remember what the book was that month. Finally, we were like, "Those bitches are not very neighborly!" Then we laughed and forgot about it. I figured that it was actually a closed group that for some reason, kept announcing itself in the newsletter. Whatevs. It's not like I need another intellectual outlet anyway, I just heard they had snacks.

Fast forward to a few weeks ago, when I was sitting in a tennis tournament committee meeting. My neighbor and tennis buddy, T, mentioned that she had to get ready for book club that night. We were all about to begin our committee business, but I was like, "Hold up. You're in our neighborhood book club? By what magical means did you gain entry into that enchanted salon? Because PN and I couldn't guess the secret word. Is it because I only have one PhD?" Halfway through my outburst, T was nodding her head and rolling her eyes. She said, "I'll tell you about it later." And I was like, "Oh so this committee meeting is not the proper place for me to air my private, unrelated grievances? And I'm saying this out loud right now? OKAY."

Later T told me that the book club is presided over by two Methuselan souls who, as she put it, are "not tech-savvy," and who have been cutting and pasting the same announcement into the newsletter for years, never noticing that the blurb doesn't contain all the vital information about the meeting. They also "don't like change," but are sweet as pie, she swore. These dear old girls are not phone savvy enough to return calls, as well, I suppose. But T begged me to give it another try, because she's trying to bring the average age of the participants down somewhere into the double-digits. A couple of days later, Pretty Neighbor and I were copied on an email introducing us to the book club distribution list. I wrote back enthusiastically that I was glad to meet them and that I was ready to discuss the ever lovin' shit out of some books.

I did not say it that way.

But I am ready to discuss the shit out of some books. Except that I just started the November book, Hotel on The Corner of Bitter And Sweet. And it is going to be an uphill climb. Has anyone read this? I've read the first fifty pages. I sigh. It is one of those books that thinks the reader needs to be told directly how the characters are feeling at all times. For example, our main character Henry has just found out that a boarded-up hotel in Seattle contains the belongings of dozens of Japanese families who were sent to internment camps. Now these long-hidden things are being brought to light. Henry is also sad because his wife died some months before, so it is a rough time. The narrator says:

The more Henry thought about the shabby old knickknacks, the forgotten treasures, the more he wondered if his own broken heart might be found in there, hidden among the unclaimed possessions of another time. Boarded up in the basement of a condemned hotel. Lost, but never forgotten.

AARGH. His heart is broken, see? And it's not like a thing like a knickknack but he's wondering in metaphor, see? AAAAAAAHHHHH.

(I die.)

This kind of book, I find, does not trust its reader to be left alone for one minute, and is forever getting up in our grill to make sure we're on the right track. This is known, in literary criticism, as "writing the shit into it."

I should simmer down and give this book the benefit of the doubt. And I will finish it so that I get an A+ in book club. But I wonder if I could suggest we all reread Snow Falling on Cedars instead for a better treatment of this material?

Either way, I will come back and tell you all about our first gathering. You see, I have never been in a book club. I have a sense that it is different from a grad seminar, so this will be fun.

I'm also about to start reading the new Jeffrey Eugenides book with my friend David, and Elle and I have both read the Pioneer Woman book (yes) and we need to discuss the shit out of that.

Are y'all in book clubs? My mother-in-law is in three! I think Jenni is in one but they mostly drink. Or maybe that was just an actual wine club. Gimme the scoops on what y'all are reading.

All my love,
B

Domestica

2011-11-05T23:59:00.003-04:00

Today was a great Saturday spent in and around the house. I slept late and then spent the rest of the morning watching tennis, which made me feel, by afternoon, as though I needed to pay for this leisure with extra industry. And that my kids needed to help me pay.

We all trouped upstairs and I started hollering instructions. Hank put away a basket of his folded clothes while Laura and I started on the kids' bathroom. I left it in her capable hands and went into my bathroom to try to fix the toilet. It had been continuously running a couple weeks ago, so I'd jammed a wire coat hanger under the floaty ball arm thing. Apparently that isn't a permanent solution, so I sat astride the seat and went at it with a screwdriver. I tried tightening the screw holding on the floaty ball arm, which worked once before, but no. Finally I summoned Matt and asked him to go into the world and find one of those kit things that has all the toilet tank parts in it. He went and did that. So now we own a kit thing that contains a bunch of toilet parts. I'm not sure if the next step is my job or not.

Then Laura helped me change a lot of bedding (time for the PB Swedish House duvet set, yay!) Then I sent them down to the basement to bring up the bins for the Halloween decorations. Then we un-Halloweened ourselves, packing away the black feather wreath, the purple and orange tinsel garland, the stuffed pumpkins, black felt table runner, the string of spider lights, the black velvet pillow, the scarecrow boy and girl, the terra cotta jack o' lantern, and Hank's sign that says, "WELCOMEGREATPUMPKIN." I was sad to see them go.

But, my cleared-off table inspired me to go into my table linen archive and bring out these Orla Kiely for Target placemats, which I haven't used in a long while. I love the stuff from that line; I think it is maybe my favorite of the Target-designer special lines. That was like, three years ago? It is good quality, I use some piece of it every day, and I'm always glad to see it. I think the overall Winner of Winners was the canister set. It's the Missoni-for-Target of my heart.

Then it was late afternoon and I still hadn't gotten any real exercise, unless you count sweeping leaves off the trampoline and double-bouncing Hank. So Matt and I went up to the tennis courts to hit for a while. We left Laura in charge of Hank at the house. We've been experimenting with doing this--letting her watch him for short times while we're in the neighborhood, like at tennis practice. She has her phone, I have mine, and my instructions are, "Laura, your job is not to boss Hank, but to watch him and help him. Hank, mind Laura." So far it has worked out great. She has good instincts, and he is a pretty sensible kid anyway.

We went and played a set and darned if I lose to him every time. It is distressing to me, since I've played two seasons of ALTA now, and he's just picked up the game in the last couple of months. I won one game off of him and that was because I got him chatting about something. Wiles!

Then we came home and I said, "Do you want me to make that chili?" And Matt was all, "Wellll..." So I went in to the kids and he left and got Mexican takeout. Then we watched Gnomeo & Juliet. Then I vacuumed my rugs while Matt gave the kids their nightly wrestle. Now they are all three asleep. Matt will probably rouse himself in a minute here and lumber back downstairs to his lair.

Now you are fully up to speed. It is a thrill-a-minute, but daily blogging, you know?

What are y'all doing?

Friday Pie Day

2011-11-04T22:07:00.001-04:00

Nobody wants to hear from me at length on a Friday night, so I'll give you the digest form:

I have a pumpkin pie in the oven.

As of 9:00, the kids are wide awake, out of bed, and throwing a Nerf football in the house.

Matt went to the grocery store and then went back downstairs to work with one of his guys. This is one of those periods where we have only brief, catch-up conversations a couple of times a day.

Today I worked out with Pretty Neighbor. We're on level 4 of Jillian Michaels's Ripped in 30 dvd and we're getting stronger. There is no level 5, so if we're not "ripped" soon, I'm going to contact the Better Business Bureau.

I have been watching the Basel ATP tennis championship whenever I've had a moment home today. I'm getting ready to tuck into Roddick v. Federer, as soon as the kids are in bed. We have ESPN streaming on our xbox, and for a non-grand slam event like this, they show every match. I've thrown a big fleecy blanket over the couch and I'm about to make some matcha tea. It's my special mama time. I just made a general announcement: "I'm about to watch tennis; please all of you see to your own affairs."

Hank started karate today. OMG. Hank in a dojo might be like when Bob Dylan found the music of Woody Guthrie. It gives him an entire new discourse, a tradition, and a mode of becoming more essentially himself. Just one moment from the experience: we were meeting the director yesterday, and having a little one-on-one lesson and orientation. He asked, "Hank, are you a righty or a lefty?" Hank thought a moment and then held up his right hand. "Well, this is my punchin' hand," he said.

My mail lady Margaret, the only other ardent liberal outside of my household that I can count on seeing everyday, pulled her jeep up into my driveway to tell me, "Herman Cain needs to go home and sit himself down and stop talking!" Word to that.

Weather continues to be gorgeous. It's that shorts-and-a-jacket time of year. Love that look, especially on preschoolers with nobby knees.

Please have a nice evening and I will return in more narrative form tomorrow.
xoxo
b

I'm Just A Stomach Flu Away from My Goal Weight

2011-11-03T23:31:00.000-04:00

Back in August when we were doing all that basement work? And how I said in this post that it took me all day to recover from our DIY all-nighter? Well it actually took me almost two weeks to recover because I gave myself a hiatal hernia.

Or I'm 99% sure that's what it was. It was a weird pain right where my ribs meet in the middle, a dull ache, and it wouldn't go away. So at first, because this is how my brain works now, I assumed that my breast cancer had recurred and spread metastatically to my liver. 'Cause I have a vague idea of where my liver is and I think it is around there somewhere, and any pain or discomfort that I feel, I dread is cancer.

I didn't mention this to anyone, I just grew depressed for a couple of days. Somehow, though, that sad scenario didn't seem quite right. Then, through my web diagnostic skills, I landed on hiatal hernia, a condition in which part of the stomach protrudes through the esophageal opening in the diaphragm. This condition mimics many other problems--chest pain, shortness of breath--but in most people it isn't serious and it usually resolves on its own. I decided on an empirical course of therapy: treat it like esophageal reflux and see if it felt better.

Are you so bored right now? Medical Problems of People on The Internet!

So I took an antacid tablet every morning, chewed Tums at bedtime, and ate small non-fatty meals. Eating small meals was easy because the achy feeling took my appetite right away. And my course of treatment worked. I don't think the antacid really did all that much, maybe it did, but just not eating very much seemed to do the trick. And when I would go ahead and eat a bigger meal or have more than one alcoholic beverage, the pain came back. One night I went to a party down at the Fernbank Museum with Matt and Lincoln, and there was an open bar. Also, dinosaur skeletons at night! Cool! But the open bar. Socializing with so many video game developers necessitated that I drink three cosmos, and then my stomach hurt all the next day. Lesson learned.

I'm getting to the point soon.

So when you're not eating a lot, you get used to it. I decided to continue limiting my intake, and that it was a good time to lose the extra pounds I wanted gone. I've been exercising all year with Pretty Neighbor, but I find that it doesn't make the scale budge. So I fired up my little calorie-counting app and actually tracked everything that went into my mouth, and the weight has come off, slowly. It has felt great. I had a goal weight in mind when I started, just an arbitrary number. But then I went on that Dukan Diet website and let its calculator tell me another goal that was eight pounds below the one I'd had in mind. It seemed reasonable, so that's where I'm headed now. I've got about four or five pounds to go.

But I'm getting tired of it, the 1200 calories a day. It's not that it's so little, because it can be plenty of food, but it requires planning. To eat nutritiously on that, I have to think about it all day. The parts of my brain that aren't scheming about tennis are wondering if I can eat that piece of mozzarella and still have a 4 oz. glass of wine later. I told Matt, I'm just ready for it to take up less mental space.

Tonight was a low point. I was standing talking to Matt and I absentmindedly picked up a pizza crust and took a bite of it. I realized what I was doing and then fed the other half of the crust to the dog, who was sitting watching me chew. Then I took the partially-chewed crust out of my mouth and fed THAT to the dog.

I think the dog thought it was a low point too.

Then I said to Matt, "This is where I am." He nodded, sympathetic.

Reader, this is where I am.

How are you?

Remember That Tennis Tournament?

2011-11-02T23:01:00.001-04:00

The one that I was on the organizing committee for, where I was like, "How 'bout Tervis Tumblers for the winners," and the other girl was all, "No, let's give the winners crystal tennis balls"? The tournament was held last Monday. It was a storybook-gorgeous October morning. I had on a new tennis skirt. There were no crystal tennis balls.

This is like Where's Waldo--can you see me?

Don't know what happened to that girl's Irish crystal hookup. But it was a lovely event. The idea of my entering a tennis tournament, a tournament where the main criterion for success is skill in playing tennis, is faintly hilarious, but we wound up needing all the committee members to enter the tournament to fill out the numbers for the round robin. And I was so glad I played! I only won one of my four rounds, but they fed me breakfast and lunch. A free lunch, I find, salves the sting of defeat somethin' considerable. Plus I got a gift bag and a t-shirt. HAPPINESS.

And I enjoyed my new skirt and got lots of compliments on it. MAIN THING.

One cool thing was that some of the matches were played on clay courts. I'd never stepped foot on a clay court before, and it's great. It's soft and crunchy, and it made me feel like I could slide into a full split if I needed to. A full split from which I'd never emerge.

You see, our poor podunk neighborhood has only four hard court tennis courts. Fancy Land, our neighboring 'hood, where the tournament was held, has eight hard courts and four clay courts. I must admit, I felt a twinge of tennis envy. More than a twinge. Wah! I want all those courts and I want a real on-staff tennis pro! I need these things to get my game to the next level! NEED.

I'm holding off on telling Matt that I want to move to a neighborhood with bigger and better tennis facilities. I don't think he will understand. But when I do bring it up, I'll be sure to tell you what he says.

Basically, I've caught the fever, and now a lot of my mental energy is spent scheming about how I can play more tennis and when I can play next. Our ALTA ladies doubles season is over. But did I tell you the awesome news? Matt agreed to play on the mixed doubles team with me. It is going to be so excellent! Actually we had practice tonight and it was really fun. Nighttime mixed doubles practice, I'm finding, requires more beer and lipstick than Thursday morning ladies' practice. It's a nice time, and most everyone is great. I will say, some people's husbands are kind of d-bags, you know? Just a few. But maybe that's ungenerous, I have a very, very low d-bag threshold.

I will keep you updated as our Season of Victory unfolds.

xoxo
B

My Children Select Costumes for Their True Selves

2011-11-01T21:23:00.000-04:00

Angel and professional halo polisher.

Not as bad as he would wish.

I would like to be able to tell you that I painstakingly home sewed these two costumes. But we both know me too well. What I DID was to hie to the Target last November when all the Halloween stuff was 90 percent off. I bought a trunk of costumes for two and three bucks each, and then--here's the pro tip--didn't show them to the kids. Then I put them in a storage bin and forgot about them, and the calendar pages began to flutter and flip themselves faster and faster as the seasons went around. When the air grew crisp and the first peep about Halloween costume selection was peeped, I unearthed the tub of costumes and said, "Kids, behold my harvest!"

That is my story of the housewifely arts.

The kids had a wonderful time trick-or-treating, and really, how could it have been otherwise? I mean the whole scene is stone-cold awesome and they enjoyed it fully. Laura and her buds continued their tradition of going out on the golf cart with Mr. Normal Neighbor, which lets them haul in a truly excessive amount of candy. I don't know what I'm going to do with it yet. Laura's bag weighed 8.5 pounds.

Hank climbed in the back of the neighbor's truck and got to go to an extra street, while I continued my Halloween tradition of having a beer with one of the K(C)athies.

Next year I might say No Motorized Conveyance for trick-or-treating. It's like shooting from the jeep while on safari. Not sporting? That will be an unpopular policy, why do I sound like such a killjoy all of the sudden? But an idea for all this candy is needed. What are y'all doing? I have heard lately of the Halloween fairy, who takes the candy and replaces it with a toy, but that somehow makes me almost as queasy as letting the children eat a pillowcase full of candy. Like, there are moments when you don't just suspect, you KNOW that you are raising some of the most indulged creatures on earth, at any time, ever.

They are cute though. Hank asked me, not once, but on multiple occasions, if the neighbors would think he was "really a robber," and whether they might be worried to see him out marauding. He really seemed concerned that he might be caught up and put in a paddy wagon. I told him that, first of all, he was a kid, and that also the contextual help of it being Halloween would prevent any misunderstanding. He was reassured.

