Winter Storm Watcher

January 27, 2011

Greetings from The Polar Ice Cap, otherwise known as New Jersey.  We have 15 new inches of snow today in my town.  We haven’t seen a patch of our  lawn since Christmas Day.  People are getting cranky.  Our local Home Depot is bringing in spare snow blowers from its Utah locations to keep up with demand.  It has been quite a winter, and it’s only January.

But I don’t mind all of this.  I’m a freak — I sort of love it.  Always have. 

There’s the beauty.

The quiet.

Kids in pajamas.  Hot chocolate.  Baking.  (Or, slicing pre-made cookie dough and placing it in the oven until gooey.  But whatever — it counts, right?)

{Are you kidding me?  What about the shoveling, the freezing cold, the cranky kids crawling up the walls, the grocery store madness and the treacherous driving?  What do you have to say about that?  HUH?}

Yeah, yeah, all that gets annoying.  I’m not toally zen, trust me.  But I just like a good snowy winter for the most part.

So here’s my real guilty pleasure in a snow storm.  Two words:  Storm Watch.  It’s true, I love to watch it unfold on the news — and it’s always in three distinct stages. 

The Before:  Watching the system, looking at the projected track, timing, etc.  The interviews with the sand truck guys.  The lame statements from transit companies and the local government.  The footage of people in the supermarket or at the hardware store, saying ridiculous things, buying obscene amounts of supplies for The End of Days. 

The During:  I love me some good shots of the road conditions, the sanders in action and the complaining jerks who still drive for non-essential purposes, despite all warnings (see Before).  And of course, the reporters assigned to the wretched “stand in the heart of the storm and report back live” assignment.  (Full apologies to my dear friend R, who has this very job at times.  But she rocks it.)  The storm timeline is honed and the anticipated total snowfall refined — complete with the scrolling ticker of local school closures.  Bring.  It.

[Side note:  As a kid in a very rural town, the most reliable way to find out if school was delayed or canceled was to listen for a series of sirens to sound from the local volunteer fire company.  No, I’m not kidding.  Yes, I’m 100 years old.  Perhaps smoke signals or carrier pigeons would have worked as well.]

Ooooh and the airport sleepers.  Love them.  That’s kind of heartless — sorry.  I’m sure my mom taught me better than to have my entertainment come at the expense of folks sleeping on a nasty chair at JFK.  Clearly, karma will come full circle on me one day.

The After:  The Man on the Street interviews complaints.  The government cleanup, or lack thereof.  The statistics — often accompanied by The Surprise Factor (“Folks, we sure didn’t anticipate this one to be quite so bad.”)  And then the big pièce de résistance — Oh, I do love a good, final, official, going-in-the record-books snow accumulation chart.   

 

And I secretly love to win, or at least place well, in the rankings. (“You guys got 5 inches?  Oh, really?  It must have turned to sleet earlier for you.  We got 9.77489 at the top of the last hour…I, uh, heard.”).

Just to be clear — because I don’t want anyone to misunderstand.  I don’t revel in anyone’s injury or peril.  I’m not pro-hypothermia and I don’t ever find car accidents amusing.  At all.  I totally respect the overtime and hard work that all kinds of professions put in during a snow storm to keep us safe.  And I don’t want anyone delivering a baby on the side of an icy highway.  So, remember, I’m talking about the rest of it — the fluff, the collective madness of a snow storm.  That is where my nerdy Storm Love resides.  

***End of ethical disclaimer***

So.  Everyone is already groaning about a few new inches that we’re expecing over the weekend.  Fine by me.  And then, there’s some vague reference from the meterologists along the lines of  “Let’s not even get into what’s possibly on the radar for Tuesday.”  Yes, they are now just about withholding information because the Metro NYC area’s collective psyche just can’t handle any more thoughts of snow. 

Except me — I’m tuned in and ready for The Before to begin.  Again.

{All TV shots courtesy WABC-TV NY}

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Filed Under: Borderline Neuroses, Entertainment, Places Near and Far 16 Comments

Outsourcing Life

January 24, 2011

{Photo courtesy: www.greenandcleanmom.org}

Imagine what you could get done with a personal assistant. 

