I hate yardwork. Mowing, watering, mulching, dead-heading the geraniums -- I don't care what it is, it all sucks. And much like my (lack of) religious beliefs, this subject is not open for debate with me. I do not care that you find it "therapeutic" and "relaxing." Nothing you say will convince me it is anything but dirty and sweaty and time-consuming, and I will never learn to enjoy it. Time spent working in the yard is just wasted time that could have been spent in the air conditioning.
Up until now, this hatred of yardwork has been okay, because I didn't have a yard. I've lived in apartments and rented townhouses all my adult life. Until now. Now I have this house, which has this yard. And the neighbors expect SOMEBODY to mow the damn thing.
So on Sunday, I did. And I really thought I might die. I haven't mowed grass since I was a teenager, and as I recall, I hated it then, too. Now I am no longer a teenager. I am an out-of-shape, slightly overweight, nearly middle-aged woman, and pushing a non-self-propelled mower all over my little acre of earth was NOT fun. It was, in fact, one of the more miserable things I've done in quite some time. Besides chatting with Dr. Wonderful on Friday. But that's a story for another day.
When I finished mowing, I came inside the blessedly air-conditioned house and promptly collapsed on the living room floor. Ellie came over, peered into my face, patted me on the head, and said "Mama night-night." Yes, mama night-night. Mama dead-dead. Then the child, bless her heart, started doctoring me. She brought over some utensils from her little kitchen and started giving me medicine, pouring me a drink, and generally pampering my sorry ass.
Or so I thought.
Just as I was telling her how nice it was that she was taking care of Mama, I noticed she had a red plastic bottle in her hand, with which she was pretending to douse me. Hmmm, I thought. Never saw a doctor do THAT before. I sat up to see what she was doing. The red plastic bottle was pretend barbecue sauce. She wasn't doctoring me. She was preparing me for grilling. I guess she figured I was already half-roasted, so finishing me off would be an easy job.
The good news is that I have the PERFECT excuse not to do yardwork for the rest of the summer: there have been several sightings of a black bear in my neck of the woods lately. Only I don't live in the woods. I live in Snooty Suburb. You see why this is a problem?
This bear has been patrolling the neighborhood for several weeks now. He was spotted last week in the parking lot of the local dialysis center, making eye contact with the patients inside through the building's glass doors. He also turned up in the park behind my subdivision, which is WAY too close for comfort for me. Local authorities are telling people not to leave their trash outside, and they've even recommended taking down birdfeeders, so as not to entice said bear. But if you see him, they say, don't worry -- he won't hurt you.
Okay, lemme get this straight. You think my birdfeeder might interest this bear, but my two-year-old wouldn't?! I am SO not buying that. So, in the interests of safety, I think the best thing is for me to remain in the air conditioning for the rest of the summer. And if you visit me, just ignore the chest-high prairie grass out front.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
Memories . . . all alone in the moonlight
Sorry for the title of this post -- you'll probably have that stuck in your head the rest of the day. If you follow me on Twitter or have friended (befriended?) me on Facebook, you know I've been on an Andrew Lloyd Webber kick the last couple of days. This was inspired by Mark Sanford, the illustrious governor of the great state of South Carolina, who just confessed to an affair with a woman in Argentina. Talk about your long-distance relationships. Thanks to him, I've been singing "Don't cry for Mark Sanford, Argentina . . ." since Thursday morning.
But I digress. The reason I mention memories is because I'm going to share some with you, and I have to admit this post is for me, not you. So you can stop reading now, if you want -- I'll understand.
I realized recently that Ellie is now two years old, and I've never created that baby book that all kids are supposed to have. I have photos from our trip to Vietnam, but they're mostly online, not in an album (except for the album Grandma gave us -- thanks, G-Ma!). I have a lock of hair from her first haircut, but it's in a baggie, not the special envelope that comes with the baby book. I have all the papers from the doctor's office, telling me how much she's weighed at each check-up, but they're in a pile with some other medical records. They are NOT lovingly pasted into a scrapbook like they should be.
Then I realized that this blog is essentially my version of a baby book. All the things about Ellie's life that I want to remember are going to end up here, even if they never make it into a scrapbook. When I want to share stories about her childhood with her, this is where I'll go to remind myself of them. When I want to remind her that she once called the babysitter a dumbass, here is the place I'll look for that little tidbit from her toddlerhood.
So, with that in mind, I want to share with you (and with my daughter) some of the funny things she's saying as she learns to talk. I find that I already can't remember details of her earliest words -- I don't want that to happen as she says more things and gets ever funnier. So if you're not interested, head on over to another of your favorite blogs. I'll be back on Monday.
Ellie can identify most of the Winnie the Pooh characters by name. Tidder and Poop are pretty funny, as is Eee-ya. But my favorite is Pigtit. I keep asking her who that little pink pig is, just so I can hear her say it.
She is currently in the habit of telling me that everything is "nassy." Even if it's just regular old dirt, like in the front yard, it's nassy. So are wet towels, gum on the bottom of her shoe, poopy diapers and spilled apple juice.
She hangs out in her playroom in the mornings while I get dressed. Usually I turn on a movie of some sort for her while she plays with her toys. When she wants a movie, she asks for a wah-dee. Somehow I know exactly what she's talking about.
Books and beds are both described with the all-purpose word "bah." Her cousin calls the phone a "bah." Yet I always know what she means, and if her cousin says it, I know what that means, too. Weird.
A swing is a "whee," as is a slide. I guess if that's what you say when you're on it, that must be its name.
Her first words were "shoes" and "juice," which, in Ellie-speak, sound just alike. But I usually know which one she wants. And how appropriate is it that my kid's first word was "shoe?"
The first thing she said that was really intelligible was "see ya!" (Actually it was more like "shee ya!") She said this every time I left the room, every time we left someone's house, and every time we passed someone in the aisle at Wal-Mart. It was the cutest thing ever, and she doesn't say it anymore. I try to get her to, but she won't. She's outgrown it. Sigh.
She can identify horsies, piggies, doggies and cats. If you ask her what a sheep is, she says "baaaah." And cows are "ooooooos."
There's no place she'd rather be than "ou'side." If I get within 10 feet of the back door, she's screaming "OU'SIDE!! OU'SIDE!!"
The other day the two of us were in my bed, and I was lying on my right side. She pointed to my left ear and identified it, and then, grasping my chin, turned my head for me, asking "where's more?"
The cutest thing ever is when she asks me if she can brush her teese, and if I'll put lotion on her seeks.
She "reads" a number of books to me now, including Goodnight Moon, which consists of turning the pages saying "Good night. Good night. Good night." My favorite is Don't Let the Pigeon Stay Up Late, which she quotes right along with me, including the part where the pigeon screams "I'M NOT TIRED!!"
Okay, I better stop now before I cry. This little walk down memory lane has been great, but it makes me sad, too. My baby is getting so big. But with the help of this here electronic baby book, I'll be able to preserve every memory of every funny thing she says and does, and that's a priceless gift to be able to share with my daughter when she's older. Thanks for indulging me. That is all.
But I digress. The reason I mention memories is because I'm going to share some with you, and I have to admit this post is for me, not you. So you can stop reading now, if you want -- I'll understand.
I realized recently that Ellie is now two years old, and I've never created that baby book that all kids are supposed to have. I have photos from our trip to Vietnam, but they're mostly online, not in an album (except for the album Grandma gave us -- thanks, G-Ma!). I have a lock of hair from her first haircut, but it's in a baggie, not the special envelope that comes with the baby book. I have all the papers from the doctor's office, telling me how much she's weighed at each check-up, but they're in a pile with some other medical records. They are NOT lovingly pasted into a scrapbook like they should be.
Then I realized that this blog is essentially my version of a baby book. All the things about Ellie's life that I want to remember are going to end up here, even if they never make it into a scrapbook. When I want to share stories about her childhood with her, this is where I'll go to remind myself of them. When I want to remind her that she once called the babysitter a dumbass, here is the place I'll look for that little tidbit from her toddlerhood.
So, with that in mind, I want to share with you (and with my daughter) some of the funny things she's saying as she learns to talk. I find that I already can't remember details of her earliest words -- I don't want that to happen as she says more things and gets ever funnier. So if you're not interested, head on over to another of your favorite blogs. I'll be back on Monday.
Ellie can identify most of the Winnie the Pooh characters by name. Tidder and Poop are pretty funny, as is Eee-ya. But my favorite is Pigtit. I keep asking her who that little pink pig is, just so I can hear her say it.
She is currently in the habit of telling me that everything is "nassy." Even if it's just regular old dirt, like in the front yard, it's nassy. So are wet towels, gum on the bottom of her shoe, poopy diapers and spilled apple juice.
She hangs out in her playroom in the mornings while I get dressed. Usually I turn on a movie of some sort for her while she plays with her toys. When she wants a movie, she asks for a wah-dee. Somehow I know exactly what she's talking about.