I do love Halloween. I love the season and everything about it. A few more pics are here. Did y'all have a good night?

Oh, I almost forgot! My sister and I have goaded each other into agreeing to do the blog-every-day-in-November thing. That will be a thing! That will happen! Will you come around and read? I think I need to go sign up somewhere official or get a button, but I'm telling you guys first. There is no piece of paper or button that could make what we have any better, baby.

Grown-up Halloween

2011-10-31T18:04:00.000-04:00

That's a whole euro-sized pillow crammed in there.

Grown-up Halloween was Saturday night, of course, which is good because then we had all of yesterday and today to refocus our minds on tonight's observance with proper piety. Matt and I stepped out to a couple parties as Santa and Elf. This idea was born because we thought it would be funny but earnest, which is kinda our brand. And then we remembered that my dad owns a Santa suit and bam, I was shopping for elf attire. When the dress arrived, I put it on and realized that once belted, it was indecently short, what with the jagged hem and all. Thank goodness for opague tights, or it would have been a full Harvest Moon.

Okay, do you want to be popular at a party? Go as Santa Claus. It need not be December. It was crazy, utter strangers yelling, "Santa!" and wanting hugs and pictures. And don't get me started on the lap sitting. My mom tried to warn me: She said, "This suit is a chick magnet." (My dad wearing this to the church Christmas party last year and being molested by the Sunshine Seniors Sunday School class is a whole 'nother story.) But she was right, when Santa sits down, somebody wants to be on his lap.

And the sack of tiny wrapped presents didn't hurt either. Matt went to the dollar store on Saturday and purchased 50 gifts. Then he and Laura wrapped them, and he handed them out to folks at the party. People were so delighted, it was kind of sweet.

The first party was here in our 'hood, hosted by my gravelly-voiced tennis pal. Our plan was to pop in and stay the minimally polite time, but it was so crowded it hardly mattered what we did. These people transform their house every year. I think they must start in August. It was really spectacular. The hostess handed me a jello shot. And then someone dressed as Colonel Sanders handed me a drumstick. It might have BEEN Colonel Sanders. He had a bucket clutched under his elbow. He was kind of weird, that guy. I did try a bite of the chicken and then I hid it in my cup. Then I said hi to all my tennis buddies and then we rolled out of there.

We met up with the Hamiltons back at our house:

He is a ball feeder machine and no, the fuzzy balls joke never got old.

Then we went down to the perimeter to a party hosted by a friend of Matt's, and when we got there, I realized that we should have eaten more food and gotten drunker at the first party, though the logistics of that would have been hard to work out. It was totally the thing where any bottles of actual liquor are empty by the time you get there, and everyone mostly brings beer. Also the food was strange and skimpy. At the suburban party, all the costumes were beautiful and I knew what they were. At the second slightly rough-around-the-edges, party, there were lots of people dressed as characters I didn't recognize, from video games or movies I have never played/seen. And lots of homemade zombies, trailing skin, and a very Slutty Super Girl. Santa was even more popular in this crowd, though.

I like parties, though, even weird ones where Human Centipede is being screened in one room, Lord help us. And I enjoyed my costume. It might be one of my alter-egos. Santa is definitely one of Matt's.

Did y'all have any adult Halloween gatherings?

Have fun tonight! Gotta get ready for trick-or-treaters!

Spoiler Alert

2011-10-27T16:04:00.002-04:00

I don't know. Sometimes I want to pop in here and share a quick thought with you guys, and then I think, "That's not a blog post." And then a week goes by. And then the irate messages start arriving from my family. And then I feel all awkward, like I really owe you Something Great.

That Something Great is an elusive butterfly.

So let us unburden ourselves of these expectations.

There now. Last week Matt went out of town for work. This is rare for him. I was all, no problem, I got this, we're cool. Then at 6:30 the first morning he was gone, Laura walks into my darkened bedroom and says, "I'm ready to go to the bus stop." I was all, "What? Who? ZOMGWTF?!?" And I said, "Don't you usually walk to the bus stop?" And Laura's like, "But it's raining," and I was like, "Okay, GAH." So he was missed most keenly.

Alone at night, after the kids were in bed, I made the genius decision to watch Paranormal Activity 2 on Netflix. Just me in a quiet house, darkness pressing against all the windows, nearest neighbors absent or weird.

Two-thirds of the way through, I had to pause it and text Beth:

You have to tell me if this baby dies. Why am I watching this movie?

She reassured me. Beth always answers texts quickly and she's seen every movie. She should operate a kind of moviefone for these questions. But here's the spoiler alert...

I think that having viewed Paranormal Activity 1 and Paranormal Activity 2: Mo' Paranormal, I am finished watching movies where women get dragged by the feet by invisible demons, demons who drag them offstage, presumably to invisibly demon-rape them. Yeah. Done with that. I mean, a little goes a long way, right?

It is a spectacle that I no longer enjoy. I mean, not the way I used to enjoy scenes of invisible demon rape.

The weird thing is that if you take out the scenes of women being dragged backwards by the feet, I thought it was a pretty okay movie. Oddly, it was a good portrayal of the mundanities of normal family life. And I'm into that. I never thought to look for that in a horror movie, but there it is. It's something these "found video" movies can do well, and this one does.

So that was something I did last week.

What are you doing? Are you ready for Halloween? Do you like scary movies? Any good ones to recommend? Talk to us.

All Happy Families Are Alike

2011-10-18T00:53:00.003-04:00

Say hi to Gabriel!

My sister Amy called me last night on the way to the airport. They were out in California, having already slipped back that far back west, about to get their flight to Sydney. By now they will be almost home. Gosh, I hate to see them go. Amy told me she thought it had been their best trip ever back to the states. I think so too. It was just filled with good things. All of us meeting Dave and Kate's new baby. The kids being the perfect age to play together, tirelessly and peacefully. Lots of great adult time, and having a beautiful place we could all gather in. For some reason I've held off blogging about it, maybe because it was totally wonderful and it seems unnarratable. Like, possibly of only local interest. (Yes, I hear you saying, "Well Beck, a lack of general interest never stopped you before."

We made our way to the mountain house, all my sibs and their families under one roof with mom and dad, and we had a blissful five days together. I love having unstructured time from morning 'til night. Drink some coffee, shoot the breeze, hold a baby, go out and get sweaty, come back and drink a beer while making some trenchant observations on the State of the World Today, read a magazine, holler at kids, eat some cheese, sass and be sassed, ride in the jeep, play some cards, stay up late chatting, let the dog out one last time, stand outside and shiver in the cool air, go to bed. That was the basic itinerary and if heaven is like that, it will be great and I'll totally already know how to do it.

The only bad thing that happened was that, one day, my dad came home from a trip to the dump and said, "I saw what looked like a pair of nightstands in the back of the Swap Hut." (You might remember my mentioning the Swap Hut. It's where I found my owl lamp. O Hut of wonders!)

I said, "A pair of what? A what? A pair? What did they look like?" He said that they'd been at the back of the hut, but he could see that they were "blond wood, kind of blocky, maybe you could describe them as mid century modern."

He had left them there. I vowed to remedy that.

An hour later, my brother-in-law Jason and I were heading down the mountain. I don't know where we were going, but we had some kids with us and we were going into town. I asked him to please detour by the recycle center so I could peer into the Swap Hut.

The nightstands were gone. There were no nightstands. There was nothing in the hut. Only emptiness, in the hut and in my heart. I got back in the car and fumed to Jason, who didn't seem that upset about not needing to get out of the car at the dump and load furniture. I said, "I can't believe he left them there! A pair. A pair! You take a pair of anything, I don't care if it's gilded turds!"

Jason pursed his lips, eyes on the road. "Gilded turds," he said, with an air of meditation. I think the subject of his meditation was how crude his sister-in-law is.

In my mind's eye, the Lost Nightstands have become someone's meticulously cared-for but discarded Heywood Wakefields. Oh well. I'll go on. But it still hurts!

Some of our adventures need their own posts, and Baby Gabriel, the cutest and smartest baby ever seen, definitely does. But here are a few pictures, and more are here.

See how I'm just smiling but Amy is really selling it?

Handsome Nate

Jason fussed at by ranger for riding on top of jeep backseat.

He's a hunter-trapper.

Add caption

This family group picture, oh man. The night before, Amy and Mom and I were agreeing on the need for such a picture, and I said something like, "Okay everybody, you know these group picture situations are stressful and there will be people who don't want to be in the picture and we'll lose patience with each other and there may be some bitching, crying, and snapping involved. Let's just commit to the process and we'll get through."

The next morning, while a large contingent was still down at the Waffle House (Ava wanted to experience the WaHo), I scouted locations and checked lighting. Then they returned, and Jason and Dad moved a bench out in front of the house, with only a minimum of lip. I did, at one point, have to bark, "I just want you to stand there and reflect light!" Which caused them to snicker and make smartypants rejoinders. Lacking a proper tripod, I built one out of a kitchen stool, three game boxes, and an overturned plastic ice cream bucket. Then Hank was upset and not wanting to be in the picture, causing Amy and then me, independently and unknown to each other, to offer him bribes for cheerful compliance. Finally everyone drifted toward the photo spot and assembled themselves, where they got that look of impatient passivity that people have when they're waiting for the photographer to do something.

Y'all, I loved this moment so much. They were all standing there while I looked through the viewfinder one more time, and then pushed the button to start the timer. Then everyone suddenly has that sense of urgency, you know? Like, "Okay, come over here! Right here! Quick!" Even though you have ten leisurely seconds and you could saunter over to take your place before the shutter clicks.

But I did hurry to them. I pressed the button and ran around and up the slight hill to slide in behind Hank. We did this a few times. Afterwards I realized that I'd felt pure joy. Seeing the family arrayed there, expectant and still, with me in motion. The crunch of the gravel and the beeping of the camera. Matt holding out his hand to me, beckoning. Running to them, whirling around, and smiling. And watching them all wait for the time to smile. They couldn't see themselves like I could--that's the photographer's privilege, I guess--but then I could join them and be part of the scene too. There was just such pleasure in it.

I hope you found some pleasure in your week. I missed y'all, I'm back on duty now. xoxo

Accidentally on Purpose

2011-10-05T14:38:00.000-04:00

Laura is fond of writing notes. They are always informative. Yesterday morning I found this:

So she wrote the note before leaving for the school bus, my tennis shoes on her feet. She had apparently realized her mistake, and paused to pen this apologia. What she did not do was change out of my shoes. This is classic Laura. She believes that a few well-chosen words can make up for just doing whatever the heck you want.

I wonder where she got that?

Hank is the same way. If I allude, however obliquely, to some wrong-doing of his, he says, "But that is in the past and we don't have to worry about it, RIGHT?"

Even better is that she wrote that note on one of her monogrammed gift-insert cards. Where did she have to go in the house to find those?

When she came home, I just thanked her for having left a note, as I had had tennis practice that morning and I would have worn myself out looking for the proper shoes instead of just sighing and putting on my running shoes.

Since Monday night, it's just been Laura and Matt and me at home. Hank stayed in the mountains to play with the Australian cousins. Here are some things about that:

Parenting one child is crazy easy. Especially if that child is a ten year-old, maybe even more if that child is Laura. Seriously, I feel like my work is done with her and I could just go get a froyo.

At night, instead of having an elaborate bedtime ritual that includes exhortations to brush teeth and my lying down in Hank's room, we say, "It's bedtime, goodnight Laura." Then, in the morning, she gets herself up, dresses, eats breakfast, and goes to the bus stop.

Not having to do preschool drop off and pickup for a couple of days has given me loads of extra time. I've composed a symphony. Okay, not true. But I did have lunch with Normal Neighbor yesterday. I think if I had never had Hank, I would probably be accepting the Nobel Prize in Literature soon. But I would not have nearly so many Legos, and I would not have benefited from Hank's wisdom these five years. Example: "Mom, sometimes when you ask a girl to marry you, it takes a long time for her to stop slapping you and say yes."

We are all three going back up to the mountains tonight, because--HURRAY--Dave and Katie are bringing my new nephew Gabriel down there from DC. I have never yet gotten to meet this baby guy. Their presence plus the Australians makes this something like a celestial event, not to be missed. It will be a hootenanny.

I hope you have something nice to look forward to this week. More later.
xo

I Am Kind Of The Normal One

2011-10-03T13:31:00.003-04:00

Did you guys know my sister and her family are visiting from Australia? Goodness! If I would stop blogging about tennis for even one minute, I could have filled you in on this important fact. They landed a week ago today, and I had them all, plus my mom and dad, at my house for a few days, and then they went up to mom and dad's mountain house, where the kids and I joined them for the weekend. Apparently the weekend lasts through Monday because we are still here. Anyway.

A campfire is a necessary ritual.

Foil-roasting the s'more leads to better melting.

This happened: my father roasted and ate a cricket at our s'more campfire. For some reason, little crickets kept leaping into the flames, maybe drawn by the heat? It was a disturbing thing, this cricket suicide. We saw one on the rocks, poised to leap, and Dad said, "Wait, I will eat him!" The kids reacted with shock and squeals of disbelief. They didn't think he would do it. I squealed because I knew that he would indeed do it.

He caught the cricket in his hand, and finding it to be too small to properly skewer, he stuck it to a half marshmallow left on his stick.

That bothered me more than the outright eating of an insect, the mixing of the cricket with another food. Ew. I think there are some food cultures where the eating of insects is acceptable, but I am pretty sure they don't mix the bug with marshmallows.

Then he roasted it and ate it. The kids were very, very impressed. Then he ate another one. Then the little boys wanted to be shown edible plants. I ate a second s'more while this was happening.

Later on, the kids were tucked in bunk beds in the basement, and I was lying down with Hank for a few minutes. I started to receive a flurry of emails and texts from upstairs, summoning me to come play cards. I hauled myself up stairs to see that Amy, Jason, Mom, Dad, and Aunt Kathy were all arrayed at the table with the cards shuffled and dealt.

They waited for me as I went to the kitchen and started making tea. I wandered to the table, played a card, and went to get my tea. They made noises of impatience which I ignored. I was ready with the tea, but then I espied a chicken leg in the fridge, so I pulled it off the bird and hastened to the table. There was much protestation from the assembled company: "Oh now we're going to have chicken grease on our cards!" and "Don't you want a plate? Gross!" Like I was the one who ate a bug.

I gave them a no-chicken-grease guarantee and then sat at the table to play my turn. But just then I had a chicken leg malfunction. As I bit into the chicken, the whole top part of the leg separated from the bone and was dangling from my mouth. Obviously I had to go to the kitchen to tend to it, even though by now I was taxing their patience to the last reserve, and I can assure you, they were annoying me way more than my chicken situation was delaying them.

So I handled the chicken problem and came back to the table, and Dad passed the deck to me. It was my turn to deal. But I found that the vigorous wiping I had given my lips had left them feeling chapped. I said to the gang, "I really need to go get the Burt's Bees, my lips are chapped. Do I have to shuffle these right this second?" And they all died of vexation. And they were dead. The end.

No, that's not the end. My dad pulled his Carmex out of his pocket and said, "Shuffle!" Then he dabbed his finger into the Carmex and applied it to my lips. I leaned towards him so he could get good coverage and I shuffled and dealt so they would stop bitching for one tiny second.

Then, as we all looked at our cards, my dad said, "I used the cricket finger."

Cricket finger!

I said, "But you took a shower!" He said, "Yes, but I kept it wrapped in a bread baggie."

And then those people had the nerve to gripe about how poorly I'd shuffled.