Just indulge me for a minute.  It has been a long week.  (Wait, it’s Monday?)

It takes very little for the wheels to fall off the wagon around here.  I know it’s because I’m maxed out and trying to do two things equally well — working and parenting.  Ditto for my husband.  The good news is that we have not failed miserably at either of those tasks (yet), but who is doing all of the household stuff in between?  Who will make Operation Fordeville hum if we don’t have the time? 

{Surely you can make the time.  Many working moms do just that.}

OK, correction:  We technically have some time, somewhere.  I guess.  But, who would you rather hang out with in your time away from the office — your kids or your to-do list? 

So, here it is — my fantasy ad to make things run more smoothly.

* * *

WANTED:  Personal Assistant for a working mom on the edge of insanity.  Must be anal rententive, list-oriented and anticipatory.  Mind reading helpful. 

Daily responsibililties will include: 

  • Serve as point person for daily interaction with contractors, repairmen and prospective vendors on various improvement and renovation projects for 100 year-old house.  Conduct related due diligence and present findings/recommendations to employer.
  • Pay household bills in timely fashion and assemble report of spending trends as they relate to family budget.  Liaise with financial planner to ensure ongoing alignment on long-term retirement goals.
  • Handle all incoming mail management, including purging of family name from unwanted lists and physical removal of junk mail to avoid recycling pile the size of small tree.
  • Run various errands, including but not limited to: dry cleaning, grocery shopping, filling prescriptions, various returns of clothing items that don’t look as good in person as they did online, purchasing seasonal items that are consistently overlooked until it’s too late (shovels, sidewalk salt, sunscreen, rakes, family holiday cards, general Christmas preparation, etc.), and, importantly, the identification and purchase of all gifts for children’s friends’ birthday parties.
  • Retrieval and management of all pre-school documenation — permission slips, medical records, monthly tuition and endless RSVPs to birthday parties (see related item on gifts above).
  • Schedule, cancel and reschedule various family medical appointments as needed.
  • Undertake all outstanding home furnishing needs, including outdoor siding color options, replacing hideous ceiling fans and tacky gold entryway sconces that came with the house and finding the right end table for living room. Take initiative to find out what window treatments are all about and which ones employer requires to stop Family Fishbowl lifestyle in full view of neighborhood.
  • Serve as face of Fordeville to neighbors Monday through Friday, baking as necessary.  Participate, appropriately, in any neighborhood gossip sessions and report back full list of names with corresponding house numbers to employer, who still knows nobody on street eight months later.  
  • Present various family vacation options to employer after thorough research and site visits.
  • Ensure that the red and white wine household reserves are kept at an appropriately stocked level at all times.
  • Maintain employer’s real-life (non-Facebook, blog or Twitter) friendships by scheduling monthly girls’ night out or related activity to preserve employer’s sanity.  Also, coordination of babysitters now and then so employer and employer’s spouse may have a civilized meal out of the house and away from all sippy cups.
  • Conduct any and all household interaction with the New Jersey DMV.  No exceptions.

Necessary Qualifications:

Must have experience dealing with very well meaning Type A-yet-coming-undone employer who clocks little to no face time at home Monday through Friday; interaction with two children under age four, even when they wipe their noses on you; total respect for full time nanny; and utter love for a middle-aged snoring pug who begs for people food (please don’t give him any, unless he makes that really sad face when he twists his head to the side).  Ability to type 180 wpm on mobile devices a must.  Knowledge of crock pots and blog design a plus.

* * *

That should do it.  OK guys — now you’ve seen my Domestic Outsourcing Wish List.  What’s on yours?

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Filed Under: Family, Friends, New to Town, Project Colonial, Work Stuff 6 Comments

Crafts, No. Crafty, Yes.

January 22, 2011

My three and a half year-old son got to do two things this week that really rocked his world.