Books and beds are both described with the all-purpose word "bah." Her cousin calls the phone a "bah." Yet I always know what she means, and if her cousin says it, I know what that means, too. Weird.
A swing is a "whee," as is a slide. I guess if that's what you say when you're on it, that must be its name.
Her first words were "shoes" and "juice," which, in Ellie-speak, sound just alike. But I usually know which one she wants. And how appropriate is it that my kid's first word was "shoe?"
The first thing she said that was really intelligible was "see ya!" (Actually it was more like "shee ya!") She said this every time I left the room, every time we left someone's house, and every time we passed someone in the aisle at Wal-Mart. It was the cutest thing ever, and she doesn't say it anymore. I try to get her to, but she won't. She's outgrown it. Sigh.
She can identify horsies, piggies, doggies and cats. If you ask her what a sheep is, she says "baaaah." And cows are "ooooooos."
There's no place she'd rather be than "ou'side." If I get within 10 feet of the back door, she's screaming "OU'SIDE!! OU'SIDE!!"
The other day the two of us were in my bed, and I was lying on my right side. She pointed to my left ear and identified it, and then, grasping my chin, turned my head for me, asking "where's more?"
The cutest thing ever is when she asks me if she can brush her teese, and if I'll put lotion on her seeks.
She "reads" a number of books to me now, including Goodnight Moon, which consists of turning the pages saying "Good night. Good night. Good night." My favorite is Don't Let the Pigeon Stay Up Late, which she quotes right along with me, including the part where the pigeon screams "I'M NOT TIRED!!"
Okay, I better stop now before I cry. This little walk down memory lane has been great, but it makes me sad, too. My baby is getting so big. But with the help of this here electronic baby book, I'll be able to preserve every memory of every funny thing she says and does, and that's a priceless gift to be able to share with my daughter when she's older. Thanks for indulging me. That is all.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
And then I smell 'em
So last week I shared with my friend Beth this really disgusting thing Ellie has been doing lately. The first words out of her mouth (after "Oh, that's gross!") were "You should blog about that." I wasn't so sure -- I've written about my left nipple, but I didn't know if I was ready to venture into the territory dictated by Ellie's latest shenanigan.
So I consulted Emily at Mommin' It Up, and asked her if I should write about Ellie's new habit, or if it would be considered a serious overshare. I reminded her that her blog has covered the topic of poop on more than one occasion, thinking this might tip the scales in my favor. Her response was "JENNY has blogged about poop. I have not."
So, much to Beth's dismay, I did not blog about Ellie's new little habit. But today I'm thinking I should. I've been inspired by my buddy Andrea at MommySnacks, who tweeted today about her little sweet potato yakking all over everything, and by Jennifer at Playgroups are No Place for Children, who blogged about her bathroom experiences after overindulging in jalapeno nachos.
So, since I'm in such fine company, let me (over)share with you that my daughter has turned into Mary Katherine Gallagher. You remember Mary Katherine -- the Saturday Night Live "superstar" who stuck her fingers in her armpits and smelled them when she got nervous. Ellie has acquired a similar habit. Only she doesn't stick her fingers in her armpits.
Every time I change the child's diaper, she puts her hands in her . . . um . . . girly parts and sniffs them. Then she holds them out to me and says "Nasty."
Yes, you read that right.
WHERE did she learn this little trick?! I can assure you, it's not something she's seen demonstrated at home, at the sitter's, or at Grandma's. She has never watched a late-night skit featuring Molly Shannon. Not even on YouTube.
It's reached the point that I avoid changing her diaper in a public restroom -- I don't want anyone to wonder what in God's name I'm teaching my child.
The way I figure it, Ellie learned this charming little ritual from the same person who taught her it's okay to strip naked and pee in her bed. I don't know who's teaching her this stuff, but if I ever find out, I'm going to pee in their bed.
Monday, June 22, 2009
I am SO not ready for this
Last week I was talking with my friend Ayana, who is the mother of a little girl just a few months older than Ellie. Ayana is African-American, and is, by her own admission, obsessed with buying books for her daughter, particularly books that portray some diversity. Being the kind soul that she is, she periodically picks up some books for Ellie, too. Thanks to her, we're collecting our own little library of books featuring Asian, Latino and African-American characters.
Since Ayana's little one is a bit older than Ellie, I asked her if she thinks her daughter notices when a character in a book looks like her. She said she definitely sees the difference -- she even points to the African-American characters and says to her mom, "That's me." I said I don't think Ellie sees it yet -- she's partial to a particular book Ayana bought her that features an Asian little girl, but I don't think that's why she likes the book. I don't think she notices any difference yet between her appearance and that of the other kids around her.
Then, literally overnight, that changed. Ellie now gravitates toward the handful of books she has that feature Asian children, and I don't think that's an accident. She consistently points to the Asian characters and studies their faces, and even though she has not yet gone so far as to identify with them personally, I can tell she's noticing that these kids look different from others on the page, and that they look like her.
I know that this whole discovery process is a precursor to Ellie's first adoption questions, and I'm not prepared for that. I'm not ready to tackle those issues yet. In the classes I took during the adoption process, they told us to brace ourselves when our kids hit age four or so -- that's when we could expect the first questions about why they don't look like us. But I can already tell we're going to get there long before we reach age four. I thought I was ready -- I took all the right classes, and talked to my social worker about all the possible issues that could arise. But that was when this whole thing was abstract. Now we're talking about MY daughter, and whether my answers to her questions will be good enough. We're talking about her self-image, her well-being -- things that may rise and fall based on what I say and whether I say it right. And I'm not ready.
A friend of mine is the mother of a three-year-old from Guatemala, and she told me a story the other day that scared me to death. Her beautiful daughter asked her, "Mommy, did you paint me brown?" Dawn told her that of course her parents hadn't painted her -- that she was born with her gorgeous brown skin, and that she's beautiful just as she is. Her daughter's comment was, "I wish I had white skin like you." This, of course, broke Dawn's heart, and broke mine, too, as I stood there listening to her talk about it. Dawn's baby is only three and they're already dealing with this.
I am NOT READY for my daughter's questions about her appearance. I am not ready for other kids to ask her why she doesn't look like her mom. I am not ready to see the look on her little face when she realizes that strangers sometimes ask questions about her based solely on her appearance. I took all the right classes, I read all the right books. I knew the day would come when I'd have to deal with this and other adoption-related issues. But not yet. I'm not ready yet. I need just a little more time before reality sets in. Just a little more time, and then I'll brace myself to deal with these things with as much honesty and love as I can find in my heart. I'll face the responsibility of holding my daughter's self-esteem in my hands, and I'll meet the challenge and do my best to say the right things to her.
But not yet.
Since Ayana's little one is a bit older than Ellie, I asked her if she thinks her daughter notices when a character in a book looks like her. She said she definitely sees the difference -- she even points to the African-American characters and says to her mom, "That's me." I said I don't think Ellie sees it yet -- she's partial to a particular book Ayana bought her that features an Asian little girl, but I don't think that's why she likes the book. I don't think she notices any difference yet between her appearance and that of the other kids around her.
Then, literally overnight, that changed. Ellie now gravitates toward the handful of books she has that feature Asian children, and I don't think that's an accident. She consistently points to the Asian characters and studies their faces, and even though she has not yet gone so far as to identify with them personally, I can tell she's noticing that these kids look different from others on the page, and that they look like her.
I know that this whole discovery process is a precursor to Ellie's first adoption questions, and I'm not prepared for that. I'm not ready to tackle those issues yet. In the classes I took during the adoption process, they told us to brace ourselves when our kids hit age four or so -- that's when we could expect the first questions about why they don't look like us. But I can already tell we're going to get there long before we reach age four. I thought I was ready -- I took all the right classes, and talked to my social worker about all the possible issues that could arise. But that was when this whole thing was abstract. Now we're talking about MY daughter, and whether my answers to her questions will be good enough. We're talking about her self-image, her well-being -- things that may rise and fall based on what I say and whether I say it right. And I'm not ready.
A friend of mine is the mother of a three-year-old from Guatemala, and she told me a story the other day that scared me to death. Her beautiful daughter asked her, "Mommy, did you paint me brown?" Dawn told her that of course her parents hadn't painted her -- that she was born with her gorgeous brown skin, and that she's beautiful just as she is. Her daughter's comment was, "I wish I had white skin like you." This, of course, broke Dawn's heart, and broke mine, too, as I stood there listening to her talk about it. Dawn's baby is only three and they're already dealing with this.