There is no moral to this story, but it is something that happened.

Amy stuffing a s'more into her face. Ha! Revenge.

I hope you had a good weekend. Look out for Cricket Finger.

This Is Becoming One Of Those Tennis Blogs

2011-09-29T23:21:00.000-04:00

This morning I arrived at our away tennis match at about 10:00. It took some doing to find the right place--huge neighborhood, twelve tennis courts, scorching sun. As I walked into the pavilion, I noticed that our opponents in line 5 were drinking Bud Light from cans.

Reader, this was a curiosity. You just don't see this in the Thursday morning ladies' league. Maybe the Sunday "Business Women" league, as they're called, maybe they're drinking beer at their matches, but they also wear pants, ride sitting astride, and work outside the home. I wouldn't put anything past them. Probably the evening men and the mixed doubles are imbibing too. But Thursday ladies? Popping open a cold one before their match? Notable!

(Also I just have a thing about beer in cans. I think sometime in the past my father implanted the notion in my brain that it is unladylike to be seen drinking beer from a can. My issue.)

When my partner T got there, I was like, don't look but look over there. And she was like, oh how funny! And I was all, I've got a good feeling about this, maybe they're not taking this seriously and we can beat them!

Ah, no we couldn't. They carried their beer cans (and a spare for each of them) to the court when we began to play. And they beat us 6-1, 6-4.

We did a bit better in the second set, I kid you not, because they were getting drunk. T sidles up to me and goes, "Play fast, they are getting tired." And they were, but not tired enough.

Maybe we should have had a couple drinks too.

After match point, they hugged us (beery and cheery) and we walked off the court to see that our coach had come to watch. Oh embarrassment! And she told me that my ground strokes looked good but that I was frequently out of position. And then I loaded my plate with what I thought was some kind of spanakopita or Greek side dish but which turned out to be a dip. It was incredibly rich. I was like, "Is this egg?" And my partner said, "I think it's ricotta." So I ate half a pound of fat and drank a diet Gatorade. Good grief.

Then I drank one of their beers.

For every minute of this, it was so hot. So so hot. I looked cute but that was little consolation.

Okay, it was some consolation.
xo

Just Like Elle Woods Says, "ME!"

2011-09-23T02:18:00.001-04:00

Y'all. Y'ALL. You've heard me mention that I'm learning tennis. My second season in a ladies' doubles league just started a couple weeks ago. I am not good. But lately I have been trying, you know? Not just going to practice once a week, but playing whenever I get the chance and with whomever will play. Inspired by the US Open, I even bought a new racquet. Because shopping is how we get better at things.

And today my partner and I won our match! Like, a real match that counted and everything! This was a first for both her and me.

I will now tell you all about it.

My partner today, God love her, is a sweet girl who nobody really wants to be paired with. I think this is because, despite playing a bunch, her play is very erratic, and she doesn't really want to run after the ball. Problemo. I've only played with her once before, but my expectations for our performance were not high, so I went there this morning planning to have fun and not stress about it.

Sociological footnote: Our match was an away game in one of the neighborhoods discussed in that book Searching for Whitopia from a few years ago, by Rich Benjamin. He defines a "whitopia" thus:

A Whitopia is whiter than the nation, its respective region, and its state. It has posted at least 6 percent population growth since 2000. The majority of that growth (often upward of 90 percent) is from white migrants. And a Whitopia has je ne sais quoi — an ineffable social charisma, a pleasant look and feel.

The book is about the political and social meanings of the whitopia phenom, and it's well worth a read. I'm surprised I've never referenced it. Have I? Because there is a whole chapter on our county (winning!). Our opponents' neighborhood is one of the little havens mentioned. Indeed, it is a nice place with nice ladies in it.

End of footnote.

So we are chatting with our opponents and warming up, and it becomes clear that they are a stronger player and a weaker player. This is common at our level of tennis as the captains are trying to ease newbies into the game. We start our first set and we are pretty evenly matched, going toe to toe on each point. My partner and I held it together and won the first set 7-5. We were pumped.

Their strong player was a bit better than me, and the weaker girl was a bit better than my partner. So how we took that set, I didn't know.

Sometime early in the second set, it dawns on me: Every time I had the chance, I could hit it to the weaker player. Duh! And this wasn't evil! It was strategery! She was more prone to mistakes than her partner, so I hit to her as much as I could. Lobs, volleys, groundstrokes. The stronger player was wise to this strat, of course, but she didn't muster any way of stopping it. And it worked, we crept ahead a couple games.

By this point all of our teammates had finished their matches and had fixed plates full of food, and were sitting watching us, cheering us on and witnessing all our flubs and moments of glory.

Then the other girls kind of upped their game, and we made some mistakes, and suddenly we were tied 4-4 in that second set. My partner was getting tired. I knew this because she kept telling me, "I am tired," and "I can't breathe," and "ALTA rules say we get a minute-and-a-half break between games." I thought, "Crap, if they win this set, we will have to play a third set, and I will have to get someone else to pick up Hank at school. It is time for this to be over."

Then we won another game and then it was 5-4, and I got to serve. Never before have I really understood the power of being the one to serve. I just felt like I had control. And I swear, I could feel that they were going down. I've never played sports, so this was unfamiliar to me, the feeling of momentum. It's like we beat them with our minds, man.

And I super enjoyed it. Like, I enjoyed having won, yes. Winning and feasting on the turkey wraps of jubilation, rather than losing and tasting the pasta salad of bitterness.

But what I really loved was the actual act of winning, the doing of it. Playing is more fun when you're winning. How did I not know this?

Winning!

Then we hugged, my partner and me, and she was like, "God, you're sweaty!" And I was all, "I just drank two liters of water and I don't even have to pee."

It was a pretty sight.

Then I texted like twelve people, including Matt, his partner Lincoln, my siblings, our tennis coach, and my Kindergarten teacher. And as I drove away I thought, "I am going to blog the shit out of this."

Wishing you success in your endeavors today. xo

My Office: Before and During

2011-09-20T18:58:00.000-04:00

Before:

Hardworking sardines.

Today:

Better, yes?

Ah, I love having an empty room. Going in there is like taking a deep, cleansing breath, or like being in my spirit cave with my power animal. It makes me wonder if we should get rid of 80% of the stuff in our house. I think the answer is probably "yuh huh."

So, all this picture shows is that the old yellow walls have been covered with The Perfect Gray. (Behr's Dolphin Fin.) Those built-in shelves I left white and didn't repaint, but they look much fresher against the cooler color. Same with the molding and trim, in here and in the dining room. White loves gray.

I haven't put anything back in here because I'm having the carpet cleaned Monday. Then I'm on the hunt for a bigger work table than the little writing desk I had in here back in the day. I'd like something big enough that I could put my sewing machine on. There is a perfect vintage library table on craigslist right now, but unfortunately they want money for it. I also need to put all the pictures back on the wall. Finally, some of the crazy fabric panels I've collected will have a home. You'll see more about that.

I snapped this picture because I glimpsed Laura and her buddy hanging out in here, and I realized Laura likes having a cleared-out room as much as I do. What is it about an empty space?

Y'all doing okay? All normal here: school, work, preschool, tennis, chores, car repairs (ugh), Breaking Bad on Netflix. Also preparing meals and futile tidying. You know.

We're Chill

2011-09-14T00:02:00.003-04:00

The fridge guy came right at nine this morning. I was on the way out to take Hank to school, but I left him settled on the floor with a screwdriver.

Then I went to tennis and practiced with my partner for Thursday's match. She is a sweet girl and this will be her first match ever. She is counting on me to guide her. We are in trouble.

Then I came home, half expecting to find the fridge dude still crouched in the kitchen. The coast was clear and the fridge was humming busily. Matt told me that it took the guy all of twenty minutes to diagnose and fix a burned out master board. Or was it mother board? I don't know but it cost $350.

Matt told me that number and I said, "Oh, that's a relief."

He goes, "Are you kidding? I thought that was high. It's a big part of the cost of a new fridge."

Is he not adorable?

Bless him! How he thinks that $350 would go a long way toward a new fridge? I love that guy.

My mom called to check on the fridge and me and I told her, "Matt said the funniest thing! The funniest thing about $350!" We both enjoyed it.

It's that thing of when a man has no idea what something costs but he sure as hell knows what it should cost, you know? Like, in the price and fee schedule contained in his mind. So, pro tip: The way this shakes out is that, if your husband asks you how much a new jacket or duvet cover that you bought cost, you can feel safe in just taking a "1" off the front because then the digits you tell him will accord with his mental money schema. And you don't want to shatter his schema.

Oh Lucy! Oh Ricky!

So as of this moment we are cooling properly, and our food is slowly transitioning back above stairs. I bet that fridge will chug along another several years before it gives us any trouble. I hope the same for all of us. 'Night!

These Trials Are Sent To Test Us

2011-09-13T00:32:00.002-04:00

This afternoon, I opened my freezer and a lot of liquid splashed onto the floor and onto my feet. Startling. It looked to be water from melted ice and some purple juice from a huge bag of frozen blueberries. Except the blueberries weren't frozen anymore. It was 38 degrees in the freezer and a pleasantly cool 46 in the fridge. What the what? I swear that just this morning, everything was fine inside there. I mean, I didn't look at the thermometer display, but my half-n-half felt cool. Coolish. I mean, I don't know, I was more focused on the coffee.

As I write this, it is 69 degrees in that box.

I slammed the freezer door, much like you would slam a coffin lid if you'd just opened it to reveal the daytime resting place of Nosferatu. I said some ugly but necessary words and started mopping the floor with a beach towel. Then I opened the freezer door again and more goo dripped out. More mopping. And fear set in. WHAT DID IT MEAN?

I recalled that one time this thing in the back of the fridge got dusty and that we cleaned it with this really weird brush on a long bendy wire. I wasted no time in hollering for Matt to please come and pull the fridge out of its little alcove and do the thing with the brush. Which he did. But the thing in the back wasn't all that dusty. I had pinned my hopes on dusting that thing with the brush and it didn't look like it was going to make any difference. Matt pushed the fridge back in.

During a lot of this I was kind of wailing. Like, not crying, but sort of vocalizing through the pain. Like, "Oh no, why is it doing that, what do you think, what are we going to do, this is not good, what in the hecks, craaaaaaap, did you say a flat head screwdriver?"

Once the heavy lifting was finished, Matt went back down to the basement to work and left me to deal with the emotional aftermath.

I don't know, when something goes wrong in the house, it gives me a momentary crazy dread. One of my first blog posts ever was about this. For just a second, I panic. Like, my frozen organic berries are thawing out and we will all probably die alone.

Part of the emotional context of this moment is that I've been counting calories the last few weeks, or really now it's counting proteins, fats, and carbs. Whatever, zzzzz. But I have a more, like, deliberate relationship with food and nutrition throughout the day. The foods that work for me--my Greek yogurt, my hummus, my baby carrots--feel like my friends. And my friends were in trouble. (I know, see? Crazy.)

I steeled myself to open up the doors again and was disappointed to see that both compartments had actually gotten warmer. I threw away some things. Then I got reusable shopping bags and loaded them up with everything salvageable. I schlepped it all downstairs and crammed it in the NEW AND WORKING FRIDGE IN THE BASEMENT. Oh yeah. Well there is that. Awful convenient to have that.

But still! Still! If I want something that's kept refrigerated I have to go down there where all those boys are working and get it. Then I have to either use it there or bring it upstairs and then take it back. Insupportable, GAH.

I took a break from my cursing and schlepping to pick up Laura from school, where she had stayed late for chorus. On the way home, I filled her in on the fridge situation. She said, "It will be like Little House on The Prairie where they pack ice in cedar shavings. Or like in the Boxcar Children where they kept their food cold by putting it behind a waterfall."

Yes, we are just like the Boxcar Children.

I called a guy and he is coming tomorrow. Fingers crossed that the fix will be quick and cheap. Because obviously we cannot go on this way.

He'll Be Here All Week, Please Tip Your Server

2011-09-08T00:46:00.003-04:00

While I was having all that cancer treatment last year, nobody else in the family got any routine medical care. I guess I was going to so many doctors, I just couldn't schedule an appointment for anyone else. Matt did not get his physical. Hank did not have his four-year checkup. The dog did not get her shots. (Laura didn't darken the door of a doctor all year either, but she exists on some higher plane of super-awesome health and rarely even has a sniffle.) I did manage to take Hank for one sick visit and you may recall, I wound up crying, so that was excellent.

Now Hank has started pre-K and the school wants his immunization record, and he turned five this summer, so today I took him in for a checkup. He'd just gone for a dental checkup on Tuesday, and I thought there might be some resistance to more doctorin', so I didn't tell him he was going until I picked him up from school. I knew he would ask if he would get an S-H-O-T, and I knew I'd have to tell him he would. I don't remember Laura having this much fear of needles, I'm not sure why he is different.

But isn't it rational to dread getting stuck with needles? Towards the end of my chemotherapy, I remember telling Matt, "I don't mind the chemo but I am just really effing tired of being stuck with needles." Anyway.

We had some time to kill between school pickup and his appointment, so I took him to get a lemonade. We faced each other over a small table. "Will they give me a shot?" he asked. "I am not sure," I said. "But I think they probably will. If they do, it will be very short, and only hurt for a second. And you can handle it."

Thus I laid out all my talking points:

It will be quick
You are a big boy
Sometimes we have to do things we don't want to
The shots are to keep you from getting sick
I'll be right there with you
Then I will buy you some Legos

Okay, that last one wasn't in my pitch to him, because I know that I can and should ask my kids to do hard things without a bribe. I do know this. So I stuck to the other talking points. He processed all of this with equanimity. We went on to chat about his school day and some fun things, and just when I thought he might be distracted, he said, "I am still thinking about the shots. I might cry in there." We talked through it again and I told him that crying was absolutely okay, but struggling or fighting was not allowed, and he agreed. Then we got on the road to the doctor.

I thought the cloud of the impending shots might make him sulky for the whole visit. Au contraire. These two young, pretty medical assistant girls were hovering over him, doing his work-up and his vision and hearing screen. In the warm glow of their attention, Hank became positively suave. There was nothing like him. They exclaimed over his weight and stature. He beamed with pride. When he identified all the pictures on the eye chart, and they praised him, he did the little dance that a football player does in the end zone.

And then, THEN the lead girl held up a little paper cup and explained to Hank that he was going to give them a urine sample and how to do it. He said to her, "Um, what's your name?" She said it was Stephanie. He said, "Stephanie, be warned, because my aim is not very good."

Yes he did. May lightning strike me dead if those were not his exact words. I mean, asking her name first?!? Like a drunk ladies man at a bar, "C'mere, what is it, Stephanie? Lemme tell you a little somethin'." The girls just absolutely lost their shizz. They were doubled over laughing. I threw my arms up into an exaggerated shrug so that all of heaven would see that I have NO IDEA where this kid gets this stuff. I mean, "Be warned"??? He is beyond, I do not know. I just drive him around.

And he just knew he killed with that line. Killed. That room was his.

That's why it was so sad when he still had to get shots. Poor buddy! All his charm and suavité couldn't save him. When the doctor came in to do her portion of the exam, he looked at me and said, "She doesn't have any shots in her hand." I told him it was still to come. And when the medical assistant came back into the room with the little tray, I held him on my lap. She was quick, but with three shots, there is plenty of time to cry out in pain and fear. The first one takes you by surprise but by the third one, you know it's coming. I hated it for him. She had the band-aids on in a flash, but he was still crying, crying like his feelings were hurt.