The first was bringing his parents to pre-school for Visitation Day.  In reality, it was Visitation Hour.  It was sweet — circle time, the songs, sharing the whole routine with all of the parents (the dad whose car I almost stole last week was not there, thankfully).  My son was assigned the calendar and weather job, which he loved and dutifully performed — further reinforcing my belief that he will grow up with the same affinity for tracking storm fronts as other people in my family (you know who you are).

Then it was craft time.

Can I just make a side confession?  We’re not craft people in Fordeville.  None of us.  Books?  Check.  Toys?  Of course.  Outdoor play?  We’re there.  But you’ll never find me spreading out an assortment of sticks, pine cones, glue and glitter for a rainy day project.  Maybe if my kids showed interest, I would — and maybe, someday, that will be the case.  But now, they don’t even like the sight of a crayon — never mind cutting, drawing or gluing.  This could be my genetic contribution.  Craft stores freak me out.  The whole scrapbooking phenomenon leaves me confused.  Jewelry making sounds dizzying.

But there we were, The Uncrafty Three, trying to make a simple cut out project.  My husband and I feigned interest for the sake of the group activity at hand, but my son was having none of it.  Let’s be clear:  If there is not a train, other vehicle or some type of novice engineering (paternal genetics at hand there) involved, no dice for him.  So he snuck off to the side with his dad to take on serious high-rise construction matters while I completed the craft trauma.

If my hands hadn’t been covered in glue, I would have taken a photo of our ridiculous family craft end product for your entertainment.  It could easily double as an All Points Bulletin to permanently keep me from ever leading any scouting troop in America.

I always find it fascinating to see how pre school teachers operate — and I love the women who teach at my son’s school.  They are doing God’s work with a room full of three year-olds and, in truth, getting my son to fall in line.  He has a pretty serious stubborn streak and they are great with him.  This picture cracks me up because my son (in the red shirt) is in his class line-up but he’s all, “Hey, let’s cause some trouble” with his accomplice in the rugby shirt — and that kid is all, “I can take a meeting next week to discuss this further.”

I loved seeing him in his element at school — he’s himself, both the good and the, uh, less obedient, but he’s also a little different — feeling out how to socialize, where his niche is — and, largely, how to avoid arts and crafts.  It was great.

The second big to-do for him this week was our invitation to the third birthday party of my dear friend’s son in the city this morning.  We were excited to see them and celebrate — and also ride in on the train.  This journey on NJ Transit was like a Disney World vacation for my son.  He was utterly mesmerized.

Even if the noise got to him a little.

He was glued to the window, talking of tracks, hopper cars, quarries, smelters (don’t ask me — I’m still learning about this stuff).  Also, Jersey Haters, here’s some visual fodder for any stereotypes of the state that you have embraced.  Admittedly, this route is not our best foot forward.

The party was held at a DIY pottery place — which was so great — though it forced the Anti-Crafter to emerge for the second time this week. So he left me to paint his plaster stegosaurus, while the extent of his crafting was assessing the color composition of the M&Ms bowl.  But no matter, he loved the opportunity to torture everyone with his tales from the rails.

In all of our fun at the party, we ended up missing our train home, which meant having to kill an hour in Penn Station — not really Manhattan’s finest attraction.  On cold days, and particularly on weekends, all brands of Special Crazy come out of the woodwork there.  As far as I can tell, it’s where Giuliani exported all of the shadiness that he purged from Times Square.  And he sent the city’s collective smell of urine to reside there as well.  Good times.  In my head, I had just one prayer:  Please, God, please — Do not let this child tell me that he has to use the bathroom while we’re here.  I beg you.  I don’t have a HazMat suit in my bag.

But I’m not afraid to coat my kid in Purel from head to toe if I have to.

Thankfully, it didn’t come to that.  I distracted my son and his bladder with a cheesy NYC souvenirs store in the station to pass the time.  I told him he could choose one vehicle to take home, which he carefully considered for about six minutes.

It was a big decision.

He was in Transportation Heaven, while I tried to block out the distinct scent of pee.