I am NOT READY for my daughter's questions about her appearance. I am not ready for other kids to ask her why she doesn't look like her mom. I am not ready to see the look on her little face when she realizes that strangers sometimes ask questions about her based solely on her appearance. I took all the right classes, I read all the right books. I knew the day would come when I'd have to deal with this and other adoption-related issues. But not yet. I'm not ready yet. I need just a little more time before reality sets in. Just a little more time, and then I'll brace myself to deal with these things with as much honesty and love as I can find in my heart. I'll face the responsibility of holding my daughter's self-esteem in my hands, and I'll meet the challenge and do my best to say the right things to her.
But not yet.
Friday, June 19, 2009
I got nothin'
Well, friends, I've been at this blogging business for roughly a month, and I think I'm out of things to say. So it's been great, thanks for reading -- GOOD NIGHT!!
Just kidding. I really AM out of things to say, but is that going to stop me from writing? Hell no!! So here is a collection of random thoughts for your reading enjoyment. Considering that this is alumni weekend at the medium-sized midwestern university where I work, and that I worked 13 hours on Thursday and will work about 16 hours both today and tomorrow, I'm doing well to come up with anything at all.
1. My darling daughter called the babysitter a dumbass yesterday. She meant it as a term of endearment, it appears. Lucky for me Miss Dee-Dee has a sense of humor. My little sweet potato also bit Miss Dee-Dee on the ass and laughed hysterically about it.
2. On Thursday morning, a college student called me "ma'am." On Thursday evening, an alumna from the class of 1959 asked me if I was a college student. I guess everything is relative, isn't it?
3. I repent of posting an unflattering photo of my sister. I'm not taking it down, but I repent. I will go and sin no more.
4. Women in their 70s are not meant to show cleavage. Trust me on this.
5. I have a date coming up in the next couple of weeks. This will be the first time I've been out with someone besides Dr. Wonderful in approximately 15 years. To say I'm a bit nervous would be a gross understatement.
6. I wish I had gotten a Ph.D. so I could wear one of those cool velvet and satin hood things. I think I have hood envy. An unidentified co-worker of mine tried on the robe and hood of the university president yesterday. It was the awesomest and made her look super smart. I have a photo of her wearing it, and if I ever get really mad at her, I'm emailing it to the president.
7. I will spend much of this weekend driving elderly people around in golf carts.
8. As much fun as it is to drive elderly people around in golf carts, I hate not seeing my daughter all weekend. She'll be hanging with Grandma, though, so she'll never even miss me.
9. The doctor informed me this week that I must start exercising. I am NOT happy about this.
10. I do not like people. I have known this about myself for many years now. So explain to me how I ended up in a job that requires me to spend most of my time smiling and making nice with . . . PEOPLE!! GAAAAH!!
Okay, I quit. This is the world's most uninteresting blog post, and there's no point in making either of us suffer through it any longer. I promise I'll try to do better next week! Carry on.
Just kidding. I really AM out of things to say, but is that going to stop me from writing? Hell no!! So here is a collection of random thoughts for your reading enjoyment. Considering that this is alumni weekend at the medium-sized midwestern university where I work, and that I worked 13 hours on Thursday and will work about 16 hours both today and tomorrow, I'm doing well to come up with anything at all.
1. My darling daughter called the babysitter a dumbass yesterday. She meant it as a term of endearment, it appears. Lucky for me Miss Dee-Dee has a sense of humor. My little sweet potato also bit Miss Dee-Dee on the ass and laughed hysterically about it.
2. On Thursday morning, a college student called me "ma'am." On Thursday evening, an alumna from the class of 1959 asked me if I was a college student. I guess everything is relative, isn't it?
3. I repent of posting an unflattering photo of my sister. I'm not taking it down, but I repent. I will go and sin no more.
4. Women in their 70s are not meant to show cleavage. Trust me on this.
5. I have a date coming up in the next couple of weeks. This will be the first time I've been out with someone besides Dr. Wonderful in approximately 15 years. To say I'm a bit nervous would be a gross understatement.
6. I wish I had gotten a Ph.D. so I could wear one of those cool velvet and satin hood things. I think I have hood envy. An unidentified co-worker of mine tried on the robe and hood of the university president yesterday. It was the awesomest and made her look super smart. I have a photo of her wearing it, and if I ever get really mad at her, I'm emailing it to the president.
7. I will spend much of this weekend driving elderly people around in golf carts.
8. As much fun as it is to drive elderly people around in golf carts, I hate not seeing my daughter all weekend. She'll be hanging with Grandma, though, so she'll never even miss me.
9. The doctor informed me this week that I must start exercising. I am NOT happy about this.
10. I do not like people. I have known this about myself for many years now. So explain to me how I ended up in a job that requires me to spend most of my time smiling and making nice with . . . PEOPLE!! GAAAAH!!
Okay, I quit. This is the world's most uninteresting blog post, and there's no point in making either of us suffer through it any longer. I promise I'll try to do better next week! Carry on.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
This blog post brought to you by sisterly love
So I'm at my parents' house last night, complaining because I have nothing to blog about for Wednesday's post. I'm standing in the kitchen, having this conversation with my mom and sister, who are both busily engaged in the laborious process of coloring my sister's hair. Yes, that's right. My sister, who is nearly SEVEN YEARS younger than I, is SERIOUSLY gray. Has been for years. I, however, am not. I have only a handful of gray hairs in my whole head. Have I mentioned that I find this hilarious?
Then, from the vicinity of said kitchen chair, I hear a soft mutter:
This is Sarah in mid-hair-paint. I want to thank my beautiful sister for giving me something to blog about today. When I'm no longer punishing her for calling me a bitch, I'll post of photo of her looking her best. :) I love you, Lizard!!
Sarah and I are both dark brunettes, so a lot of gray is kind of a big deal. My darling sister is SO gray that when I saw her on Saturday at my niece's birthday party, I thought for a minute that she had gotten highlights. Nope. Not blonde. Just a lot of gray. Against her dark brown hair. Hee hee.
So on Tuesday night she's sitting in a kitchen chair while my mom puts color on with a little basting brush. Or as my niece says, she's getting her hair painted. I'm watching this whole process with great amusement, and I say something (perhaps a little on the smartass side) about how I really don't need to color my hair yet. I have a few grays, and they bug me -- I think I notice them more than other people do. But Sarah's hair puts mine in perspective. Overall, Miss Clairol and I have no reason to be BFF at this point.
Then, from the vicinity of said kitchen chair, I hear a soft mutter:
"Bitch."
I should probably note here that, once upon a time, Sarah would have called me a SKINNY bitch. As that is no longer applicable, tonight I am just plain BITCH. The wound is deep, but I have my layers of fat to protect me.
I hope Sarah enjoyed lashing out at me. I hope she feels better for it. I hope next time she looks in the mirror and sees her MANY gray hairs, she is better able to live with them for having called me a bitch.
Her enjoyment, however, will be brief. Why, you ask? Because I am the one with a digital camera and a blog.
This is Sarah on Saturday, pre-hair-painting. Note the large patch of gray in front. Who does she think she is? Bonnie Raitt?
This is Sarah on Saturday, pre-hair-painting. Note the large patch of gray in front. Who does she think she is? Bonnie Raitt?
This is Sarah in mid-hair-paint. I want to thank my beautiful sister for giving me something to blog about today. When I'm no longer punishing her for calling me a bitch, I'll post of photo of her looking her best. :) I love you, Lizard!!
Monday, June 15, 2009
Where there’s smoke . . . there’s Emilie cooking dinner
Ellie and I spent the afternoon at Emily’s house cooking. For those of you who know me, yes, you read that right. I actually do cook occasionally. Once a month, to be exact. Thanks to the fine folks at Once a Month Mom, Emily and I have gotten into the habit of spending one day a month cooking enough stuff to fill our freezers for the next 30 days or so. I can’t tell you what a huge help this has been in getting a decent dinner on the table every night. But even with this additional shove in the right direction, I still have a hard time connecting with my inner Martha Stewart.
When it was just me I had to worry about (I almost said “when I was single.” That’s what it feels like – the difference in single and attached), I could come home and eat cereal for dinner. Or ice cream. Or Doritos. Hence the name of this little writing experiment. But now I have to be a responsible adult and put something nutritious on the table for my daughter. The problem is that I am expected to do this EVERY NIGHT. Whose idea was THAT?!
This is something I’ve struggled with since the day Ellie came home. I’m just not good at it. It’s not that I can’t cook – if you’ve met my mom, you know I’ve had a good teacher. I just can’t cook and get anything else done at the same time. If we have an errand to run, or we’re late getting home for some reason, or there’s yard work to do, there just isn’t time to cook, too. I can come home and spend the evening getting dinner on the table, or I can take care of other business. I just can’t seem to do both.
And of course, I’m dealing with a two-year-old. If dinner takes 60 to 90 minutes to get on the table, she’s having a meltdown by then. So am I. And if I give her a snack to tide her over, then she doesn’t want dinner, and I wind up thinking “Well, hell. I could have just fixed a bowl of cereal after all!”