I said, "It's over, see? It's all over!" And he said, "I was brave but I still feel horrible!" This caused my heart to break yet more. And let me mention that Hank still doesn't have the /r/ sound, so what he said was, "I was bwave but I still feel hawwible!" The nurse said that one of the injections would make a sore lump, so I felt like I'd lied about how it would only hurt for a second. And I felt pretty hawwible too.

Then he managed to stop sobbing and tell his preferred lollipop color, and then we were on our way. In the car, after we discussed his band-aids and his pain levels and the likelihood that I would have to carry him everywhere, he said, "Since I was so brave, could I maybe get a toy?"

Reader, I wish I could say that I held to some good yankee common sense Protestant line about how we don't get toys for doing the things that are expected of us and blah blah, but have we met? Hi, I'm the mother who drove straight to Target and let him pick out a Lego police car. It was miraculous to see the way his soreness disappeared as he ran toward the toy aisle. Later on, though, the soreness was back and he is like an awful Tiny Tim in a community rep production of A Christmas Carol. I dosed him with tylenol and he asked if he could sleep on a cot in my room tonight and I SAID YES OKAY?

Except for all the pain and crying it was a pretty awesome day, really. How is your back-to-school going?

We're Calling It "Industrial" Right Now

2011-09-01T23:59:00.003-04:00

There is Matt in his basement lair. It is his birthday today. The celebration of this event, however, has to be postponed, as he is too busy today to turn another year older. The guys are burning the midnight oil down there. Week before last, we got the basement to the white box stage that you see here, and then Matt and the boys moved in. They were dying to get out of the little room. So the basement still needs a lot, but Matt said no more until they meet their next deadline. It's working fine for them right now, it's just a little stark. It's a million miles better than it used to be, though. It's like a real place now. There's a there there.

One chilling thing, though, is that in the bathroom down there? The toilet seat is up all the time. And they don't even care. Men.

And there's weird soda in the fridge down there. The other day, Hank wanted to go down and say a quick hello to his daddy. And he was gone a long time. I called down the stairs, "Hank, whatcha doing?" He said, "Nothing!" And then there was a pause in which he apparently decided to be honest. "Drinking a drink called pineapple Fanta!" he crowed, with sugary joy.

So I'm counting calories these days and it's all going great, but tonight I went down there to visit with the boys and try to pump up morale. You know I'm a one-woman USO. But they didn't need my help, they had Mexican takeout and a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts. Then I got busy chatting and somehow ate a lot of cheese dip. It's a chamber of horrors.

Tomorrow night we're going up to the mountains, and we'll celebrate Matt's birthday (and our anniversary) properly up there. I clearly remember the first week I met Matt. It was his birthday then too, as it was our first week at college. Someone in our dorm gave him a child's toy Sheriff set as a gag, and I volunteered to be handcuffed to him. True fact.

So my August BeckBloPoMo has come to an end! I really, really enjoyed it. I loved sharing stuff with y'all and hearing back from you. Looking at my post count, it's clear I missed a few days in there. Eh, close enough? But I hope y'all have had a good week! I confess, I don't say this often, but I am exhausted. Love y'all, B

My Buddy and Me, We Can Climb up a Tree

2011-08-31T23:59:00.003-04:00

After some angst on my part, and cheerful oblivion on his part, Hank started pre-K today. This morning, we packed his Boba Fett lunchbox. He was perfectly happy as we threaded our way through the fiendishly complicated carpool drop-off procedure. Color-coded traffic pattern map of the parking lot. Long, long line of minivans and SUV's. Then, as one of the teachers helped him out of the car, he was struck silent. He looked a little queasy. He went along though.

At this school, the teachers put the kids in the car again at pickup time, no parking and going to the classroom. Which is mighty convenient for the moms, but again, long long line of minivans. I approached the safety cone zone waving my carpool tag against the windshield and scanning for his orange shirt in the group of waiting kids. His teacher saw me right away, and through my open window I heard her say to him, "You said it was a blue car and it is!" She helped him up into his seat and said he had a great first day.

As we drove on, I asked him how it was and he said, "Awesome." Relief! Then he told me all about a game of pretend pirates he'd played on the playground, and how it involved jumping over spikes and also radioactive sludge. I asked him what had gone on inside the classroom. He reported that the snack was apples, and said he couldn't remember anything else. So I did the questioning routine that parents are expert at, and found out that he'd played at all the centers and that the teachers were nice, and everybody liked his lunchbox, even the teachers, he said. Okay, so far, so good.

Sleeping off pre-K

We went home and met Laura, who had a half day of school today, and went to the pool. After swimming a while, I noticed that Hank seemed out of sorts. He acted tired and fractious, not like him. So I took him home and created a nap trap on the couch. I lay down and invited him to climb up next to me, and then I covered us both with a blanket. It worked inside a minute. I may have succumbed myself.

When he woke up, he still had fragile feelings. I think it was just all the newness--new place, new people, new systems--and after a long summer of the familiar and comfortable it was a lot to metabolize. At bedtime though, he said, "I don't want to be tired for the second day of school!"

This morning I was filling out his paperwork, and his teacher had included an index card with the instructions, "Tell me anything you want me to know about your child." I paused over it, and Dad said, "Tell her that he is a golden snowflake, precious and unique in all the cosmos, and that they best be sure to recognize that."

I told him that I need those words made into a rubber stamp. There are a lot of school years ahead of us.

I hope your year is off to a smooth start, my buddies.

Buzz Buzz, Great New Hive

2011-08-30T23:59:00.000-04:00

Tonight I watched Winter's Bone on the Netflix. Wow, it was really good, but now I need an injection of Prozac straight into my spinal column. Bleak. I mean, you know, the Ozarks, you have like forty dogs but no car, every adult in sight is cooking meth, what could possibly go wrong? I do recommend it, but it's intense. Jennifer Lawrence is the lead, and she has also been cast as the lead in Hunger Games. I remember some outcry over that, but after seeing her in Winter's Bone, I don't doubt that she will be good as Katniss. She can play tough. And I just realized she was the young Mystique in that X-Men movie earlier this summer? I didn't even notice her in that. It could have been that she was in a scene with Michael Fassbender and everything on screen was blown out by his ridiculous, excessive telegenicity.

Busy day here chez Matron. This morning I had a long tennis practice. A new girl has joined the team who might be worse than me. This is very exciting, the prospect of not being the weakest player on the team. Probably she will turn out to be a bit better than me though, we'll see.

Then I went home, where my parents and I finished painting my dining room ceiling and then tackled the now-vacant office. I had cozened them into leaving their mountain citadel, where temperatures are in the 70's, to come to my house and help me paint. I would say the two rooms were a solid day-and-a-half of work, and I haven't done the office ceiling yet.

I'm very happy with it. I'll have miraculous "after" pics soon, but the color is Behr's Dolphin Fin. I first saw this in my friend Erika's house in LA, and I've had it in mind for two years. It is a great gray, the Mama Bear of grays, as it is not too warm, not too blue, not too green, just right. For the ceiling I went with Irish Mist, which is a barely-there silvery gray on the same paint card.

Funny, when you're painting in your house, you really confront the mistakes made and shortcuts taken by the previous owners and their home improvement projects. I was affronted to realize that the entire underside of the chair rail on my dining room wall was smeared with red paint from some 1990's red dining room moment. Very sloppy work, first owners! There was lots of taping and edging and finally I sat on the floor with a child's paintbrush and scooted around the room until I couldn't see any more red. And the same with the tops of the window frames. I mean, can't we try a little harder?

That kept me and most of the household busy like bees all day. And Hank starts school tomorrow. Fingers crossed for a smooth launch! xoxo

Men with Schemes

2011-08-29T23:33:00.004-04:00

My dad is like the Thomas Edison of western North Carolina, especially when it comes to the drinking of whiskey. He is filled with schemes and little lifehacks to make it better and more pleasurable. Over the weekend he decided to wash some river pebbles and then put them in the freezer, in hopes that they would cool his drink without diluting it.

Sidebar: growing up, there were often weird things in our freezer. My siblings will testify. One I remember was an Indigo Bunting that died in our backyard. Dad wanted to figure out why it died, so he froze it, in our household freezer, for some future postmortem. Then there was the time that a Sharp-Shinned Hawk smacked the sliding glass door and died, so Dad took his feet (!) and put them in non-iodized salt to dry them out. They went on the bookcase. And THEN there was the time he took the head of a dead cardinal and put it in an ant bed so the ants would clean the skull. He reports he still has the skull, yes, on his bookcase. You would be right in thinking he is something of a character--kind of a cabinet-of-curiosities naturalist--but lovable and normal-seeming. Normal enough. Also, at this very moment, in the mountain house freezer, my mom has a bunch of bright fall leaves from last year. I guess she was conducting an experiment to see if they'd stay fresh and colorful. They are really quite a pair.

Anyway, so the river rocks were supposed to cool the whiskey without melting like ice. Dad reports that it turns out, they don't cool the drink. I'm thinking that if that worked--if rocks held on to cold like that--mountain rivers would stay icy 'til June. But I'm not the scientifical one.

And on Friday night, I saw him inflate an air mattress with a leaf blower. Ingenuity.

I look different with a mustache.

Sunday afternoon, my mom and I joined the literati of Sylva, NC to hear Ron Rash read from his new book of poems. I admire his work, and he's one of the town's favorite sons. If you liked Serena, you'll be glad to know he has a new novel coming out in April. I think that when the movie of Serena gets made, he'll be a big(ger) deal. Anyway, we got some culture and there was wine there.

Then we went to an antiques barn, where I inspected every piece of merchandise in the place. I scored a Russell Wright cream pitcher, perfect condition, for six bucks. Now I will spend my life looking for its sugar bowl. WHERE ARE YOU, SUGAR BOWL? I also snagged a $7 Italian vase that I think isn't exactly Bitossi but is a Bitossi cousin or step-cousin. Nice mid-century look, in any case.

That's it on the left. It looks happy with its new family, the little Rosenthal-Netter and that Danish egg thing, don't you think?

Mom and Dad took us to a new swimming hole on Straight Fork Creek, just inside the national park. It was beautiful. Also, this just in: beagles are not water dogs. Percy checked the place out for a while, and then went and sat by the car. I had to snap a pic of her in her signature pose.

What I didn't do this weekend was blog. Darn it! But it was such a nice respite from Atlanta, where it was hot as balls last week. Did y'all have a nice one? Did you get Irened?

Missed you. More tomorrow. xoxo

Flursday Digest

2011-08-25T23:59:00.002-04:00

Tonight I lay down in Hank's room while he was going to bed and I fell asleep. Then I woke up feeling hot and pissy. I stumbled downstairs and found that, when Matt went to the store to buy diet soda, he purchased a carton of chocolate ice cream, and that one thing gave me the will to go on in the world. I mostly want to look at cargo pants online, but blogging is better because it will not lead to the purchase of cargo pants. So here are a few items:

1. I took Hank to the little meet-the-teacher event today. I was pleasantly surprised to see that they'd changed all the "John Henry" labels to Hanks. Funny, that's not what I thought they were going to do, but I can chill out, identity/spelling crisis averted! Hank seemed fine with the people and the classroom and all. Later he told Matt about his teachers. Miss L is an older lady and Miss C is younger. He said, and I swear, "So I do like old people, but I like Miss C the best, but it's not mean to say that because I do like Miss L too." Clearly he warmed to the young and pretty teacher more, but he's doesn't want to appear age-ist. He was quite taken with the indoor playground too, and told Matt that it has a slide that takes an hour to go down.

2. Yesterday I watched Laura's tennis lesson for the first time in a long while. We took a few weeks off in the summer, but she's been taking a weekly small group lesson since April. For a long time, it was clear all the girls were having fun, but they were awkward and funny to watch. Then, yesterday, I went to watch, and darned if they haven't learned tennis! Their strokes look good, they can volley back and forth, and Laura's serve is pretty. I told Normal Neighbor that we should have a Mother-Daughter tournament, except that I might not be good enough to be Laura's partner. It was fun to see that their time and practice has paid off.

Then the coach gave them all popsicles, and there were popsicles for the little brothers who'd helped pick up balls, and there were popsicles for the moms too. Popsicles for everyone. Then all the girls and Hank changed into their swimsuits and jumped into the pool. Watching Laura with her girlfriends, I could see she felt happy and free, and I said to Normal Neighbor, "In my next life I want to come back as one of my kids."

3. Pretty Neighbor and I have been hitting our workout hard. We haven't missed a day this week, bolstered by a study that shows beer is better than water at hydrating you after exercise. A study! It is science, people! And I am spending an alarming amount of time wearing a pair of short spandex shorts. I now think that they are proper attire for many occasions. Hello world, this is me.

4. Normal Neighbor got somewhat ambiguous results from her scan. She is going to talk to a surgeon about having this procedure where they will remove the little spot from her abdominal wall--a spot they can't decide about even after the scan--and give her heated intraperitoneal chemo, right there in surgery. It sounds kind of scary to me. Her oncologist thinks she might be a perfect candidate. She is worried that the recovery will be rough. I'm worried about that too.

5. Matt and I have been watching "That Mitchell and Webb Look" on Netflix streaming. It's a British sketch comedy show, and it has moments of pure brilliance. If you need a short thing to watch to unwind with your beloved, this is a good choice. Watch some clips on the YouTube.

6. Speaking of the YouTube, here is Hank dancing. This vid is too long, but I do recommend the first 30 seconds or so.

I have loved y'all's comments on my post yesterday. I so enjoy what y'all have to say. Smooches.
B

It Pays To Increase Your Word Power

2011-08-24T23:59:00.003-04:00

At the fifth grade curriculum night last night, Matt met Laura's English/Language Arts teacher and heard about this vocabulary program they do--you probably have it in your school--where the kids learn Latin (and later Greek) word stems, prefixes, and suffixes, and build up a healthy reading vocab from that.

As a little illustration of her goals, the teacher gave Matt a list of 100 Classic Words that are said to let students "read comfortably" in classic lit. Go take a look and see what you think.

When I got home from my meeting and we sat down to swap info, Matt mentioned the list and said, "There were two words on the list that I wasn't quite sure about."

Reader, my interest was piqued. Positively piqued.

(Sidebar: Matt insisted, "Okay later when you blog this, you have to find a way to tell them that, when I said I didn't know two of the words, your eyes shone." It may be true. My intense interest in this vocabulary issue may have been communicated through my eyes. As they are the window to the soul. And my soul was on fire to know what words Matt didn't know, so I could see if I knew them, not out of a desire to one-up him, but because this is where I live, where we both live. When he brandished that list, it was like, oh let us commence to play.)

Then he handed me the list and my eyes immediately went to a little '?' he had drawn next to "verdure." This made me, I admit, begin to smile involuntarily, because I knew what verdure meant. I knew I knew! And Matt, seeing this involuntary twitching of my lips, was like, "Oh you are so happy right now!" And I was! Then he said, "Well, I suppose it means greenery," and I was like, yes. Go Latin!

Then he said the other word he wasn't sure of was "fain." We agreed that this is a tricky one, as it is truly, truly archaic. You will read it in old books, but you will never hear a living person say it. He said he had a sense of it though, and thought it meant reluctant. It means the opposite of that, "willing, glad, or eager," which I only knew from reading old stuff. The only example I could think to quote him was from one of John Donne's sonnets, where the narrator says (addressing God), "Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain, but am betrothed unto your enemy." That was in the seventeenth century, and I think "fain" was on the way out then. I would look in the OED but that is so many buttons to press.

That is a really hot poem, now that I think of it.

Anyway, of the whole list, I thought "fain" was the least likely to be in the reading vocab of even an educated reader. What do you think?