But that’s OK.  I had two great events this week with my beloved genetic Anti-Crafting partner.

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Buongiorno, Trenta

January 19, 2011

There are many things I don’t really need but would happily accept. For example, another excuse to not join a gym. Large wheels of European cheese. A bigger cup of Starbucks.

Hold the phone. There’s a bigger cup of Starbucks available, you say?

Oh, yes. It’s new.  Because, sometimes — just sometimes — a 24 oz Venti is simply not enough.

Usually, a grande (16 oz, or medium in real life) is just fine for me — but there have been days, and I remember (or rue) them well, when even the Venti looked and felt like it was the size of a mere espresso shot.  Like Amateur Hour for Caffeine Addicts.  And for days like those, when they rear their ugly heads again, I’ll be able to stroll (or crawl) in and order the Trenta.  All 31 ounces of it.

Clearly, the Venti was the gateway drug to the Trenta.  And here I am, all ready to go and see my dealer for a fix of the next big thing. 

Say it with me:  I’ll have a Trenta skim, no-foam — nevermind.  Yeah, I am one of those.  It’s true.  My husband won’t order my coffee for me out of sheer humiliation, and I can hardly blame him.

Ever so quick (and not so wrong) to jump on mocking the Trenta and its symbolism of American Super-Sized culture, this graphic popped up in some publications written by Our Neighbors to the North. 

{Photo courtesy http://news.nationalpost.com}

They do have a point with the whole human stomach capacity comparison.  (I do wonder if that’s a Canadian stomach or an American stomach, the latter I imagine being vastly larger on average).  But how about this for justification?  Think about the hole that will be formed by the ulcer after consuming too much Starbucks, and that should just about free up enough room in the stomach’s capacity to handle the Trenta.  In my scientific opinion, of course.

So while I can’t pledge a daily purchase (not without a second job to support the habit), I am happy to say Benvenuti to the Trenta as a trustworthy back up.  It’s a nice caffeinated safety net — and good to know it will be there in my times of need.  For about $5 a cup, I assume.

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Pimp My Basement

January 18, 2011

Project Basement Overhaul is forging ahead.  Slowly.  And I am trying to keep my impatience in check — not my strong suit.

But there has been good progress to report.

There has been the ongoing Purging of the Stuff, and I am proud of my hoarding husband for parting ways with many of his treasured items.  I am still not brave enough to post the “before” photo with all of our boxes downstairs, but I will post one of the actual basement condition and (lack of) decor before we officially get the renovation underway.

We just had some work done to create more storage in our attic so that we can move a bunch of the remaining stuff up there, which is nice.  Truth be told, a lot of it is maternity and baby-related.  And I’m not ready to definitively close the door on an additional resident of Fordeville, even though, by all logic, I should be.  (Cue parents of three or more children laughing with an evil snort, while screaming “Sucker!  Don’t do it!” — which is pretty much the, uh, feedback we continue to receive.)  Anyway, so there’s a lot of baby stuff.  Which may or may not get purged soon.  I just don’t know — and I hate to tie life decisions to renovations.  It’s too hard.  So we will put it all out of sight and, at least for now, out of mind. 

I think I just way overshared.  Sorry.

Moving on.

I thought, when we moved from the city into our house, that having an actual family room would be enough in terms of a playspace and all-purpose area.  Because let me paint a mental picture of the city apartment for you:  700 square feet.  Two adults.  Two children.  All of their crap.  Snoring pug.  Smallest bathroom in America.  Sweaters being stored in the oven (because, honestly, I wasn’t using it for much else and it was the most viable drawer space we had).  So the notion of a family room seemed downright luxurious, spacious and totally sustainable. 

Yeah, not so much.  Our kids’ crap has taken over.  Exhibit A:

We can go ahead and file the Thomas Tunnel under “Things that seemed like a good idea at Christmastime but have now taken over my life and may, in fact, mysteriously disappear.”  Just kidding, Mom (she bought this for the kids).  My children would tear me to shreds if the tunnel went missing.  And where else would I hide with a Sunday afternoon cocktail?