The Once a Month Mom girls have helped me out considerably – as long as I remember to get something out of the freezer to thaw, I can now have something cooked and on the table in a reasonable amount of time. I’m still not good at being organized enough to serve anything else, though – if lasagna is what I’ve thawed out, then that’s what we’re having. No salad or bread. Just lasagna. Which is fine right now, but probably won’t cut it as Ellie gets older. It takes more forethought and organization than I’ve got to get the side dishes together. Hell, it takes more forethought than I’ve got to get something out of the freezer a day ahead – I can’t be expected to remember salad too.
Last week I had a moment of inspiration – I used the time delay thingy on my oven and set it to bake while I was on my way home from work. Voila! Dinner was ready when we walked in the door. I see two problems with this arrangement, however. 1) I could set the house on fire. 2) I could give us botulism by leaving the food out all day in the oven. Botulism toxin is what’s in Botox, right? Could better skin be a side benefit of giving my family food poisoning?
When I told my friend Diane that I had set the oven timer and was thus a culinary genius, she told me a horrible story about a time when she set her BRAND NEW oven to cook over several hours while she did other things around the house. She had set it on 350, and when she passed by it, she happened to notice it was up to 500. She tried to turn it off, but it wouldn’t shut off. By the time she got to the breaker box, the temperature was so high it was no longer registering, and the stove was so hot it was glowing.
This was not what I wanted to hear. Truth be told, I’m a little afraid to leave even the Crock-Pot on when I’m not home – I’m not sure I can adjust to knowing the stove is on in my absence on a regular basis.
So all this bitching is for one purpose: I want to know what you other working moms do about dinner. Do you practice the once-a-month method? Do you use the Crock-Pot faithfully? How do you feel about the risk of having an appliance on when you're not home? Do you regularly resort to frozen food and carry-out? I know I’m not the only one who gets home at 6:30 and still has to face this dilemma every day. I’m open to suggestions, ladies. Please help me in my quest to feed my daughter nutritious stuff – she deserves better than Doritos! I anxiously await your input.
When it was just me I had to worry about (I almost said “when I was single.” That’s what it feels like – the difference in single and attached), I could come home and eat cereal for dinner. Or ice cream. Or Doritos. Hence the name of this little writing experiment. But now I have to be a responsible adult and put something nutritious on the table for my daughter. The problem is that I am expected to do this EVERY NIGHT. Whose idea was THAT?!
This is something I’ve struggled with since the day Ellie came home. I’m just not good at it. It’s not that I can’t cook – if you’ve met my mom, you know I’ve had a good teacher. I just can’t cook and get anything else done at the same time. If we have an errand to run, or we’re late getting home for some reason, or there’s yard work to do, there just isn’t time to cook, too. I can come home and spend the evening getting dinner on the table, or I can take care of other business. I just can’t seem to do both.
And of course, I’m dealing with a two-year-old. If dinner takes 60 to 90 minutes to get on the table, she’s having a meltdown by then. So am I. And if I give her a snack to tide her over, then she doesn’t want dinner, and I wind up thinking “Well, hell. I could have just fixed a bowl of cereal after all!”
The Once a Month Mom girls have helped me out considerably – as long as I remember to get something out of the freezer to thaw, I can now have something cooked and on the table in a reasonable amount of time. I’m still not good at being organized enough to serve anything else, though – if lasagna is what I’ve thawed out, then that’s what we’re having. No salad or bread. Just lasagna. Which is fine right now, but probably won’t cut it as Ellie gets older. It takes more forethought and organization than I’ve got to get the side dishes together. Hell, it takes more forethought than I’ve got to get something out of the freezer a day ahead – I can’t be expected to remember salad too.
Last week I had a moment of inspiration – I used the time delay thingy on my oven and set it to bake while I was on my way home from work. Voila! Dinner was ready when we walked in the door. I see two problems with this arrangement, however. 1) I could set the house on fire. 2) I could give us botulism by leaving the food out all day in the oven. Botulism toxin is what’s in Botox, right? Could better skin be a side benefit of giving my family food poisoning?
When I told my friend Diane that I had set the oven timer and was thus a culinary genius, she told me a horrible story about a time when she set her BRAND NEW oven to cook over several hours while she did other things around the house. She had set it on 350, and when she passed by it, she happened to notice it was up to 500. She tried to turn it off, but it wouldn’t shut off. By the time she got to the breaker box, the temperature was so high it was no longer registering, and the stove was so hot it was glowing.
This was not what I wanted to hear. Truth be told, I’m a little afraid to leave even the Crock-Pot on when I’m not home – I’m not sure I can adjust to knowing the stove is on in my absence on a regular basis.
So all this bitching is for one purpose: I want to know what you other working moms do about dinner. Do you practice the once-a-month method? Do you use the Crock-Pot faithfully? How do you feel about the risk of having an appliance on when you're not home? Do you regularly resort to frozen food and carry-out? I know I’m not the only one who gets home at 6:30 and still has to face this dilemma every day. I’m open to suggestions, ladies. Please help me in my quest to feed my daughter nutritious stuff – she deserves better than Doritos! I anxiously await your input.
Friday, June 12, 2009
I tweet, therefore I am.
Hi! I'm glad you're here. There's someone I want you to meet. This is my new BFF, Stella McCartney. Over there, that's Ellen DeGeneres. And I've never met her, but my friend Amy here is really tight with Melissa Gilbert.
This, my friends, sums up the surreal experience that is Twitter.
I have to admit I joined Twitter somewhat against my will, and I have never felt more computer illiterate in my life than when I was trying to figure it out. There's just nothing about it that's intuitive. Sort of like Windows Vista. But that's a topic for another day. But my good friend Emily at Mommin' It Up! convinced me that if I was gonna take this blogging thing seriously, I should be on Twitter, 'cause that's where all the cool blogging kids hang out.
So I did it. I signed up for Twitter and began my career in tweeting.
And let me tell you, I am ADDICTED. I seriously need help. Hi, my name is Emilie and I am a tweeting fool. (Hi, Emilie).
There are a lot of things I enjoy about Twitter. First of all, believe it or not, you really CAN make new friends in 140 characters or less. I now have a kindred spirit in Edmonton, Canada, and several followers in the UK, which I find pleasing in a bizarre sort of way. Second, I love that my Twitter friends are, for the most part, NOT my real-life friends. I like interacting with this completely "other" group and not worrying about the repercussions in my everyday existence. On the other hand, I love that I've made a few real-life new friends through blogging, and that I get to interact with them on Twitter. I've only seen these girls a few times, but I feel like I'm getting to know them well. I love that Twitter is the ultimate venue for meaningless yet hilarious conversations, and that some of my new friends are so witty that I get to laugh out loud several times a day.
But then there's the freaky side of Twitter. Like for instance, yesterday I included the name of a local supermarket in one of my tweets. I was talking to a local blogging friend, and just mentioned it in passing. Next thing I knew, that supermarket was FOLLOWING ME. Weird, no? And yes, when you say a total stranger is "following" you in Twitter parlance, it can and does carry some of the same spooky connotations it would if you were discussing someone in a dark hooded jacket following you down the sidewalk.
I said something at one point that attracted the attention of the New York Giants, who decided, however briefly, to follow me. Huh? I casually put it out there one day that I was in the market for a lawn mower. Suddenly Black & Decker wants to be BFF. Today Emily and I had a conversation of sorts with The AP Stylebook, which has its own Twitter persona.
Then there's the whole celebrity thing. In its own weird way, Twitter is the great equalizer. Celebrity Twitter accounts are just like everyone else's, and they let you get up close and personal with famous people, as long as your idea of up close and personal includes things like what they had for breakfast and what kind of deodorant they use. Being the celebrity stalker that I am, I follow Ellen Degeneres. I still find it odd when I'm reading through recent tweets and there's Ellen, her smiling face peering out at me from among the other photos of my friends and their kids. I was reading through someone else's stream yesterday, and there was a response from Kirstie Alley. Someone else, who also seemed to be a perfectly normal, non-celebrity type like myself, was chatting with Reese Witherspoon (who, by the way, sounds like she may be the nicest person on the planet). My friend Amy has launched a campaign to get Melissa Gilbert to tweet her, and because of the nature of Twitter, she just might succeed.
Which brings me to my BFF, Stella. You know Stella -- the famous fashion designer. And my future daughter-in-law. She is, as you probably know, the daughter of Paul McCartney, who happens to be at the top of my list of people I would like to meet and perhaps marry someday. That's SIR Paul McCartney to you commoners. He's a knight, you know.
See, for some very strange and unknown reason, Stella is one of my followers. I don't know how or why she found me, but there she is on my list, her beautiful black-and-white glossy publicity shot staring up at me from the screen. This tickles me to no end. Just the sheer hilarity of it makes me break into giggles. So in that spirit, I tweeted "Am now being followed by Stella McCartney. Maybe she'll fix me up with her dad."