Funny, when I looked at the list, I got tripped up by "tremulous." Which is way more familiar, right? I mean, I would have said that it meant "fearful," but when I come upon a word like that, it crowds into my mind with so many of its synonyms and cousins--timid, timorous, trembling, trepidatious--that I start to think I might not know exactly what it means, that I might have it confused with something else. It's a word I would avoid for that reason, I just don't feel totally confident of it.

Then we were just tucking in to a juicy discussion of "sublime" in all its different senses in aesthetics, philosophy, and critical theory, and then a phone rang and also the dog needed to be let out, and I forgot the no-doubt crucial point about Edmund Burke I was making. Just as well.

So I guess there is no great punchline to this story. I just know y'all like words, right? And this is a thing that happened in my house. Also, I am blogging every day.

Love,
me

Our Pre-K Class Is "Peanut-Friendly"

2011-08-23T23:59:00.002-04:00

Thanks be to Zeus and George Washington Carver for that.

Tonight, Matt and I did what you should never do in a haunted house. Heh, we split up. He went to Curriculum Night for the fifth grade, which turned out to be fiendishly complicated, what with the switching of classes for different subjects and all the different teachers to find and meet, and then the having a list of 100 Latinate vocabulary words handed to him. Of which more about in a mo'.

So he did that and I went to the parents' meeting at Hank's new school. Now, Hank is not in Kindergarten yet, owing to his having just turned five and my wanting to guarantee his total shock-and-awe domination when he does finally matriculate, so he is going to a "young 5's" pre-K class at the big red church across the street from the medium white church where he went last year. The white church's school was fine, you know, nothing to really complain about except that they were a tiny bit DULL and he never loved going there. Cf, the blueberry incident. Meh. The big red church is supposed to be the bestest one, the one with the long, long waiting list for every year, conveniently, except the 5's. ('Cause most of the 4's go on to Kindergarten, I suppose.)

Anyway, it is a lovely place. Great outdoor space as well as a shiny, fancy indoor playground, a library, and a PE teacher. Really, a better facility than many, many elementary schools. Both of the 5's classes are headed by certified teachers. They have gobs of experience. I was thinking tonight, if this place were in Manhattan, it would cost 30k a year and there would be people trying to bribe their way in. And, if the program is as good as the staff kept telling us in their little presentation, it will be plenty good enough. Seriously, it was all, "Big Red Church is the premiere preschool in this area. Congratulations!" That was the pastor of the church saying that, not the director of the school. But okay folks, I am ready to be persuaded. Show me.

Then we went to our classrooms and I saw that on the class list posted by the door, they had Hank down as John. Understandable, because his name is John Henry, but I am sure than when I was filling out all the reg forms, I had "Hank" everywhere. I thought I'd better mention it to the teachers before they went crazy labeling his cubbies and folder and coat hook and everything. Hank is what he calls himself, Hank is what he can write, Hank is what he can read. Hank is, you know, his name. Hank the Tank. Hank Hank Hoobastank.

He is just such a Hank.

Also, you need to know that Matt and I regard the naming of our children as among our greatest accomplishments as parents. Sometimes we still high-five each other and say, "Nailed it." True fact.

So I introduced myself and said, "I'm John's mom, but you know, he goes by Hank. I wanted you to know before you wrote his name on everything." Well, they had already done just that--labeling it all "John Henry"--but the assistant teacher was making noises like they would just change everything. Then the head teacher said, "But what would you like him to learn to write?"

And that caught me up short. I mean, John Henry is his name, yes, and I do expect that one day he will write it and own it. So should he start learning that now? I didn't know what to say. What is the purpose of the labeled cubbie? Is it just so the child knows where to stow his bag? Or is proclaiming him back to himself? Reinforcing what he already thinks? Does a child need to be challenged by his cubbie label? Made to deal with the slight unfamiliarity, the momentary dislocation of realizing that, after all, it is oneself who that strange cubbie name refers to? I guess what I'm saying is, what is in a name?

Am I over thinking this?

Then the teacher said, "Because I do think it's good for him to learn to write his official name." And what I said was, "Well...I guess...that's right...it's just that we are nickname people..." (Nickname people? HUH? Meeting me, you would never, never think that I am smart.) So we buzzed about it a bit more and the way we left it, I think, is that they were going to put "Hank" in a few key places and he was also going to take on the mantle of John Henry. I was very clear that they need to call him Hank when talking to him or he will just not even turn around.

The version of what I just told you sounded like the following when I came home and told Matt about it: "They've got all his stuff labeled John Henry and they want him to learn that, so I don't know, I guess we will work on it." And he was like, "Okay." Reader, I concealed my inner turmoil.

Oh, and the teacher said that nobody in the class has a peanut allergy, which is good, because peanut butter is the base of Hank's food pyramid. And I think the class will be good. I hope it is not too rigid, I don't think so. I am hopeful. I hope they will engage his attention and let him play enough and generally have happy times, and that they will know he is my golden treasure. Also I met a few moms who were nice. One of them had a great Marc Jacobs Blake bag from several years back, and I thought, "Oh it is ON woman!"

You know, just a normal night of hopefulness, questions of identity, latent competitiveness, doubt, self-examination, surprising moments of connection, and yearning, like you get at literally any parents' night.

Oh lord the vocab list. Will have to tell you tomorrow.

Edited to add: Matt read this and said that in no way did I conceal my inner turmoil. Hmnph.

Oh, Well Let's Go with That Then

2011-08-22T22:26:00.002-04:00

The other night I was milling around in the cafeteria at Laura's open house. I tacked toward the table for volunteer sign-ups and stood, studying the twenty or so possible lists I could add myself to.

My reverie was broken when I heard my name growled. I knew exactly who it was because the only person who manages to startle me ROUTINELY in what should be normal social situations with no moments of alarm mingled with annoyance, is my neighbor the Bunco Girl. I am calling her that because she roped me into playing Bunco one time. But she is also the Tennis Girl and the PTA Girl, God help us. And she's all over the swim team. She really is everywhere.

Do you remember that post? In it, Bunco Girl makes her debut. I just went back and read it. Goodness, what got into me? So bitchy!

Anyway, the woman is a good soul but she's gruff as a bear. She was calling my name, raising her eyebrows, and craning her neck forward to get my attention, looking slightly exasperated that I hadn't noticed her even though I'd just walked up. And it is ALWAYS like this, every time I run into her. So I always start our encounter feeling like I should apologize for having not seen her, as though I were deliberately not seeing her. I mean GAH.

I'll hit the fast forward button and tell you that I signed up to help with the tennis tournament she is organizing to benefit the school. And this morning I went to a meeting about it with about twelve other ladies. We had an agenda and spent a lot of time talking about getting sponsors for the event, getting a catered lunch donated, how the play would be organized, etc. The tournament is going to be held in Fancy Land, our neighboring subdivision, and their tennis director will run it. So a class event. As you will soon ask, what was I doing there?

We got to the agenda item for winners' prizes, and I spoke up, "What were we thinking for prizes? How about big Tervis tumblers? Everybody loves those things." And the girl to my left said, "No, I've got a contact at Waterford. We'll do crystal. I'm going to see if I can get tennis balls." Everyone nodded.

Oh. So not insulated plastic cups but instead lead crystal. Sure, that sounds neat too. I guess.

And a "contact at Waterford"? Like, in Ireland? Okay, I'll hush now. I think those crystal tennis balls sound downright nifty. And then there was some discussion of whether people prefer a bowl (yes) and whether it should be engraved on the bowl or on a pedestal. And then I had a flashback to the crystal bowl that Obama got on his inauguration day. I have issues with the engraved pedestal and we should leave it there.

I mean, people DO really like those Tervis tumblers.

So I managed to sign up for helping with set up and clean up. NOT for selling raffle tickets or acquiring raffle items or something else I don't want to do.

I will keep you posted on this matter.

Happy Hour with Normal Neighbor

2011-08-21T19:27:00.001-04:00

A few of us gathered for drinks at Normal Neighbor's on Friday, and this afternoon I sat with her at the pool. Lots of good NN time. If you're just coming around, I have told in the past about Normal Neighbor's colon cancer, here and here. I thought I'd give y'all an update.

When she was diagnosed back in January, I was terrified for her. After her surgery I was still terrified for her, as they were able to remove all the cancer from her colon but had to leave a couple of lymph nodes. Now, though, I'm happy to report that she is doing great. She had six cycles of chemo, and not the twelve she'd first thought she was having. That was a huge relief, because chemo was really tough on her. She had every side effect going. Terrible neuropathy, nausea, fatigue, blurry vision (!), you name it. I thought, there's no way she can live like this for twelve cycles.

I brought her lunch at chemo one day and sat with her until she could go home. I wondered what I would have made of the place if I hadn't been through it myself. It's not exactly cheery, an infusion room, and hers was less cheery than mine had been. Having done it, though, it just felt familiar. And while I was grateful I wasn't there for treatment, it was very much on my mind how possible it was that I could be there again one day. Mostly I hated that they couldn't seem to get a handle on her side effects. It was frustrating, as I didn't think she was making a big enough deal of it with her doctors.

She had a scan midway through her treatment that showed no cancer in her lymph nodes, so the chemo had worked and was working. There was one suspicious spot on her abdominal wall, but the surgeon thought it could be scar tissue from her surgery. Then she finished chemo at the end of June, and on Thursday she had another scan to take a look at everything. She'll hear the results Monday.

In the meantime, she had a great summer. She's back to playing tennis--our ALTA league starts Tuesday--and they went on some great trips. She's very tranquil about all of it, though we commiserated about how anytime we feel a pain, anywhere, we think, "It's the cancer." I told her that if my ankle hurts, I wonder briefly whether it could be ankle cancer. I try to mostly keep this hypochondria to myself.

So Friday she made little chicken salads in phyllo cups, and I walked around the corner with a bottle of wine. We gathered with the K(C)athies and another tennis friend on her back porch. Gossiping was carried out. One of the K(C)athies is getting a divorce, so we got updated on that. It was the first time I'd seen her since I got back into town at the end of July and noticed a 'For Sale' sign in her yard. The minute I saw it I thought, "Oh dear." She gave him divorce papers on Friday. So they have their house on the market, but they're both still living there. Awkward. We touched only lightly on the whole subject, she is not the gut-spilling type.

Then I told Normal Neighbor about the Dustbuster Mom, and after she finished a bout of hysterics, she said that she knows that family from girl scouts. She said, "Yes, she is friendly, but if you want to take them on, it might be a project." Hmm. The only anecdote she shared was that once her daughter had bailed out of a sleepover at the dustbuster house after only an hour, because it was "too chaotic." Then again, Normal Neighbor's daughter has some delicate sensibilities.

Then I sat with her at the pool today and she told me a bunch of things about how assy K(C)athy's husband is. Short version: assy, with anger problems.

Anyhoo. That is what is up around these parts. Housework, pool, now I'm making this soup.

Old Picture

2011-08-20T16:22:00.000-04:00

My sibs and me in 1984 or 1985, Hurricane Lake, FL

I found this little snapshot about to be thrown away with a pile of things from the basement. It was in a basket, sitting in the sandbox with a lot of other discarded stuff from my childhood room. I noticed the basket had a stack of photos in it. Every other picture was garbage, but this was on the bottom. I hate to think it was almost gone.

I have good relationships with my brother and sister today. We always did, and we are close. But this photo is poignant to me because it reminds me that there was a real, vital time when we all lived together and were growing up together. When I think about us today, I think about our adult relationships, especially with Dave, who was just seven when I went off to college. We are all busy and noisy and verbal when we get together these days. We have finished talking about being children together. There are tons of things to say to each other that have to do with our far-flung adult lives, lots of things we're engaged in, and just catching up on current events takes all our time. But in this picture, we are here together in our first family. It is moving to me. I can see in it that we are our integral selves, the same people we are now, that childhood isn't a waiting room for adulthood. We were David, Amy, and Becky then, if you get what I mean.

I showed this picture to Hank and he recognized me right away. But then he said, "I don't remember this time!" He assumed the little boy in the picture was him, because it does look so dang much like him. It kind of blew his mind. And I never realized how much Amy there is in Laura.

Dad, here is your blog post. He texted me this morning to complain that I hadn't posted late last night as has been my habit in August. I said that I was tired and that nobody was really interested in reading me on the weekend anyway. He replied that perhaps I ought to go out into the garden and eat a worm. See how he is the wind beneath my wings?

I do hope you are having a lovely Saturday.

I Have Practically Attained Nirvana in My Asceticism

2011-08-18T23:15:00.004-04:00

My mother-in-law Betty and I made our quarterly trip to Ikea today. The last time we went is here, and the time my sister almost lost her shizz in there is here. This time wasn't just a meatball trip, because Betty actually wanted to buy things. And buy them she did.

That was just one of our two carts. She bought those two armchairs (the Ekenas for you enthusiasts) and a couple of the Henriksdal dining chairs. And six pairs of curtains and a bunch of pillows. You should have seen the two of us getting those armchairs onto that cart. And then into my van. Oh me. I was sweating like a whore in church by the time it was over, and we had to take one of the chairs out of the box to fit it in, but we got her done.

I bought: three doormats (what becomes of all the doormats?); two tea towels with pictures of teacups on them; and that white plastic stool with the little rubber circles on top, the one that everyone has from Ikea. I think that is probably the most ubiquitous Ikea object out there. What do you think?

We've actually had one for years, but in our working on the basement, it worked its way down there, and yesterday I found myself needing it upstairs, and I was like, "I cannot live this way." Stools.

So I only spent like $21 and it was all cool. I just repeated my mantra, "I already have nice things," and it was fine. EXCEPT when I saw that they now make a cushion for the Poang chair--another thing maybe one in three people have--a cushion that is made of gray sheepskin. Holy macaroly. Look upon it. All must love it and despair.

It cost $189. I thought, "That pays for a month of electricity in the summer, when the A/C is running." That helped me walk away but I am not kidding, I have thought about it all afternoon. It is so me that there is no more me beyond that.

I mean, the two Poang chairs we have had for about eleven years do have functioning cushions, if a little worn and faded. When we first got those chairs, they were our main furniture. They've suffered a process of slow demotion over the years. Now, one is in the book room, and one is in the basement nerd lair. They are super comfy though, as you know if you have 'em.

This is a thrilling post: Old Furniture I Have Known

So, yes, Betty got some lovely things to fix up her living room. And Hank got a cinnamon roll and to play in the Smaland. And I got some meatballs and a feeling of sanctified austerity. A win-win-win.

Any retail item that's got you yearning?

Moonlighting

2011-08-17T22:39:00.001-04:00

Matt told me that he was walking through the paint department at Home Depot when something about the young guy working there caught his attention.

Matt said, "Am I crazy or are you also the paint guy at Lowe's?"

The guy looked straight at him and said, "You are not crazy, but I do not work at Lowe's."

Matt said, "Got it."

He told me he walked away berating himself for his lack of smoove moves, to have blurted out the question like that. 'Cause ya see, that guy did work at Lowe's! He did, he did! I would have been all, "Oh OKAY DUDE I'VE NEVER SEEN BEFORE! BECAUSE HOW WOULD I HAVE EVER SEEN YOU, HAVING NEVER BOUGHT PAINT AT HOME DEPOT, WHICH IS HERE, AT HOME DEPOT! MAY I WINK AT YOU NOW?"

Your secret is safe with me and my blog readers, Paint Department Guy!

(I just love being in the know about something. You?)

Matt and his boys moved down to work in the basement today. The project's not done, but it's habitable for them right now. We got all the walls fixed up and primed at least, and it just looks like they're white. The concrete floor looks good. The bathroom works. It still needs real paint and finish carpentry, but the FIVE of them just decided they couldn't stand another moment in the tiny veal-fattening pen of my guest room.