Well, funny, I may now have a place just for this. 

We met with our architect over the weekend and he had the close-to-final plans to share.  It was sort of exciting because it brings everything to life — the storage space, the new laundry room, the full bathroom we’re adding.  (Incidentally, if you had told my 25 year-old self that I would ever be this excited about a new laundry room, I would have told you to just shoot me.)

And then, our architect casually points out The. Wet. Bar.

This was totally his suggestion, without us even thinking of it.  Which begs two questions:  1)  *Why* were we not thinking of this?  and 2)  Could I love our architect any more?

So I may or may not have a tendency to get carried away at times.  As I stared at the words “wet bar,” represented by no more than a small box on a piece of paper, I envisioned something like this.  Maybe with Norm (or a neighborhood equivalent) sitting at the end.

I’m kidding.  A little.  I don’t like neon — unless I’m in a casino.

Back to reality.  The box that our architect drew was a much better representation.   The basement is not very big.  We are already squeezing every inch out of it for more practical purposes, so the wet bar will be far more modest.  Think countertop with mini fridge, a sink, some wine storage, maybe a microwave. 

And that totally works for me.  It feels like a reward at the long end of the renovation tunnel. 

Happy hour at my place, guys.  Bring your laundry.

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Filed Under: Project Colonial 14 Comments

My Brush with Crime at Pre-School

January 15, 2011

{Photo: www.elcivics.com}

I stole a car from the pre-school parking lot yesterday.  Almost.  And accidentally. Luckily, my downward spiral into a life of crime was thwarted by my three year-old.  It all happened so fast.

Things were crazy at the end of this week and I just wasn’t in top form.  I took the baby with me to pick up my son from pre-school.  Usually I’m at work — but because my nanny was caring for her ill mother, I stayed home and was happy to get the chance to go to pick-up.  All of this is to say that I don’t really know the parents of my son’s classmates because I’m that mom they never see.  Anyway. 

The pre-school parking lot is an SUV flash mob — it’s almost comical.  Suburbia Central Casting.  You’d be hard-pressed to find a mid-sized vehicle without a third row.  

So I walk over to our car, which looks like every other car in the lot, and I open the back door (I left it unlocked).  It looks dirtier than usual to me and somehow just a bit off.  I couldn’t put my finger on it.  But my nanny drives it during the week, so the reality is that I’m not the best person to ask how it looks Monday through Friday.  So I didn’t think much of it.

I begin to load the  baby into the car seat and the straps aren’t fitting her.  And I start to have this moment of slow realization that something isn’t quite right, but my brain isn’t really catching up.  It’s cold and I’m getting pissed about adjusting the straps, and then I take a good look at the car seat — and something about it is different.  Really different.

It has flowers on it.  Our car seat doesn’t have…

“Mommy, this isn’t our car,” says the three year-old.

Oh my God.  It’s not our car.

{Oh my God.  Someone has a messier car than we do.  This is great news.}

And as I take my child out of the car seat that does not belong to us from the vehicle that is not registered to me, the whole silly episode would  have been done.  Except, as I closed the door, standing right there is the rightful owner of the car, waiting to place his daughter into her flowered car seat with the straps configured to her height and weight, not my daughter’s.  Oh, and it’s one of the parents from my son’s class — one who probably already thinks I’m a Phantom Absentee Parent.  And now also a novice car thief.  Perfect.

The look on his face was somewhere between disturbed and confused.  I have no idea what look was on my face but I can assure you it was no photo opportunity.

I apologize profusely and nervously stammer something about not being able to get far without the keys.  I then point to my own car, two spots over, which, in my defense, is the same model and color — just so he knows I’m not certifiable, or criminal.

My son’s friend then pipes up with:  “Why is your mommy trying to take our car?”

I wonder if this is a good time to ask about the next PTA meeting.  Probably not.  I decide against it and enter our legally owned vehicle, where the non-flowered car seat straps fit just fine.