Then I realized that, given the way Twitter works, Stella might actually SEE what I wrote. So I waited for a response. Nuthin'. I tried again, more directly this time.
"Yoo hoo Stella McCartney -- how are we coming on that request to fix me up with your dad? Any progress? Just wondering . . ."
Nuthin'.
But this launched me into a discussion with my friend Katie at Domestic Debacle on why I would be the perfect match for Sir Paul:
Katie: She should totally fix you up. Ya'll make a really cute couple. Seriously.
Me: I'm older than his last wife, too. And I wouldn't cost him NEARLY as much in the divorce.
Katie: Can I be a bridesmaid? I'm volunteering my services!
Me: As long as you wear your pink polka-dot shoes. I wonder how Paul McCartney will fit in with my redneck family? Do you think he'll like visiting the cemetery in Tennessee?
Katie: He'll love the cemetery in Tennessee. It'll be more lively than his ex-wife.
Me: And wouldn't he love it that I sing "Yesterday" to Ellie at bedtime? She's also fond of "Eleanor Rigby" and "Yellow Submarine." How cool would it be for HIM to sing "Yesterday" to my daughter?! I think I have quite the list of reasons why we're perfect for each other. Hope he agrees - my stalking skills are awesome.
So now I'm just waiting for Stella to pay attention to this conversation, tweet me her dad's cell number, and design me some really cool wedding invites. She could even be a bridesmaid, if we could find her some shoes to match Katie's. I KNOW these things will happen, 'cause Stella is my BFF. Otherwise why would she be following me on Twitter? Sir Paul is clearly my density. We'll live happily ever after, and we owe it all to the internetz.
You're all invited to Westminster Abbey for the wedding! Stay tuned for "save the date" information!
Update: several hours later . . .
Have received two recent tweets from my BFF Stella McCartney. Both about her new clothing line. Neither addressed to me. No mention of upcoming date with Sir Paul. Sigh . . .
This, my friends, sums up the surreal experience that is Twitter.
I have to admit I joined Twitter somewhat against my will, and I have never felt more computer illiterate in my life than when I was trying to figure it out. There's just nothing about it that's intuitive. Sort of like Windows Vista. But that's a topic for another day. But my good friend Emily at Mommin' It Up! convinced me that if I was gonna take this blogging thing seriously, I should be on Twitter, 'cause that's where all the cool blogging kids hang out.
So I did it. I signed up for Twitter and began my career in tweeting.
And let me tell you, I am ADDICTED. I seriously need help. Hi, my name is Emilie and I am a tweeting fool. (Hi, Emilie).
There are a lot of things I enjoy about Twitter. First of all, believe it or not, you really CAN make new friends in 140 characters or less. I now have a kindred spirit in Edmonton, Canada, and several followers in the UK, which I find pleasing in a bizarre sort of way. Second, I love that my Twitter friends are, for the most part, NOT my real-life friends. I like interacting with this completely "other" group and not worrying about the repercussions in my everyday existence. On the other hand, I love that I've made a few real-life new friends through blogging, and that I get to interact with them on Twitter. I've only seen these girls a few times, but I feel like I'm getting to know them well. I love that Twitter is the ultimate venue for meaningless yet hilarious conversations, and that some of my new friends are so witty that I get to laugh out loud several times a day.
But then there's the freaky side of Twitter. Like for instance, yesterday I included the name of a local supermarket in one of my tweets. I was talking to a local blogging friend, and just mentioned it in passing. Next thing I knew, that supermarket was FOLLOWING ME. Weird, no? And yes, when you say a total stranger is "following" you in Twitter parlance, it can and does carry some of the same spooky connotations it would if you were discussing someone in a dark hooded jacket following you down the sidewalk.
I said something at one point that attracted the attention of the New York Giants, who decided, however briefly, to follow me. Huh? I casually put it out there one day that I was in the market for a lawn mower. Suddenly Black & Decker wants to be BFF. Today Emily and I had a conversation of sorts with The AP Stylebook, which has its own Twitter persona.
Then there's the whole celebrity thing. In its own weird way, Twitter is the great equalizer. Celebrity Twitter accounts are just like everyone else's, and they let you get up close and personal with famous people, as long as your idea of up close and personal includes things like what they had for breakfast and what kind of deodorant they use. Being the celebrity stalker that I am, I follow Ellen Degeneres. I still find it odd when I'm reading through recent tweets and there's Ellen, her smiling face peering out at me from among the other photos of my friends and their kids. I was reading through someone else's stream yesterday, and there was a response from Kirstie Alley. Someone else, who also seemed to be a perfectly normal, non-celebrity type like myself, was chatting with Reese Witherspoon (who, by the way, sounds like she may be the nicest person on the planet). My friend Amy has launched a campaign to get Melissa Gilbert to tweet her, and because of the nature of Twitter, she just might succeed.
Which brings me to my BFF, Stella. You know Stella -- the famous fashion designer. And my future daughter-in-law. She is, as you probably know, the daughter of Paul McCartney, who happens to be at the top of my list of people I would like to meet and perhaps marry someday. That's SIR Paul McCartney to you commoners. He's a knight, you know.
See, for some very strange and unknown reason, Stella is one of my followers. I don't know how or why she found me, but there she is on my list, her beautiful black-and-white glossy publicity shot staring up at me from the screen. This tickles me to no end. Just the sheer hilarity of it makes me break into giggles. So in that spirit, I tweeted "Am now being followed by Stella McCartney. Maybe she'll fix me up with her dad."
Then I realized that, given the way Twitter works, Stella might actually SEE what I wrote. So I waited for a response. Nuthin'. I tried again, more directly this time.
"Yoo hoo Stella McCartney -- how are we coming on that request to fix me up with your dad? Any progress? Just wondering . . ."
Nuthin'.
But this launched me into a discussion with my friend Katie at Domestic Debacle on why I would be the perfect match for Sir Paul:
Katie: She should totally fix you up. Ya'll make a really cute couple. Seriously.
Me: I'm older than his last wife, too. And I wouldn't cost him NEARLY as much in the divorce.
Katie: Can I be a bridesmaid? I'm volunteering my services!
Me: As long as you wear your pink polka-dot shoes. I wonder how Paul McCartney will fit in with my redneck family? Do you think he'll like visiting the cemetery in Tennessee?
Katie: He'll love the cemetery in Tennessee. It'll be more lively than his ex-wife.
Me: And wouldn't he love it that I sing "Yesterday" to Ellie at bedtime? She's also fond of "Eleanor Rigby" and "Yellow Submarine." How cool would it be for HIM to sing "Yesterday" to my daughter?! I think I have quite the list of reasons why we're perfect for each other. Hope he agrees - my stalking skills are awesome.
So now I'm just waiting for Stella to pay attention to this conversation, tweet me her dad's cell number, and design me some really cool wedding invites. She could even be a bridesmaid, if we could find her some shoes to match Katie's. I KNOW these things will happen, 'cause Stella is my BFF. Otherwise why would she be following me on Twitter? Sir Paul is clearly my density. We'll live happily ever after, and we owe it all to the internetz.
You're all invited to Westminster Abbey for the wedding! Stay tuned for "save the date" information!
Update: several hours later . . .
Have received two recent tweets from my BFF Stella McCartney. Both about her new clothing line. Neither addressed to me. No mention of upcoming date with Sir Paul. Sigh . . .
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Whenever I see your smiling face
I was going to write a little something to accompany these photos, but I think they speak for themselves.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Technology makes me happy
This has been a really good weekend. And after recent events in my life, I think I DESERVE a good weekend, don't you?
On Saturday Ellie and I went to Pump It Up, a local bounce-house sort of establishment, for a birthday party for A
my in Ohio's little love nugget, P. Ellie had a ball trying out all the bouncy equipment and playing with new friends, and Mama had a chance to play with . . . er, I mean . . . get to know some of her new friends better, too. I got to chat with Shannan from Mommy Bits, Andrea from Mommy Snacks, Tela from Working Moms Against Guilt, and of course both of my Mommin' It Up! girls, Emily and Jenny. I also got to compare rug burn with some of these ladies, as we all scraped our elbows up while accompanying our little sweet potatoes down the bouncy slide. (Sadly, I signed a waiver before getting my bounce on, which means I cannot expect Amy in Ohio's insurance company to reimburse me for pain, emotional stress, and loss of use of my arm.)
On Sunday I hosted a little get-together at my house for some folks I haven't seen since college. There were ten of us who were soro
rity sisters, as well as four male groupies (one of whom brought me flowers -- can I just tell you how long it's been since a man brought me flowers?) and various and sundry kids. I don't think I ever did figure out which ones belonged to which mom. We had a blast catching up, eating and taking pictures, and one of my friends even brought me a bottle of wine that says "Menage a Trois" on the label! It had been so long since I'd seen most of these folks, and with a couple of exceptions, I'd never met their families. I can't tell you how great it was to see them all and know that they're doing well.