I forgot to take a picture before they moved in their mismatched, whickety-whack office furniture. But I will when we get the prettier paint up. They have a fridge down there and everything. I'd like to go hang out and drink soda and flush the toilet, but they're all, like, working and stuff.

So today, when they vacated their old room, I was pleased to see how big it really is. It just looked small with five desks in it. Funny, that. All that's left of them is some nerdy books and the dirty spot on the wall where Matt put his feet. First order of business: repaint that room. Second: use the groupon thing I bought for carpet cleaning (that room has carpet, gaargh).

The kids are thrilled to have an empty room to run into. It was the headquarters for an intense nerf gun battle earlier tonight. I totally get their excitement, it just gives you an expansive feeling, having new (old) space. And the downstairs, big time exciting! Something about that expanse of empty, shiny floor. Before the guys moved their desks down there, it would have been the most awesome private roller rink.

It is not late, but I'm going to crash. Smacks,
B

Other People's Housekeeping

2011-08-16T22:37:00.007-04:00

So Laura has only been back to school a few days, but she's made a new friend in her class, and on Friday afternoon, the girl's mom called me to invite Laura over. They're just one subdivision away, so I was over there dropping her off lickety split. The other mother was very friendly, outgoing, great. We chatted on the driveway for a minute and then I drove away.

When I came back for the pick-up, I stepped inside. I was regaling the mom with tales of our basement project (yes I'm talking about it with everyone), and saying hi to the other members of the family. There are three kids in the family and a couple of those tiny dogs that always seem to be wet on some part of their bodies. So while I'm chatting and trying to be all getting-to-know-you, my eyeballs are magnetically drawn to look at the staircase, which is right in front of me, facing the front door. It was a stair with hardwood steps and white painted risers. What I couldn't stop ogling was a black dirt stain in the middle of each riser, as though months (and years?) of feet had kicked the riser on the way up. I thought, this is totally an instance of how you sometimes don't see your own dirt, 'cause there is no way she wouldn't be scrubbing that right this minute if she knew how it looked. I was trying to pay attention to our convo but my neck wanted to swivel around and look at the stairs. I longed for a magic eraser and a moment alone.

Anyway, we said our fond farewells and then I was in the car with Laura. She said what a great time she'd had with her new pal. Then she said, "Their house is really messy though. It was kind of hard to be there." And then I'm all ears, but I'm trying to be all casual and not lead the witness, and I want to say DID YOU NOTICE THE STAIRS?? but I also don't want to be snitty, but I am hoping simultaneously that I'm raising a child who is observant of these things, even though it is not a huge deal, and so on. So what I decided to say was, "Oh?"

And she said, "Yes, we were making cookies in the kitchen, and it was kind of dirty, and Mrs. D was using a dustbuster to catch fruit flies out of the air."

I said, "Wait, she was doing WHAT?" And Laura described how her friend's mom was standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding a hand-held vacuum, like a butterfly hunter with a net, turning and spinning this way and that, jabbing into the air with her suction wand.

Y'all, I laughed this cleansing laugh that started deep in my belly and bounced off of the sky. It rumbled over the hills and awakened tawny deer nestling in the woods, my laugh did.

Just picturing it, man!

Then we were back home. I told Laura, "Okay, do it again, act out what she was doing." She assumed a half crouch, with the turning in a circle, the crinkled brow, and the semi-fearful jabbing at the air. And she said "Vrrm! Vrrm!" to be the vacuum cleaner noise. Vrrm! Vrrm! Jab jab. Vrrm vrrm!

I wonder if that even works as a way to rid one's living space of fruit flies?

As we say down here, BLESS HER HEART. I want to spend more time with this woman. I think her housekeeping needs work, but I really like her. She has a certain joie de vivre that I want to get next to. Just a hunch.

Vrrm vrrm!

Our Daily Blog

2011-08-15T23:40:00.002-04:00

BeckBloPoMo rolls on. (That's Beck's Blog Posting Month for those of you just joining us.) Let's do this blog post.

Last night Matt and I stayed up pretty late priming the main room in the basement. Until 4:00, I believe. We have a five-gallon bucket of primer and a lot of unpainted drywall. I got one of those little square pads that are good for edging, or "cutting in" as the pros insist on calling it even though nobody's dancing, and I edged/cut in everywhere. Then we both went to work with rollers. Turns out that using a long roller engages the muscle that I'd pulled a week ago, and which had slowly gotten better until I did a bunch of painting. Now there are certain positions that I can't get into and out of without making exaggerated grimaces. It's also a muscle that hurts when I sneeze or laugh. Or, I guess, sob, but nothing has gotten that bad yet.

Interlude: Before our painting work began, Matt came to where I was sitting on the couch, minding my own blogness. He said, "In a minute can you come down to the basement and hold the flashlight and not tell me that what I'm doing is crazy?"

While he said this, he was wearing knee pads.

Reader, I was intrigued. I told him I was fine with the first part, but that I wasn't sure what might come out of my mouth in the heat of the moment. It turns out that he was cutting more sheetrock but I can't talk about it.

Go now and get a drink from your fridge before Matt hangs sheetrock over it.

So, priming. Which is like painting only nothing is pretty afterwards. We got the main room finished and could have started the bathroom, but our trays were empty and it was late/early. You know, it was fine. I sound kind of negative right now, for no real reason. This morning I was rather draggy and tired. And all day I just felt a little, I don't know, flat.

It caused me to reflect on the fact that usually, I feel really, really good. Almost euphoric, even. I haven't talked about this. But I have wondered sometimes, especially in the last year or so, if I have some kind of mental issue or problem that causes me to feel better or happier than is strictly warranted. I think of it as my irrational exuberance. I do know to be grateful for this. It's odd, though. I always feel as though something wonderful is just around the corner, that something good is building. Somehow this coexists with, or is maybe sharpened by, the occasional dread and worry I feel about things. Is this a chemical thing? Is this just what we call being happy? Blogging-induced narcissism? (Prob-uh-blee.)

It's possible that I'm crazy from sleep-deprivation.

ANYHOO. So, we were up late priming, priming like crazy. We were prime as goats, hot as monkeys...ho ho! Shakespeare references are fun.

Sleep deprivation.

So all day I was a little flat and didn't want to do anything, and indeed not much got done. In the afternoon, Pretty Neighbor texted me and asked if we were going to get together for our workout. I had been hoping she would forget my phone number. But I could only say yes. So we did, even though I thought I was too tired and my muscle was too sore. I have an injury! But it was fine. And the workout made me feel good. And then we drank a beer.

And then I came home and Matt's mom was here, and we took Hank to the store and got him an icee, and I came home and made red beans and rice with sausage. And other stuff happened and it was all fine.

So this is a story of how I felt a little run down but basically fine. Brought to you in living color by daily blogging. See, this is the kind of stuff that winds up on the cutting room floor when I'm not blogging every damn day.

Now I really want to get horizontal but I'm actually going to go down and see if I can help Matt. Let's talk tomorrow.

Proper Send-Off

2011-08-14T23:52:00.001-04:00

Hank and I were playing Legos in the book room yesterday morning. As usual, it was some kind of pitched battle with heavy Lego fighting all over the place. A blue lego man got hit with a cannonball fired from one of my pirate boats, and he fell off the castle. Hank determined that he was dead and needed a grave, so I made a little box out of blocks and sealed the Lego man into it with a bigger block.

I said, "Okay, he is buried." Hank said, "Good job, now we need to visit his grave." So all the Lego people ceased their fighting, and we lined them up around the tomb. Hank said, "Now we need to say a prayer. Dear God, please bless this Lego guy who is dead."

"Amen," I added. We were silent.

I said, "Okay, is that it?"

Hank said, "No! Now we need to celebrate his life."

Epic Basement Action

2011-08-13T23:11:00.007-04:00

It took me all day yesterday to recover from what went on in the basement Thursday night. I've been too tired to even tell you, omg!!!!1!

Our builder dudes were finished with their work on Tuesday, a bit earlier than was expected. In accordance with his scheme, Matt then spent all day Wednesday and Thursday down there hanging drywall in three additional rooms. Since our marital discord around this plan the other day, I had kept my mouth shut and waited to see what would happen. I was busy with life on the main floor, but I thought maybe it would work out or maybe he would change his mind once he got into the project, and then we would move ahead with our floor staining and painting.

Matt did tell me that he had done drywall before. I was like, "Really? When in our sixteen years of marriage, a time in which I've been pretty closely observing you, did you manage to get around and hang some drywall?" (That's me keeping my mouth shut.) He reminded me that he did construction one summer in college. Ah. I hadn't remembered that. I just remembered how tan and muscly he was when he got back to school. So yes, drywall. Drywall is hot!

And then, lo, he got it done, he got all the drywall in place. One thing I forgot in this situation is that Matt is like a force of nature. Once he decides to do something, something that is important to him, he will not stop. Honey badger don't care.

So it got to be Thursday evening and Matt had not surfaced from his basement activities. I knew that according to the timeline he had in his head, he wanted to have the first coat of stain on the concrete floor by bedtime. That meant that the drywall needed to be taped and have the first round of mudding done. Then the storage area--a room we call the bomb shelter--needed to be cleared out because we're staining the whole floor, even in the unfinished areas. Then the bare floor needed to be cleaned, and cleaned well. Then the stain needed to be put on.

I decided that I better step in and help, and that this situation was covered in some portion of our marriage vows. I can't remember which part but I know I promised a buncha things. So I put the kids to bed Thursday night and went down into the depths about ten o'clock. Our bud (and Matt's coworker) Lincoln showed up to help.

Reader, we worked until 6:30 Friday morning. OMG. Yes, to the break of dawn!

It was not the all-nighter that dreams are made of.

First I got a crash course in taping drywall. It involved getting up and down off a stepladder a lot. Then I got to apply the joint compound. That was kind of fun--the joint compound is the consistency of heavy-duty frosting, and it was like decorating a fugly cake. When that was done I was kind of tired.

But nobody showed any sign of slowing down. The whole time Matt and I had been working on the drywall, Lincoln was emptying the bomb shelter. He picked things up and carried them out the back door for two hours. We chatted. They talked about work a lot. I frosted the walls.

Then that was done and the entire 1500 square feet of basement floor was cleared off. We swept. Then I vacuumed, and then Matt vacuumed. That white dust that sheetrock produces...oh man, we sucked so much of that off the floor and out of the crevices. At one point the vacuum cleaner gave signs of walking off the job, and Matt took it out into the backyard and gave it a talking to. Or cleaned the filter. Then Lincoln and I mopped, the old-fashioned way, with two buckets of water, one for clean water and soap, and the other to rinse.

Have you ever mopped a concrete slab? It does not make you feel like the smiling housewife in a 1950's commercial. More that the water disappears before your very eyes, soaked into the concrete, and you hardly feel like you're doing anything, except the mop and then the water and then you get filthy. And this feels like progress. Also, mopping is hard. It wasn't like schmooping or schmopping or whatever my hardwoods, with the cute microfiber mop head and the darling spray bottle. This mopping made my back sore. And it was a lot of floor and it's not smooth, frictionless floor.

Even so, morale was high. There was a definite esprit de corps, and many hands make light work and all. It just got later and later. And Matt showed no signs of stopping. Like the Oompa Loompas in that one part of that movie. Or like Kurtz. Dude was determined. Did I totally get the timeline and the urgency? Do I now? Not really, but I didn't want to be the weakest link.

Somehow in typing all this it doesn't seem like that much work. But at the time, I swear, I thought, "We few, we happy few! The bards will sing of what we have done this night!"

We got the floor clean, and it was dry almost immediately. Matt rigged up the sprayer with the concrete stain and put the first coat down. We sprayed our way out of the basement and up the stairs. I staggered into the dawn and realized that Laura was getting up for school. I got her on her way, showered, and fell asleep. And Hank, bless his sweet heart, slept until after ten o'clock.

Not much was accomplished on Friday. I was too tired to work out with my neighbor. But not too tired to roll over there and eat birthday cake with her family. I figure I burned a lot of calories mopping that concrete slab.

So the floor is coming along. Matt put a second coat of sealer on it this afternoon. I'll do a post with all the floor details, it might be edutaining for someone. Here's what it looked like after the first coat of sealant.

Shiny!

So that is what is going on below decks. And the whole night, Matt and I got along beautifully and never squabbled. Until today when he started talking about something crazy and I was all, uh, not on my watch beeyotch, and he was all ??? and I said, um, I didn't mean for that to sound as negative as it did and he said, yeah, you couldn't have meant for that to sound as negative as it did.

I'm paraphrasing.

Longest post ever.

Happy Saturday, my dears!

Just Ask Anyone

2011-08-12T02:34:00.001-04:00

First Day of School

Laura went to her first day of fifth grade today and came home full of her usual vim. I met her at the bus stop, and when we got into the house I said, "Okay, tell me everything that happened. You got on the bus, and then what?" Later, when we were having supper, Matt said to her, "Okay, so tell me everything that happened today. Start with getting on the bus. Who did you sit with?" We were a willing audience for her reportage and she was a very willing narrator.

The thing that's rocking her world the most is that one of her teachers is a real, live man. This is a first. The fifth graders switch classrooms for different subjects, and she has a dude for her Math teacher and she is already crazy about him. Thus begins her life of having crushes on male teachers and professors, as certain other people have done before her. Until she gets to grad school, and then suddenly it's the female professors who are more crushable. That's a whole 'nother story, what was I talking about?

So Laura applied today to be a peer tutor and be matched with a Kindergarten kid. She brought home her application, on which she had written her qualifications:

I believe I would be a good peer tutor because I love kids, I have been around the school a long time, and I do not get exasperated easily. I am very patient and I get good grades. I also have great behavior. Just ask anyone!

The "just ask anyone" absolutely slew me. "I mean, don't take my word for it! Just ask anyone. Literally anyone." Her complete and joyous confidence is heartening and even inspirational to me. I imagine there will be world enough and time for it to be tempered with a little modesty.

Have some of you guys started back to school? I know in civilized places there are weeks more of summer vacation. Such a weird time of year, I feel pulled in two directions.

Gotta go back downstairs and help mud the drywall. Oh yes. You'll be hearing about it. xoxox

I Got A Box Full of Letters

2011-08-10T23:19:00.003-04:00

Do you know that song by Wilco? It came out the year I got married. It has a verse I think is funny:

I got a lot of your records,
in a separate stack.
There's some things I might like to hear,
But I guess I'll give them back.

That says more about the end of a relationship than entire novels I have read. It's that word "might." Economy of language, friends.

Sunday before last, the kids and I got home from the mountains really late. As late as it was, Matt was down in the basement busily sorting and clearing out so that Larry and Darryl the basement guys could start the next morning. I wanted to just stare into his eyes and feed each other grapes, you know, but he had different ideas. He led me to four cardboard boxes. I tried to pretend I had no idea what he was asking, but his meaning was clear. I recognized the four boxes as things from my old room at my parents' house. Boxes that had come straight to our basement unsorted. Three of them were books, but one was a box full of letters.

Matt wanted me to go through them and decide what to keep and what to chuck, so I did. I was merciless on the books. Then I opened the last box. There were three strata: high school stuff with a little middle school thrown in, letters to and from college friends and boyfriends, and notes and memorabilia from my study-abroad time in Rome. I knew that if I'd had time and a more comfortable place to sit, I could have fallen headlong into a slough of memory and desire. But I was kind of efficient. When I found bits of an old journal, say, I didn't read it so much as take note of its existence and move on. This was all stuff I had wanted to save at one time. Now a good bit of it was garbage. I threw away a bunch of grades and official records/awards type junk. I kept a fair amount of high school writing, my own and others'. I kept anything that had been written by a friend I still have today. So if you are within the sound of my voice right now, and you knew me in high school, there's some poetry of yours that needs analyzing. I threw away my ACT scores but kept my SAT's, figure that one out. I threw away my notes from my Opera class in Rome, I kept the Art History ones.