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Filed Under: Family, New to Town, Places Near and Far 18 Comments

Irrational Fear: Crock Pots

January 11, 2011

I have several irrational fears, some more embarrassing than others.  One that I’m willing to publicly admit is my fear of a crock pot burning my house down. 

The whole premise of this appliance goes against basic logic:  Plug it in.  Let it get really hot.  Add liquids, spices, etc.  Then ignore, and even leave unattended — for hours. 

What? 

Didn’t you people ever attend Fire Safety Week assemblies in elementary school?  Next you’ll tell me you didn’t learn the Duck & Cover method with a healthy fear of Soviet nuclear weapons being aimed at your hometown.

My crock pot fire fear may also stem from this recurring conversation in my teens, always after getting in the car with my mother.

  • Mom:  Did you turn off the curling iron?
  • Me:  Uh.  I think so.  Can I get the new Duran Duran cassette?
  • Mom:  Is the curling iron on or off?
  • Me:  Uh.  I might have left it on, right next to that can of Aqua Net. 
  • Mom:  Turn the car around.  You’re going to burn the house down.
  • Me:  But I’m going to be late to the roller skating party…

{Yes, I used a curling iron *and* Aqua Net.  It was the 80s.  In New Jersey.  Snooki had nothing on us.}

Anyway.  Back to the crock pot.  I just can’t get my head around it.

But people swear by it, and I’m completely in favor of something that simultaneously makes my life easier and cooks good meals.  So let’s just say, for argument’s sake, that I tried crock potting.  If I were to do this on a day when I can remain at home, within extinguishable reach of the countertop, what should I make?  If you crock and it makes dinnertime less stressful, I’m all ears.  Please share.

Or, if you’ve had a crock-related fire mishap, tell me about that too.  Remember, I was the girl who may or may not have left the hot curling iron next to the Aqua Net (I think the spiral perm chemicals went to my brain).  I need all the safety tips I can get.

I have to go upstairs and check on the iron now.

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Filed Under: Borderline Neuroses, Food & Drink 25 Comments

Kicking the Bottle Habit

January 10, 2011

Goodbye, Old Friend

I said I would be greener in 2011.  I’ve got plenty of room for improvement but one thing I know I must do right now is kick my bottle habit. 

It’s time.

It’s never easy to say goodbye to an old friend who has been through so much with you.  The 1.5 liter Poland Spring bottle has been by my side every day for several years — a move that now seems short-sighted, irresponsible and, well, selfish. 

PS 1.5L was a constant companion.  She was with me for my daily commute and hung out with me in my office every day.  She joined us for every car ride we’ve taken as a family, right there in her dedicated drink holder.  She had a special place on my nightstand,  was there for every outdoor walk I took these last few years, and even attended the births of my children. 

Excessive?  Sure.  Uneducated of me?  I’ll own it.  Environmentally hostile?  Gulp (no pun intended).  OK.  

(But damnit, I was well-hydrated — you have to give me that.)   

We’ve all had friends who were not good for us — friends that our parents, our spouses and our other friends have gently told us to reconsider, to even abandon.  But it’s hard.  You don’t want to believe that this friend is not really a friend.  I knew, deep down, this day would come, but I wasn’t ready until now.

PS 1.5L, I did some reading up on your contributions to society and, as I suspected, I didn’t like what I saw.   The Daily Green and Ecosalon have told me this much about you and your kind:

  • 1.5 million barrels of oil are used every year to manufacture disposable plastic water bottles for the U.S. market. That’s enough to fuel 100,000 cars for a year according to an article in the New York Times.
  • The bottling process itself wastes two gallons of water for every gallon of water that it actually packages.
  • Americans buy an estimated 28 billion plastic water bottles every year, nearly 80% of which will end up in a landfill. One bottle can take thousands of years to decompose.

I knew, in generalities, what the facts would point out — but the specifics are staggering.  There’s no two ways about it.

And then there’s the cost.  If I do the math, I might weep over what I’ve spent on this friend (you’re welcome, Poland Spring headquarters).  So let’s not do that — let’s just silently agree that this has been an unnecessary and steep expense.  Thanks.