So after everyone left this evening, and I was sitting on the couch eating the leftover cupcakes that Mark so foolishly left behind, I started thinking about how these two little events this weekend had come about. And I realized that both are the result of technology. Facebook led me to get together with old friends, and blogging, which is still a fairly new activity for me, led to the opportunity to get to know some new friends. How cool is that?
I hear a lot about how Facebook and Twitter are responsible for the demise of the normal social life -- apparently we're all sitting around staring at our computer screens instead of getting out of the house and meeting actual people. For me, the opposite has been true. I joined Facebook in November, a bit against my will. Within weeks, I had gotten together with high school friends I hadn't seen in years, and had reacquainted myself with college friends I thought were lost to me forever. Several times in the last six months, I've had the chance to see people in the flesh whom I probably never would have seen again, had it not been for Facebook. In some cases, these little reunions have been with folks I wasn't particularly close to (or didn't know at all) in high school or college, and I've had the pleasure of getting to know them all over again in a completely new context. None of us wants to be judged on who we were at 16 or 21,and it's been great to find out who these people turned out to be as adults. I never would have known if I hadn't been introduced to Facebook.
At the other end of the spectrum are the new friends I've met through the blogosphere. Emily at Mommin' It Up! encouraged me to start blogging, and has been so gracious about introducing me to her network of blogging friends, both online and in person. I've already met some people who seem to be kindred spirits, and I've been having a ball getting to know them via Twitter (I also get to interact with Emily and Jenny more through Twitter and through blogging -- another plus). Everyone has been wonderfully supportive of my new blogging addiction -- I can't wait to see what happens as we get to know each other better, both through our blog posts and in "real life."
As someone who's gone through some major life changes in the past five years, not to mention a pretty huge one just a few short days ago, I can't describe to you how great it is to feel like my life is taking off in new directions. It would have been so easy to break up with my longtime boyfriend (have I mentioned how dumb I feel talking about my "boyfriend" at the age of 39?) and curl up in my living room, never to leave the house again -- to sit here feeling sorry for myself and refusing to ever get out and socialize again. Instead I find myself with a full calendar and even a potential date (more on that later), all thanks to the wonders of the internet.
Sure, there are creepy types out there, and I know I've opened myself up to them by making my blog public. Yes, technology creates the possibility for sitting around in your PJs staring open-mouthed at a computer screen rather than having a real life. And certainly I've left myself open to the people from my previous life who feel the need to connect with me when I just want to pretend they don't exist (I've had to make use of the "ignore" button on Facebook more than once). But all of those things are manageable risks -- things I'm willing to deal with in exchange for a fuller life. That's what technology has brought me, and I'm grateful for all of it.
And besides, Stella McCartney is now following me on Twitter, which I find hilarious and very cool. I wonder if she can fix me up with her dad?
On Saturday Ellie and I went to Pump It Up, a local bounce-house sort of establishment, for a birthday party for A
my in Ohio's little love nugget, P. Ellie had a ball trying out all the bouncy equipment and playing with new friends, and Mama had a chance to play with . . . er, I mean . . . get to know some of her new friends better, too. I got to chat with Shannan from Mommy Bits, Andrea from Mommy Snacks, Tela from Working Moms Against Guilt, and of course both of my Mommin' It Up! girls, Emily and Jenny. I also got to compare rug burn with some of these ladies, as we all scraped our elbows up while accompanying our little sweet potatoes down the bouncy slide. (Sadly, I signed a waiver before getting my bounce on, which means I cannot expect Amy in Ohio's insurance company to reimburse me for pain, emotional stress, and loss of use of my arm.)On Sunday I hosted a little get-together at my house for some folks I haven't seen since college. There were ten of us who were soro
rity sisters, as well as four male groupies (one of whom brought me flowers -- can I just tell you how long it's been since a man brought me flowers?) and various and sundry kids. I don't think I ever did figure out which ones belonged to which mom. We had a blast catching up, eating and taking pictures, and one of my friends even brought me a bottle of wine that says "Menage a Trois" on the label! It had been so long since I'd seen most of these folks, and with a couple of exceptions, I'd never met their families. I can't tell you how great it was to see them all and know that they're doing well.So after everyone left this evening, and I was sitting on the couch eating the leftover cupcakes that Mark so foolishly left behind, I started thinking about how these two little events this weekend had come about. And I realized that both are the result of technology. Facebook led me to get together with old friends, and blogging, which is still a fairly new activity for me, led to the opportunity to get to know some new friends. How cool is that?
I hear a lot about how Facebook and Twitter are responsible for the demise of the normal social life -- apparently we're all sitting around staring at our computer screens instead of getting out of the house and meeting actual people. For me, the opposite has been true. I joined Facebook in November, a bit against my will. Within weeks, I had gotten together with high school friends I hadn't seen in years, and had reacquainted myself with college friends I thought were lost to me forever. Several times in the last six months, I've had the chance to see people in the flesh whom I probably never would have seen again, had it not been for Facebook. In some cases, these little reunions have been with folks I wasn't particularly close to (or didn't know at all) in high school or college, and I've had the pleasure of getting to know them all over again in a completely new context. None of us wants to be judged on who we were at 16 or 21,and it's been great to find out who these people turned out to be as adults. I never would have known if I hadn't been introduced to Facebook.
At the other end of the spectrum are the new friends I've met through the blogosphere. Emily at Mommin' It Up! encouraged me to start blogging, and has been so gracious about introducing me to her network of blogging friends, both online and in person. I've already met some people who seem to be kindred spirits, and I've been having a ball getting to know them via Twitter (I also get to interact with Emily and Jenny more through Twitter and through blogging -- another plus). Everyone has been wonderfully supportive of my new blogging addiction -- I can't wait to see what happens as we get to know each other better, both through our blog posts and in "real life."
As someone who's gone through some major life changes in the past five years, not to mention a pretty huge one just a few short days ago, I can't describe to you how great it is to feel like my life is taking off in new directions. It would have been so easy to break up with my longtime boyfriend (have I mentioned how dumb I feel talking about my "boyfriend" at the age of 39?) and curl up in my living room, never to leave the house again -- to sit here feeling sorry for myself and refusing to ever get out and socialize again. Instead I find myself with a full calendar and even a potential date (more on that later), all thanks to the wonders of the internet.
Sure, there are creepy types out there, and I know I've opened myself up to them by making my blog public. Yes, technology creates the possibility for sitting around in your PJs staring open-mouthed at a computer screen rather than having a real life. And certainly I've left myself open to the people from my previous life who feel the need to connect with me when I just want to pretend they don't exist (I've had to make use of the "ignore" button on Facebook more than once). But all of those things are manageable risks -- things I'm willing to deal with in exchange for a fuller life. That's what technology has brought me, and I'm grateful for all of it.
And besides, Stella McCartney is now following me on Twitter, which I find hilarious and very cool. I wonder if she can fix me up with her dad?
Friday, June 5, 2009
Getting to know me
I was working on a post for today about a serious topic near and dear to my heart, but I had to stop writing and put it away for another time. First of all, we've dealt with enough serious topics for one week. And secondly, I'm so angry over the topic in question right now that I am in no shape to write about it. So I'll sleep on it this weekend and revisit it next week if I can. If not, you'll just have to live with the suspense of not knowing what it was I was going to write about.
So, since I had nothing else in my little head about which to write, I am recycling something that made the rounds on Facebook last fall: 25 Random Things About Me. You all know the drill - you tell 25 random facts about yourself, and then tag others to do the same. So, while I don't intend to tag anyone (I think most of my bloggy friends probably covered this one approximately 100 years ago), I thought it might be good if I did it, just so you and I can get to know each other a little better. After all, we've only been seeing each other for a few short weeks, and we're still in the honeymoon phase of our relationship.
So here it is - everything you never wanted to know about Emilie:
25. I'm very superstitious about the number 13.
24. Most of my friends will tell you I am a wealth of useless information. You, dear reader, have already seen evidence of this in our brief relationship.
23. I have an irrational fear of being in the wrong place at the wrong time -- like being the person who just happens to be standing in a certain place on the sidewalk, minding my own business, when a truck careens out of control and runs me down. Or walking by a construction site just as the crane falls over. I fear I'll end up a footnote to a news story -- "Horrendous accident creates mass chaos; random bystander killed."
22. I am obsessed with cartoon voices. My favorite thing about animated films and Ellie's Disney and Noggin cartoons is trying to identify who is voicing each character. I'm usually pretty accurate, too. Did you know the voice of Spongebob Squarepants is also the voice of Mr. Lopart on Handy Manny?