The absolutely untouchable category was the letters. It's amazing to think now, but in the early nineties, we college kids wrote each other letters. Lots of them. I had a tight-knit circle of friends, and when we were separated by school breaks or study abroad, we wrote. Some long letters, some postcards. Now those letters speak of lazy summers and low-end jobs we had between terms. Who has time to do that anymore? It's odd. I think we had email addresses--I remember the school gave them to us, maybe--but we must not have used them? I know I never in college had a personal computer. Now, by early 1995 when my long-distance courtship with Matt was heating up, we were both on AOL. Then we emailed and IM'd and all the rest. But there are lots of letters between us from before the dawn of email. I felt pleasure pulling them out of the box. Something about that physical, tangible object. It feels like a gift from the letter writer, the letter is a gift to you of the time it took to write and send it.

Of course, at the same time, this is what my dissertation was about: letters and letterness, especially the way a letter's controlling fiction is that it's an intimate, true, "real" piece of the writer's presence. Once, in a class I taught, one of my brilliantest students was musing on the difference, in genre terms, between a letter and a postcard. She said, "It's like a letter presents the person and is all about closeness, and a postcard embraces the distance." And I thought, "I could put down my chalk and leave the room, 'cause they get it."

Anyway, so I was pulling these various letters from various people out of the box and exclaiming over them. I couldn't get into reading them because there were miles to go before we slept, and Matt and I hadn't seen each other in a few days and we had important chatting to chat. So I put them all in a safe keeper pile. I just don't have it in me to throw out someone's personal letter.

Which brings me to the funny thing that happened: down in the box was a pile of letters to an old boyfriend of mine from another old girlfriend of his, somebody before me. I never knew this person or laid eyes on her. There were ten or twelve letters on business-sized stationery. She had beautiful handwriting and she decorated the outside of the envelopes. Again, who has time to do this anymore? Reader, I don't know why I had these. Maybe they were part of some of his belongings that transferred to me somehow? We never lived together so I don't know. I didn't remember them at all. I don't know if I had once read them or not. It seemed an odd thing for me to keep. But there was no way I could throw them away.

So I messaged the old boyfriend on the facebook. We've always been on good terms; we have mutual friends, though it's been ten years since I saw him. I told him, hey, I found these old letters from your old girlfriend X, don't know why I have 'em. Would you like me to send them to you? I didn't want to throw them away, but if you don't want them now, lemme know and I will give them a respectful burial.

And he hasn't written back to me. That was a week and a half ago. I'm kind of surprised I didn't hear right back, one way or the other. He is married now, but I wasn't offering to send him naked pictures of this other girl. So I don't know. Maybe it just seemed like something he didn't really want to deal with? Or didn't want to make a decision about? If he doesn't ask for them (I don't know his address), I really have no reason in the world to keep them, except that it seems utterly impossible to throw out the work of someone's hand like that.

What would you do? What will probably happen is that they'll live in my possession for another fifteen years. And then I will be less sentimental and one day they'll get tossed. Or my heirs will puzzle over who are these people and are these now precious family treasures?

That was a nice night in the basement, even if we weren't feeding each other grapes. I thought about how much I enjoy Matt's company and who he is and our life together, and how sometimes I feel like life is rushing by and there might not be enough time to talk about all the things I want to talk about with him.

It's hilarious that I've had this blog for three years, because in all that box of letters, I didn't read anything that I had written. I put it all aside for some future time when maybe I can stand myself. You know?

Other Important Things Besides Our Basement

2011-08-10T01:04:00.005-04:00

School starts on Thursday and Laura will be in the fifth grade. I took her to get a back-to-school haircut today. I know that as a mother, there is no greater gift I can give her than the confidence that comes from a salon blowout.

Can you tell in this picture we are a tiny bit in love with ourselves? Tonight was her school's open house, and she joked about how she'd introduce herself to her teacher: "Hi, I'm Laura, and this is my blowout. Where is our desk please?" She even stayed home from the pool this afternoon to keep it nice. I mean, the girl loves the pool, but that is the smooth blonde hair of dreams. She'll probably sleep sitting up until Thursday.

You should see my hair right now. I am like a tawny lion. Here.

That's mah hair pushed back with a little headband. When I've just washed it, like I did today, the curls cannot be tamed. Forgive the low light and Michelle Bachmann crazy eyes. Lion! Rawrr!

Hank is not so concerned as Laura with his coiffure.

Yesterday I was out with Hank, and he climbed down from the car and stood in the parking lot. "It is hot as HELL out here," he said. He made this pronouncement not at all like he thought he was swearing, just exactly like I would say it. I couldn't even come up with a correction, because he was perfectly right. It was absolutely mothereffing hot as the hinges of hell and it was the perfect moment to remark such. I just said, "Mm hmm. Now hold my hand in the parking lot."

Then, THEN, I walked Hank and his buddy into Kangazoom, one of those bounce house places. A while back, they had a Groupon that offered a 10-visit punch card for $20 or $30. I can't remember which, but it was a really good price. We had gone once, in the spring, right after the Groupon, but I was waiting until a day when it was, you know, hot as hell to come back. So Hank and his bud and I all walked into Kangazoom, all wearing the all-important socks and ready to rock. I signed the little waivers for the boys. And the girl behind the counter told me that would be $18.50. Yes, a walk-in visit to this place costs $9.25, choke. I remembered I hadn't shown her my punch card, so I pulled it out of my wallet.

She pointed to our little friend, "Is he related to you?" No, I told her, he's our friend. She said, "Well you can't use the punch card for him, it's just a family pass." I studied the punch card. "When did that start?" I asked. "It's been that way from the beginning," she said. Hmm, I thought. She said, "Did you get that from the Groupon?" And I said I had. "It was on the Groupon," she said. Hmm. I didn't remember any provision that the pass was only good for one's own children, but I supposed it was just possible. I didn't want to make a huge thing. "Okay," I said. While I was looking in my wallet, she had a sudden change of heart, punched the card twice, and handed it to me. "Here," she said, "I've had a really bad day." I didn't know what to make of that so I thanked her and joked, "Is all the screaming getting to you?" "No," she said, "It's the moms." Whoa. So I smiled and we went on in and the boys jumped.

And I looked up my Groupons right there on my handy Groupon app. I could still read the fine print for the Kangazoom deal. There was nothing anywhere that indicated it was to only be used for one's own family. That wouldn't even make sense. How would that even be worded? It just said that it was valid for one punch per child per day. It annoyed me because it seems like a clear instance of the merchant, in this case Kangazoom, thinking better of the whole Groupon thing and wanting to have backsies on the deal, at the expense of the customer. Which will do nothing but tick people off, because even if I'd had to pay for our friend right then, I am gonna get my ten free jumps sometime. I would have complained to Groupon if the girl hadn't gone ahead and honored the punch card. I still might. Heck, I am now. If the point of participating in Groupon is to build goodwill among customers who have a choice of a million other bounce places, this won't do it.

Anybody had a similarly icky situation with a Groupon? I've heard mixed things. I've always been happy with the ones I've bought, but I'm pretty selective. Like, only buying Groupons for restaurants we already go to, stuff like that.

ANYHOO. I bought the boys each a drink and snack from their snack bar because she'd made me feel like a freeloader. And a good time was had by all.

And now Matt is down in the basement poking around. I better go see what he is doing! And offer my opinion!!

So Harmonious Already, Like Oxen Sharing A Yoke

2011-08-09T01:01:00.006-04:00

Well, that didn't take long. Matt and I have already enjoyed our first home improvement argument. Or it wasn't a full-blown argument as neither of us would show steel over something like this. It was more that we sketched out the contours of a possible argument that we could have and then I left the field, perhaps saying something like, "Well obviously you have no need of my opinion," like one says, and then Matt called foul on me for saying that and criticized the approach I was taking to the argument. It was like a meta-argument except that the idea of a meta-argument makes me so exhausted I would never admit to beginning or engaging in one.

Aren't you so glad I'm blogging every day?

The scene was set by a long trip we made to the home improvement store tonight. Matt was going and for some reason I wanted us all to go. I am still giddy with the notion of paint cards and floor finishing and things that are fun, you know? So the idea of going seemed exciting. It wasn't as exciting after I remembered I don't really like those places and then I wound up holding Hank in my arms due to an invisible, minor, and possibly illusory scratch he suffered on his arm. Before that, I did manage to have a long conversation with the flooring associate about carpet for the basement stairs. I found out that installing carpet on stairs costs $13 per stair, and that all carpet is scandalously ugly. It just is. I have carpet all over my second floor, and I've never really felt one way or the other about it. But I realized I've never bought carpet, and it isn't fun to pick out. Especially on those disembodied sample sheets. Seriously, there were some Berber samples she showed me that made me feel like I would never be joyful again. That wasn't Matt's fault.

The whole point of the trip was so that Matt could do some reconnaissance on what would be involved in going further than the basement guys are going, and sheetrocking a couple more rooms himself after they finish what they're doing. When he told me this plan, he prefaced it by saying, "Free your mind." Which is our throat-clearing utterance that we use when we want to propose something that may be met with resistance. I promised that my mind was free, and then when it turned out that his plan was something to do with building materials, I was like, "Fine, if you want to do that, go for it." And on the way to the store, I was supportive. I let him know this by saying, "I'm supportive of your plan."

But once we got home, the kids were in bed, and we were standing down in the basement, I just felt that he was being a scoosh unrealistic about how much can be accomplished before next Monday, which is when he wants all his guys to move down there and work. He says Monday is "not negotiable." Keeping in mind that Larry and Darryl the basement guys will not be gone until Wednesday. And we then need to clean and prep the floor, stain and seal it, and paint the walls. I can't see a major construction project happening if Monday is the goal. That was my position, and to strengthen it I cited Matt's well-documented and not-always-warranted optimism about how much can be done in a limited amount of time. I could give you chapter and verse, but it will all be in the biography I will write about him so I will spare you here. His optimism and self-belief are among his most appealing traits, they are. Anyway.

So I was like, "It will take us all four days to do this floor and paint. There is no time for anything else." And he was all, "Yes there is. I will do it." And then I realized that there was no need for me to draw that line in the sand. What was I arguing for? If the man wants to hang some sheetrock, why not? He wasn't asking me to stand there and hold his nail apron.

Then I gestured to a wire rack hanging on the wall, where I used to store gift wrap. I told him that I looked forward to having a little gift wrap station down there again, maybe with a little table under it. He said, "Hmm, maybe in the far future, but there won't be anything in these rooms that isn't office-related." And then I was like, you're kind of being a butt, and killing my joy. And he said he didn't want to kill my joy.

But it was too late. The joy was dead. Then I stood up and brushed off the seat of my shorts and came up here to tell you about it. He followed me to admonish me for beginning to argue about the basement. That's also what we call being a butt.

Possibly I was also being a butt, due to some submerged and obscure issues of my own. I don't know.

So that is what's going on in basement today.

I'm glad we had this talk. I'm sure in a little while we'll be lapping out of the same dish again.

I love you guys and I know you would never tell me I can't have a gift wrap station in your new home office.

B

Sunday Science

2011-08-07T23:59:00.003-04:00

Are you curious about what happens when you drop a smoke bomb into a glass of water? The SubMat family bravely carried out that very experiment last week and I give you the results here. Please forgive the odd moment when I turned my iphone sideways while recording.

Does this count as a vlog? Am I a vlogger?

What are y'all up to? Except for our trip to the hardware store yesterday, I have not left the house. Last night the Hamiltons came over, and we had Mexican takeout and played a card game Matt made. Speaking of science, today I taught Laura how to clean a toilet. Then I showed her how to use Spotify. (Guess which one she liked better?) Actually, an old post of mine about the proper way to clean a toilet still gets Google traffic every day. Yet Klout continues to say that I'm influential on "parenting, Manhattan, photography, and shoes." What the hecks, Klout? Why are you so blind to my toilet influence? I've now blogged about toilets like three days in a row. (Sorry.) I mean, Manhattan? I did go there one time.

So Laura and I tackled the bathrooms today, then I vacuumed the downstairs, getting the baseboards and all the corners where it turns out Fabienne had been kinda half-assing it. Yes Virginia, there is such a thing as vacuuming under a couch. Then I cooked a chicken. Then I jumped on the trampoline with Hank and pulled a muscle. Now I'm reading a library book. I know it is boring, but I said I would blog every day and this is what happens.

Shall we reconvene tomorrow?
Love,
Me

We Are Flushed with Excitement

2011-08-06T23:59:00.003-04:00

This is Laura exulting in the fact that there's now a working toilet in our basement. That's the bathroom-in-progress behind her. As soon as the kids saw that potty, they both wanted to use it. Something about the novelty of peeing in a room in your house you could never pee in before? I will admit that I felt it too, the desire to give the toilet its maiden flush.

It is exciting though, just the idea of having more usable space in the house. The basement guys were down there all week, working on a couple of rooms for Matt and the four (!) other guys who are now in my guest room. (They hired another guy last week and things officially went from crowded to some kind of reality-show dare.) The basement space is going to be very basic--no granite wet bar--but it will give us all some much-needed wiggle room. Like I will get to wiggle back into what used to be my office.

In a spasm of frugality, Matt told the basement guys that we would do the floor and the painting ourselves. Because we are so, so handy. No, we are not. But we are game. And I have always liked the look of a concrete floor that has been stained and buffed, so we decided that's what we'd do. I researched it this morning. Most DIY websites make it seem super-duper complicated, like, compose your mind, then put on rubber waders and etch/clean the floor with acid, and then neutralize the acid with baking soda, and then pour out libations to the gods, then clean up the libations with a shop-vac, and so on.

Then I read a bunch of old Apartment Therapy posts and people were like, "Oh yeah, just throw some stain on that shit! Put a bird on it!" So I thought that if the actual task were somewhere in between those two scenarios, we could handle it.

We loaded up the whole family and went to the big box home improvement store. Matt and I talked to a fairly knowledgeable dude in the paint department, and he made it seem pretty simple. He told us that with an untreated slab, like we have in the basement, there is no need to etch it or clean it with acid, it is rough enough. We can just clean it, clean it again, apply the stain with a sprayer, and then decide if we want to put a glossy sealer on it (I do). So we left there with the tools we need to do the job, we think. I'm sure you will hear more about this.

The basement guys should be finished in the middle of the week. I will not miss the pounding. Oh my God, the pounding. When I returned from the mountains late last Sunday night, Matt warned me that they would be starting work at 7:30 the next morning. I thought, "It will be in the basement, I sleep on the second floor, how loud could it be?" Oh ha. Ha ha. It turns out that when someone is doing framing work at the bottom of your house, they are banging on the bones of your whole house. It is loud, best believe.

So, to recap: if you come to my house, we can offer you an additional place to potty. And Matt and I are going to stain the floor. I know it will be really good for our relationship, because they always say that trying new things keeps your marriage fresh. Onward.

At Quietwater Beach in Pensacola

2011-08-05T23:19:00.000-04:00

Laura heads to the end of the dock.

To jump in or not?

YES!

Like that form.

Happy to have taken the leap.

When I'm Right. . .

2011-08-05T10:51:00.003-04:00

Last month I was up in the mountains for a weekend that turned into ten days, 'member? Because our car was broken and then it was more broken, and I had a lot of stress eating I needed to do. In fact I moved through all the five Kübler-Ross stages of grief: shock, stress eating, cussing, whining, and finally watching "The Wire."

Then some friends from California arrived and everything was groovy, we had our van and were going to redeem the other car after the weekend was over. Then, the afternoon of our last full day up there, I walked out of the store into the parking lot and happened to really look at our front tires. I am not in the habit of looking at my tires, but even I could tell they didn't look good. Maybe I had in mind that Elle had had a tire blowout on the highway not long before, I don't know.

I drove back up to the house and told Matt, "Those front tires on the van are not safe. I don't really want to drive them home to Atlanta tomorrow and I'm sure not driving them to Florida the day after that." Matt was like, "Hmmm, well, they're not going to blow out anytime soon, but you're right, they do need to be replaced, so I'll see what I can do in the morning before we leave." He didn't exactly say, "Okay precious, I don't share your feeling of urgency, but if it will make you feel better," but that was sort of the mood, you know?

So the next morning was tightly scheduled because we had to leave the mountain house in some kind of order, pick up our other car, and make it down to Atlanta in time to pick up Matt's mom from the airport. So we found a tire place on the internet that looked okay (it had seven five-star reviews in Google!) and Matt said he would be there when it opened. Our friend Mike offered to go with him, I think because it sounded like a manly outing and in my experience, guys don't like to hang around the house with the women and children when there's something that involves tools or danger or picking up pizza. So, even though Matt didn't think it was completely necessary, bright and early, they set off for the tire place.

And they got a flat tire before they were off the mountain.

With the two of them, it was no problem to put the spare tire on and roll along to the tire place, where they were taken care of promptly and sent on their way again. And when Matt got home and told me they had a flat, did I say "I told you so?" Reader, I did not. I had no need to. There was no righter I could be and no need to say it myself. I just stood there clad in Righteousness.

Later I asked Matt if he thought the tire place deserved all their five star reviews, and what was so five-star about the place. He said that they had put on four new tires and balanced them in 25 minutes. And he said that they had a relaxed sort of casualness about their operations, that you drove your own car onto the lift, and that they seemed to have no problem if customers wanted to stand around in the garage, or smoke in the garage, or remove their shirts in the garage. You know, friendly-like. In Sylva, NC, that is five-star service.

Reader, have you ever been proven so delightfully right? The moment still savors, you know?

The Class We Bring to Every Situation

2011-08-03T23:59:00.008-04:00

One morning in the mountains last week, Hank could not find his shoes. He can't find things for crap but I couldn't find them either. We do provide shoes for the child, even shoes that fit him and have laces, but he has spent the last four months wearing a single pair of blue World Cup edition Crocs, the "Italia" ones with a snazzy flag on the back. Yes, he picked them out. Because of his deep love of professional soccer? I dunno. But they're his go-to shoes and the only ones he had with him up there.

The Crocs, in happier times.

Then they were missing and we were trying to leave the house to go to town and get some lunch. Everyone was already in the car, waiting. I said, "Okay, our first stop will be at Walmart and I will get him a pair of flip flops." I am not a Walmart fan, but I wanted to pay approximately 89 cents for these shoes, and Mom had errands to run, and she could run them there.

When we got to the parking lot, I grabbed a buggy from near the car, carried Hank to it across the 200 degree asphalt, and sat him in the little seat. I wheeled him through the entrance, planning to beeline to the shoes. Then I heard an ancient, creaky voice saying, "Ma'am? Ma'am!" I realized I was being interpellated by the Walmart Greeter. I had never heard a Walmart Greeter actually speak, much less, um, Greet. So I had to blink for a moment or two before I could respond. This gave the blessed antediluvian soul time to state her business. "You have to keep him in that seat, hon. You can't let him get down with no shoes." She shook her head apologetically, as though letting one's child run barefoot through a big box store really should be one of the freedoms we take for granted as Americans, but this world today, what can you do? I smiled brightly and said that I was going straight to the shoes.

So that is how we were almost not well-dressed enough to enter Walmart.

And then, THEN, we get back to the shoes, and Hank turns into a tiny Tim Gunn on me. The flip flops he couldn't keep on his feet--it was comical--so those were out. And when I presented him with a pair of faux Crocs (Frocs? Crocks?) he said, "Those aren't really my style."

Oh, of course, would sir allow me to show him something in a Lightning McQueen slip-on? His style, RIGHT.

I finally found a pair of plain black canvas tennis shoes, like pretend Keds, that he agreed to wear. And they cost $3. I put them on his feet and we completed our business. At the check out counter, I wanted to have them scan his foot, but I removed one shoe instead. And then the next day I found the blue Italia Crocs behind the hot tub.

So that was a thing that happened one time. Having my sense of decorum justifiably called into question at the entrance to Walmart. xoxox-B

Cue The World's Tiniest Violin, Again

2011-08-02T21:47:00.000-04:00

Last week, while I was in North Carolina, my house cleaner Fabienne broke up with me in a text. I'd been expecting to hear from her about which day she was coming to clean, but what I heard instead was that she's taken a full-time job and won't be cleaning anymore. Her text also said that her stepmother could take me on.

I read this text and my mouth fell open, just like a comic strip character's. I felt happy for her but also sad for me. And confused about what stepmother and who is this stepmother? I felt this needed to be a phone conversation, so I called her and left her a voice mail saying how happy I was for her and that I wanted to hear about the job, etc.

The next morning she called me back and apologized for having texted me. She went on at such length that I realized she felt my phone call to her had been some kind of admonishment for texting. Anyway, Fabienne has been hired as an administrative assistant at a non-profit, with hopes that the job will convert to something more down the road. She is a single mom of two kids and this is a good move for her. I told her how glad I was and she said, "I'm ecstatic not to be cleaning houses anymore!"

Then I was felt like I needed to say, "Yes, that must have sucked!" or something but it also didn't seem quite right. So I jumped in with, "But I will miss you!" and she was like, yeah, miss you too, whatevs, hasta ya later, gator.

I also thanked her for the offer of her stepmother's services, but told her that this was probably a good time for us to take a break from having a house cleaner and to use that money to beef up our emergency fund. As I heard myself saying these words, I was like, "What the HELL am I saying? This sounds like some adult has seized control of my body! GET OUT." But it is the truth, and spending two grand on our cars in a single day the other week made this crystal clear to me.

So I came home from the mountains and stood in the kitchen with Matt. It was a solemn moment. "Listen," I said. "We're on our own now." I pointed to the downstairs bathroom that he and his coworkers use all day. "Nobody is coming to clean that bathroom anymore." He said, "You mean, Larry Bird is not going to walk through that door?" And then he laughed and laughed. I looked quizzical and he explained that this was a reference to the world of sports and that it was hilarious. Yes, so no Fabienne and no Larry Bird and no Big Bird. This seemed like a good time to tell Matt that I would not be cleaning the new Blue Mammoth Games bathroom being installed in our basement. So I did tell him that.

Funny, one of my very first blog posts was about getting rid of our old cleaning lady, back when I had only four readers and not the dozen(s?) I have today. It's all about fat years and lean years, I guess.

So I am still a little shaken at the prospect of losing Fabienne, but I will rally. It is some comfort to look back over the highs and lows of our relationship.

A low point: when she broke my Red Wing bowl and also when she wasn't dusting in my bedroom.

A significant point that I don't know how to categorize as high or low: when she was standing there at ground zero of my getting diagnosed with breast cancer.

A high point: when she gave me all those wigs.

I mean, I knew this day would come, that either she would break it off or I would. But I wasn't quite ready. What various permutations of this sitch have you experienced?

So, that's another feature of my mental topography this week. And hey, I have an idea that I'm going to blog every day in August. I'm two for two already! This will result in my telling you some really boring stories about stuff like getting new tires and not being well-dressed enough to enter Walmart. See you!

Snackable

2011-08-01T14:19:00.000-04:00

Look at this baby guy! His name is Gabriel Wayne, and he was born one week ago today to my brother and sister-in-law. He weighed 8lbs, 5ozs, and has already gained back his birth weight, as he is a chow hound like his Aunties.

Y'all, I was in such suspense waiting for this baby. I was glued to my phone all last Sunday night as Katie labored and labored. And labored. It is hard not to get a little worried as the hours roll by, even though we know these things most always turn out just fine. Finally, at two-thirty in the morning, I texted my sister and said, "I don't think I can stay up anymore." She took that to mean, "Call me!" Which she did, an hour later, after I'd fallen asleep. I couldn't summon the wits to answer the phone, but I rested easier knowing that she was on the daylight side of the world and would handle the worrying and waiting for a while. He finally came in the wee hours, and everyone was fine. I woke up at 5:30 in the morning to that picture up there. Such relief! I fell in love with that little doll face.

Look at this smooshy thing. Just look at it. I know, let's all go get pregnant RIGHT NOW.

So that was the big news of the last week. The other thing that happened was that I ate a fried Oreo. And the other news is that there are fried Oreos in this world.

I was in the mountains all week, first with Matt and the kids and Matt's mom and brother, and then Matt came back home to work and we stayed on with my parents. I came back last night and Matt kept me up 'til the wee hours. Cleaning out the basement, awww yeah. Today there are two dudes down there banging around and building some kind of Bat Cave for Matt and his coworkers to move into. This means I'm getting my guest room/office back in the near future. I'm high-fiving you right now.

Babywatch

2011-07-24T16:39:00.000-04:00

Couldn't this be Hank?

My brother David and his wife Katie are having their baby today. Like, she's working on it right now, while I get to sit here drinking coffee and wearing pants. As we say in the South, let's love on her. Go Kate go!

I took a picture of this picture of my brother when I was at my parents' house in Florida this past week. I can't believe how much the little David looks like Hank. I also can't believe that little boy is having his own little boy. It's babies having babies!

The due date was almost two weeks ago, so this wait has given everyone in the family time to get into an utter tizzy. It has invaded our collective dream life. The other day I posted on Katie's facebook wall:

I had a dream in which I was driving you around to yard sales in an attempt to get your labor started. I don't know if that would work, really.

Then Dave texted me:

Had a dream that you were excited about the baby and sorta roughed me up.

Okay, that was weird. So this baby needs to get here quick, and/or we need a psychoanalyst who can help us sort through our issues.

And then Amy told me, "We're getting a nephew and we never got a nephew at the same time before!" Which I had not thought of. She and I each have a nephew, but it is not the same nephew. This baby boy will be both our nephew and will be auntie double-teamed by us.

The other day on the phone, Katie said she was waiting and trying not to get discouraged, and I thought, "Why would she be discouraged?" Then I remembered, in a flash, how it felt when I was waiting for Hank, who was induced ten days post-date. Have you experienced this? I got to this weird point where it's like I thought the baby would never be born. It was disheartening. It's just a hard time, those last weeks and days. And it turned out he was just lying up in there getting huge. Hank weighed 9.5 pounds. (My midwife was some kind of wizard and we'll leave it at that.)

So I just got back from Florida with the kids late last night, and I'll have more reportage soon, and right now my parents are heading north somewhere on I-95 to go see the baby, and we four are all trying to get out the door to go to the mountains for one last bit of vacation, but I am totally distracted and useless thinking about this baby. Get here, baby!

Will keep you posted. I hope y'all are having a good weekend.

Love,
The World's Worst Blogger

Over a Barrel

2011-07-14T15:27:00.002-04:00

Geez. A friend asked "How is your car?" today and I realized I forgot to tell you. When last we spoke, our Jetta wagon was in the shop up in North Carolina and I was stranded up there (the horror) waiting for it. They had quoted a price of $914 to fix it. Then Matt called them and did his thing, a thing he describes as "mumblebuzzing around," and they took off a couple hundred bucks. He told them to go ahead and fix it; it was to be ready last Friday.

Friday came and Jenni and her family arrived. Yay! Matt was coming back up that night to commence another weekend of fun. I had managed to forget all about the Jetta. Then Matt called and said, "You won't believe this."

When somebody says "You won't believe this," it is almost never something unbelievably good. He told me that the car people called him and said that after fixing the other thing they discovered that the water pump was also bad and it would be another $600-something to fix. He sputtered. They amended that to $500 and said the car wouldn't be ready until the next Tuesday.

Gloom.

Anyway, Tuesday turned into today, and they've called to tell us the car is ready. We're not in NC, but we will be heading up tomorrow with yet more friends, so we'll redeem it then. We are spending an assload of money on that car and it was not money I'd planned to spend. Hate that but oh well, fine, GAH!

This falls into the category of Problems That Money Can Fix. It's the other category that really gets you.

We had a super time with our company, though, even though the view was disgracefully hazy and the dog might have licked some of the graham crackers we were making s'mores with. We went tubing and read magazines, and we watched True Grit, which was great if a little mannered in that Coen Brothers way. The kids got along beautifully, and I saw a Scarlet Tanager. Which is a bird.

Hope you're staying cool. Smacks!

Marooned

2011-07-06T15:28:00.000-04:00

Waiting for the fireworks to start.

It had been several weeks since we'd had some mountain time, so we came up to North Carolina for the weekend. There were no big plans. We picked some blackberries and made a cobbler. We got some chigger bites. I started reading that book The Passage. We waited for rabbits to come out. At night we chatted, played games, or I watched "The Wire." You know I brought those DVD's with me. I also brought my workout DVD with me but I'd rather you didn't mention it.

For one outing we went up on the Blue Ridge Parkway to this place called Graveyard Fields--way less grim than it sounds--and played in the river. Those swimming holes at the bottom of waterfalls are some of my favorite places to observe humanity in all its variety. And I must say, Graveyard Fields attracts a better class of waterfall enthusiast, because I saw not a single disposable diaper or beer can floating in the water. It was a beautiful day.

Then we piled in the jeep and staked out a spot in Dillsboro for the town's fireworks display. They were being shot off from the quarry on the side of a mountain. We spread out a blanket and waited expectantly with our beer and lemonade. And waited. It grew dark, then darker. In true mountain fashion, the show did not begin until ten o'clock. I mean, what's your dang hurry? They were very respectable fireworks for a little town too.

Then, right after the show, Matt set off for Atlanta. We had brought both our cars up here, and he needed to work on Tuesday morning. But he wasn't far down the road, and we weren't back to the house yet, when he called us to say the car was overheating, despite the fluids being fine, and he was parked at a motel on the side of the highway. We took the kids home, then Dad and I went out find Matt. I gave him our van to drive home, and Dad carefully drove our wagon to a repair place in town. By then it was about midnight, so we parked it there and headed home. Anyway, logistics, blah blah, car trouble.

All of that is say that, the next day, the repair shop called and said that it would cost $914 to fix what is wrong with the car, which may be the radiator fan and/or its control module. When I heard that number, it caused two chocolate-covered graham crackers to fly into my mouth. Just fly straight in there.

Today Matt is in negotiations with the car people. He texted me and said, "They are calling me back, they might be 'getting me a discount.'" And I said, "Good, because I am 'running out of graham crackers.'"

Anymahoodle, the kids and I are installed at the mountain house, waiting for the car to be fixed, but now I think we'll just stay here until Jenni and her crew arrive on Friday. I was coming back up this coming weekend anyway, and luckily this was a week with no appointments and no plans. Oh well. I could be in the steaming Atlanta suburbs, driving Laura to daily swim practice, but instead I'm here at Mom and Dad's, where the scenery is beautiful and they get up with the kids every day. There are worse places to be stranded. Way worse. The only problem is that I have to come to the public library to blog, which is where I'm a' bloggin' from right now.

I'm a' wishin' you a calm week with a pleasant post-holiday glow and no chiggers.