21. I can carry on entire conversations in quotes from "The Princess Bride."
20. I can't whistle. "Just put your lips together and blow" my ass.
19. If each of us is a Winnie the Pooh character, I fear I might be Rabbit.
18. I love show tunes. The older and cheesier the musical, the better.
17. When I was in high school, I tried out for both cheerleading and the drill team, in spite of being the most uncoordinated person ever born. I had not yet embraced my inner nerd back then.
16. I put one packet of Equal and one packet of Sweet 'n' Low in my iced tea. Two Sweet 'n' Lows is too sweet, and two Equals is just nasty. I learned this fine art from my brother-in-law.
15. I learned to drive in a cemetery.
14. I played both the cymbals and the bass drum in the high school marching band. But not at the same time.
13. I can sing the Greek alphabet. Sometimes I sing it to my daughter along with the English ABCs.
12. I'm not very good at children's cheesy little songs, so I tend to sing stuff to Ellie that I like -- Billy Joel, the Beatles, James Taylor. She's particularly fond of "Yellow Submarine."
11. I can't swim in spite of taking swimming lessons several times throughout my life.
10. I watch my favorite movies over and over again. The closer I am to having it memorized, the better I like to watch it.
9. I do not know what I want to be when I grow up.
8. I was voted "Most Likely to Succeed" in high school. Bizarre, considering I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up.
7. I have a journalism degree, but am embarrassed to tell people that when I watch the local news.
6. I am addicted to Wikipedia.
5. I am the daughter of a Baptist minister. I am also the daughter of a convicted felon. Go figure.
4. I like eating out and going to movies alone.
3. My great-grandmother's first name was Annas. Be careful how you pronouce it.
2. I haven't taken a math class since my junior year of high school.
1. I never had a pet until my early 30s, when I acquired a rabbit. I now have four of them, who live in my basement.
So, since I had nothing else in my little head about which to write, I am recycling something that made the rounds on Facebook last fall: 25 Random Things About Me. You all know the drill - you tell 25 random facts about yourself, and then tag others to do the same. So, while I don't intend to tag anyone (I think most of my bloggy friends probably covered this one approximately 100 years ago), I thought it might be good if I did it, just so you and I can get to know each other a little better. After all, we've only been seeing each other for a few short weeks, and we're still in the honeymoon phase of our relationship.
So here it is - everything you never wanted to know about Emilie:
25. I'm very superstitious about the number 13.
24. Most of my friends will tell you I am a wealth of useless information. You, dear reader, have already seen evidence of this in our brief relationship.
23. I have an irrational fear of being in the wrong place at the wrong time -- like being the person who just happens to be standing in a certain place on the sidewalk, minding my own business, when a truck careens out of control and runs me down. Or walking by a construction site just as the crane falls over. I fear I'll end up a footnote to a news story -- "Horrendous accident creates mass chaos; random bystander killed."
22. I am obsessed with cartoon voices. My favorite thing about animated films and Ellie's Disney and Noggin cartoons is trying to identify who is voicing each character. I'm usually pretty accurate, too. Did you know the voice of Spongebob Squarepants is also the voice of Mr. Lopart on Handy Manny?
21. I can carry on entire conversations in quotes from "The Princess Bride."
20. I can't whistle. "Just put your lips together and blow" my ass.
19. If each of us is a Winnie the Pooh character, I fear I might be Rabbit.
18. I love show tunes. The older and cheesier the musical, the better.
17. When I was in high school, I tried out for both cheerleading and the drill team, in spite of being the most uncoordinated person ever born. I had not yet embraced my inner nerd back then.
16. I put one packet of Equal and one packet of Sweet 'n' Low in my iced tea. Two Sweet 'n' Lows is too sweet, and two Equals is just nasty. I learned this fine art from my brother-in-law.
15. I learned to drive in a cemetery.
14. I played both the cymbals and the bass drum in the high school marching band. But not at the same time.
13. I can sing the Greek alphabet. Sometimes I sing it to my daughter along with the English ABCs.
12. I'm not very good at children's cheesy little songs, so I tend to sing stuff to Ellie that I like -- Billy Joel, the Beatles, James Taylor. She's particularly fond of "Yellow Submarine."
11. I can't swim in spite of taking swimming lessons several times throughout my life.
10. I watch my favorite movies over and over again. The closer I am to having it memorized, the better I like to watch it.
9. I do not know what I want to be when I grow up.
8. I was voted "Most Likely to Succeed" in high school. Bizarre, considering I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up.
7. I have a journalism degree, but am embarrassed to tell people that when I watch the local news.
6. I am addicted to Wikipedia.
5. I am the daughter of a Baptist minister. I am also the daughter of a convicted felon. Go figure.
4. I like eating out and going to movies alone.
3. My great-grandmother's first name was Annas. Be careful how you pronouce it.
2. I haven't taken a math class since my junior year of high school.
1. I never had a pet until my early 30s, when I acquired a rabbit. I now have four of them, who live in my basement.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
My life is a Neil Sedaka song
Last week I broke up with the person I thought I would spend the rest of my life with. We had been together 15 years. And good old Neil Sedaka had it right – breaking up IS hard to do, even when it’s the right thing, and even when the handwriting has been on the wall for a million years.
Dr. Wonderful and I had been together since I was 24. Most of my life experience, not to mention my sexual experience, was with him. I have very few memories in my adult life that do not include him. Our families are friends. We went to church together for many years. We share a set of cousins, for crying out loud (no, we are not related, unlike SOME couples I know. For more on that, see this post by Jenny over at Mommin’ It Up).
Cutting him out of my life after all this time was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.
Why did I stay with someone so long without marrying him, you ask? Good question. The easy answer is that he never asked. So why did I stick around? Because he kept saying he was GOING to ask, and I believed him. Time after time. Disappointment after disappointment. If you had asked me, two or three years ago, why I consistently let him treat me as his personal doormat, I would have said I loved him, whether we were married or not. I would have said it didn’t matter if we ever got married, as long as we could be together. I would have told you I had reached a point where marriage didn’t matter to me as much as the partnership did. And all of that would have been true. I DID love him. I DID reach a point (at precisely the moment when my dad was led from a courtroom to a jail cell) when marriage didn’t seem important. So what changed?
I had a daughter.
And that changed everything. Suddenly I looked at my relationship with Dr. Wonderful and I didn’t see a partnership minus the marriage license. I saw a one-sided love affair in which Dr. Wonderful was the beater, figuratively speaking, and I was the beatee. I saw my life, which included him in every aspect, compared to his life, which compartmentalized me into non-existence. I saw a man with a unique talent for saying all the right things without ever DOING anything to back up his promises, and for getting me to fall for it over and over again. And when I looked at all those things through my daughter’s eyes, I was ashamed of myself.
Here’s the thing: everyone in my entire life (except me) knew Dr. Wonderful wasn’t so wonderful, and someday, in the not-too-distant future, Ellie would see it, too. I was the only one who refused to see that Dr. Wonderful would never put his money where his mouth was, and the day was fast approaching when I would have to explain his actions, as well as my own, to my child. I was okay with making excuses for him, as long as the only person who had to buy the excuses was me.
But when I thought about having to sell those same excuses to my daughter, I was embarrassed on my own behalf. I pictured myself 20 years from now, still “dating” Dr. Wonderful and trying to explain to Ellie why I had allowed him to hijack her life as well as mine. Maybe I could sentence myself to that and even convince myself it was what I wanted. But I could never accept that reality on her behalf. She deserves better, I told myself. And if that’s true, who is there to make sure that happens but me? I’m her mother.
I discovered a strength I didn’t know I had – I was capable of standing up for my daughter when I couldn’t (or wouldn’t) stand up for myself. You want to break your promises to me? Fine. I can live with that. But don’t you dare disappoint my child. You want to buy my affection with a well-timed gift? That’s one thing. But you’re not going to play with my daughter’s emotions like that. You want to shove excuses down my throat for the rest of my life? I can swallow them, but I won’t let her.
I find that I’m looking at a lot of things about my life not just through my own eyes, but my daughter’s as well. It’s an education. Things I’ve always thought were perfectly fine suddenly don’t seem so great when I think about having to explain myself to a child – things like my potty mouth, and the religious beliefs I held for years. In my very first religion class in college, I learned that you have to be able to defend what you believe and why – the fact that it’s what you’ve always been taught or what you've always done isn’t good enough. So that’s what I’m trying to do – I’m trying to examine all my attitudes, views, beliefs, hopes and dreams in the light of what my daughter will say someday when I'm called upon to defend them to her. Being her mom is making me a better person -- for her sake, and for my own.
Dr. Wonderful and I had been together since I was 24. Most of my life experience, not to mention my sexual experience, was with him. I have very few memories in my adult life that do not include him. Our families are friends. We went to church together for many years. We share a set of cousins, for crying out loud (no, we are not related, unlike SOME couples I know. For more on that, see this post by Jenny over at Mommin’ It Up).
Cutting him out of my life after all this time was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.
Why did I stay with someone so long without marrying him, you ask? Good question. The easy answer is that he never asked. So why did I stick around? Because he kept saying he was GOING to ask, and I believed him. Time after time. Disappointment after disappointment. If you had asked me, two or three years ago, why I consistently let him treat me as his personal doormat, I would have said I loved him, whether we were married or not. I would have said it didn’t matter if we ever got married, as long as we could be together. I would have told you I had reached a point where marriage didn’t matter to me as much as the partnership did. And all of that would have been true. I DID love him. I DID reach a point (at precisely the moment when my dad was led from a courtroom to a jail cell) when marriage didn’t seem important. So what changed?
I had a daughter.
And that changed everything. Suddenly I looked at my relationship with Dr. Wonderful and I didn’t see a partnership minus the marriage license. I saw a one-sided love affair in which Dr. Wonderful was the beater, figuratively speaking, and I was the beatee. I saw my life, which included him in every aspect, compared to his life, which compartmentalized me into non-existence. I saw a man with a unique talent for saying all the right things without ever DOING anything to back up his promises, and for getting me to fall for it over and over again. And when I looked at all those things through my daughter’s eyes, I was ashamed of myself.
Here’s the thing: everyone in my entire life (except me) knew Dr. Wonderful wasn’t so wonderful, and someday, in the not-too-distant future, Ellie would see it, too. I was the only one who refused to see that Dr. Wonderful would never put his money where his mouth was, and the day was fast approaching when I would have to explain his actions, as well as my own, to my child. I was okay with making excuses for him, as long as the only person who had to buy the excuses was me.
But when I thought about having to sell those same excuses to my daughter, I was embarrassed on my own behalf. I pictured myself 20 years from now, still “dating” Dr. Wonderful and trying to explain to Ellie why I had allowed him to hijack her life as well as mine. Maybe I could sentence myself to that and even convince myself it was what I wanted. But I could never accept that reality on her behalf. She deserves better, I told myself. And if that’s true, who is there to make sure that happens but me? I’m her mother.
I discovered a strength I didn’t know I had – I was capable of standing up for my daughter when I couldn’t (or wouldn’t) stand up for myself. You want to break your promises to me? Fine. I can live with that. But don’t you dare disappoint my child. You want to buy my affection with a well-timed gift? That’s one thing. But you’re not going to play with my daughter’s emotions like that. You want to shove excuses down my throat for the rest of my life? I can swallow them, but I won’t let her.
I find that I’m looking at a lot of things about my life not just through my own eyes, but my daughter’s as well. It’s an education. Things I’ve always thought were perfectly fine suddenly don’t seem so great when I think about having to explain myself to a child – things like my potty mouth, and the religious beliefs I held for years. In my very first religion class in college, I learned that you have to be able to defend what you believe and why – the fact that it’s what you’ve always been taught or what you've always done isn’t good enough. So that’s what I’m trying to do – I’m trying to examine all my attitudes, views, beliefs, hopes and dreams in the light of what my daughter will say someday when I'm called upon to defend them to her. Being her mom is making me a better person -- for her sake, and for my own.
Monday, June 1, 2009
There’s a word for that
I am a nerd. If you’ve been reading this little writing experiment for more than a day or two, I’m sure you’ve figured that out all by yourself. So, given my nerd-like tendencies, you will not be surprised to learn that I’ve found a new book I’m in love with, and that it’s about reading the dictionary.
Reading the OED: One Man, One Year, 21,730 Pages is by Ammon Shea, a furniture mover and logophile who spent one year reading the Oxford English Dictionary from cover to cover. To cover to cover to cover. All twenty volumes of it. As he says, he’s read the OED so you don’t have to.
I’m only up to the letter H, but so far, this book is a hoot. For instance, I have learned that I am an anonymuncule: an anonymous, small-time writer. I knew this, of course, but I had no idea there was a name for my condition. I am also an antisocordist – an opponent of idiocy. If you are a purveyor of said idiocy, it might interest you to know that you are likely a bayard – one armed with the self-confidence of ignorance. I’ve met a bayard or two in my time.
One of the best words I’ve come across so far is bemissionary – to annoy with missionaries. This is what happened to me on Sunday when two impossibly young men from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints appeared on my doorstep. When I confessed to being a total heathen, they were reluctant to leave me in my sinful state; hence I was bemissionaried.
In case you were wondering, cellarhood is the state of being a cellar. This is, as Mr. Shea points out, “a wonderful example of the spectacular ways English has of describing things no one ever thinks it necessary to describe.”
Conspue is to spit on someone with contempt. Is there a way to spit on someone WITHOUT contempt? Maybe it’s a compliment. I expectorate on your person because of my great admiration for you.
Constult is to act stupidly together (I have two friends who spent Friday evening writing on bathroom walls in Newport, Kentucky -- I think this word may apply to them). Constult is closely related to unasinous – being equal to one another in stupidity. There are a lot of ways I could go with this (Bush and Cheney?), but I’ll leave you to insert your own joke here. But let me point out that unasinous is perhaps the best word I’ve ever heard.
Mr. Shea includes a whole section on the suffix –ee, and he points out that we’re missing out on a lot of fun by not making full use of these two little letters. Sure, we all know about employees, divorcees and escapees. But what about a beatee (one who is beaten)? Or a flingee (one at whom something is flung)? Or a boree (one who is bored, as I will be this morning in a staff meeting whilst you are reading this)?
Okay, here’s one to toss out at the dinner table next time you’re out with friends: “Excuse me while I go to the ladies’ room to fard.” Farding is adorning yourself with cosmetics (get your minds out of the gutter, people). So next time you pass some woman on the highway using her rear-view mirror to apply mascara, you can tell your buddies that you saw a person farding in her car.
Here’s something we’re all familiar with but I bet none of us knew its name – gound, which is the gunk that collects in the corner of your eye. Well, okay, I could have lived the rest of my life without knowing that. But here’s one we all need to know: happify – to make happy. Learning new and interesting words makes me happy, and so does this book. If you’re a nerd like me, read it and consider yourself happified.
Reading the OED: One Man, One Year, 21,730 Pages is by Ammon Shea, a furniture mover and logophile who spent one year reading the Oxford English Dictionary from cover to cover. To cover to cover to cover. All twenty volumes of it. As he says, he’s read the OED so you don’t have to.
I’m only up to the letter H, but so far, this book is a hoot. For instance, I have learned that I am an anonymuncule: an anonymous, small-time writer. I knew this, of course, but I had no idea there was a name for my condition. I am also an antisocordist – an opponent of idiocy. If you are a purveyor of said idiocy, it might interest you to know that you are likely a bayard – one armed with the self-confidence of ignorance. I’ve met a bayard or two in my time.
One of the best words I’ve come across so far is bemissionary – to annoy with missionaries. This is what happened to me on Sunday when two impossibly young men from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints appeared on my doorstep. When I confessed to being a total heathen, they were reluctant to leave me in my sinful state; hence I was bemissionaried.
In case you were wondering, cellarhood is the state of being a cellar. This is, as Mr. Shea points out, “a wonderful example of the spectacular ways English has of describing things no one ever thinks it necessary to describe.”
Conspue is to spit on someone with contempt. Is there a way to spit on someone WITHOUT contempt? Maybe it’s a compliment. I expectorate on your person because of my great admiration for you.
Constult is to act stupidly together (I have two friends who spent Friday evening writing on bathroom walls in Newport, Kentucky -- I think this word may apply to them). Constult is closely related to unasinous – being equal to one another in stupidity. There are a lot of ways I could go with this (Bush and Cheney?), but I’ll leave you to insert your own joke here. But let me point out that unasinous is perhaps the best word I’ve ever heard.
Mr. Shea includes a whole section on the suffix –ee, and he points out that we’re missing out on a lot of fun by not making full use of these two little letters. Sure, we all know about employees, divorcees and escapees. But what about a beatee (one who is beaten)? Or a flingee (one at whom something is flung)? Or a boree (one who is bored, as I will be this morning in a staff meeting whilst you are reading this)?
Okay, here’s one to toss out at the dinner table next time you’re out with friends: “Excuse me while I go to the ladies’ room to fard.” Farding is adorning yourself with cosmetics (get your minds out of the gutter, people). So next time you pass some woman on the highway using her rear-view mirror to apply mascara, you can tell your buddies that you saw a person farding in her car.
Here’s something we’re all familiar with but I bet none of us knew its name – gound, which is the gunk that collects in the corner of your eye. Well, okay, I could have lived the rest of my life without knowing that. But here’s one we all need to know: happify – to make happy. Learning new and interesting words makes me happy, and so does this book. If you’re a nerd like me, read it and consider yourself happified.
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