If I may put up one last morsel of protest, I just plain like PS 1.5L better than my (free) tap water.  My husband laughs at me and often challenges me to a blind taste test.  (I know I would prevail, by the way.  You drink as much water as I have and tell me you wouldn’t know the difference.)  But, still.  It’s not enough – not nearly enough — of a reason to keep my old friend around any longer. 

{Photo courtesy: hifibri.blogspot.com}

So, PS 1.5L, I guess that’s it.  I wish I could say, “It’s not you, it’s me,” but that won’t work here.  It’s definitely you.  It’s better to just walk away then to drag this out by slowly diminishing our friendship.  I’m not proud of how long it has taken me to get to this point but maybe my parting letter here can convince other holdouts to leave the likes of you behind as well.  Then I would feel like some good could come out of our destructive friendship.

Oh, and by the way, tell your evil cousin, the plastic bag, that she’s next.

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Filed Under: Food & Drink, To-Do Lists Extraordinaire 4 Comments

The Social Climber

January 8, 2011

 

Unlike many folks, I did not resolve to go to the gym this year. I don’t have to. You know why? It’s not that I don’t need the cardio and toning — it’s that I can get it right here at home on a program called Chase the Climbing 18 Month-Old.

People have said to me, “Oh, yes, my Johnny climbed up some things at that age. I remember.” OK, that’s nice, but — with all due respect to Johnny — that’s not what I’m talking about. My first child was like Johnny. That’s just normal — and sanity-preserving. My daughter, on the other hand, has taken the climbing to a whole new level.  I’m not saying she’s particularly gifted; I’m just saying that if you’ve ever had A Climber, you know what I mean.  And you’re probably ready to loan me a helmet or full-room padding right now.  (Thank you, I’ll take both.)

We live in a house where anything that is considered stackable now has to be monitored at all times because my daughter, much like a mini-MacGyver, can fashion a few sturdy toys, a pile of diapers and simple pantry goods (like boxes of pasta or rice) into teetering, precarious climbing rigs. 

Don’t they have that same lust for danger in their eyes?  And not dissimilar haircuts. 

Skeptical of my second born’s climbing abilities?  It’s true, I have no action photos to demonstrate my point.  I’m too busy trying to intercept her falls and am not talented enough to get a good picture at the same time.  I could invite you over to see for yourself, but you’ll have nowhere to sit — because I am on the verge of removing all chairs from my home.  She stands on the chairs, lets go and looks me in the eye — while swaying — as if to say “Quick, catch me before I hit the ground.  I trust you.”  Sprinting, lunges and sweat ensue on my end.  See?  No gym necessary for me.

And what she has gained in climbing she has not lost in ground speed.  One moment, she’s standing next to me and, the next, sitting up on the kitchen table.  Last week, she attempted to scale the innards of the dishwasher, using the racks as her footholds.  And, for added effect, she grabbed a steak knife on the way up — just for laughs (which she promptly got out of my three year-old).

Me:  Sprinting, lunging, sweating, heart racing.  It’s like circuit training (I hear).  If I just put on a pair of those crazy Shape Up shoes, my workout will be complete.  I will be bikini-ready in no time, all accomplished within the comfort of my home.

Bookcases?  Perfect for scaling walls.  Dressers with the drawers pulled out?  She’s going right up.  It’s like living with Spiderman, and, I fear, quickly becoming as dangerous as the current Broadway production.

The next question is why she has not yet tried to climb out of her crib.  I don’t know.  Maybe she is having some mercy on her old mother (at times like this it’s obvious that becoming a parent in my early 20s would have been advantageous).  Anyway, it’s clearly just a matter of time, and I am stretching and warming up to prepare.

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Wanderlust

January 5, 2011

More fun today from the Land of Post-Holiday Denial.  I mentioned yesterday that I am in the process of booking a warm weather getaway for our family.  It will be a lot of fun, no doubt, but the reality is that you just can’t (or at least I just can’t) take trips like I did before I had kids.  And that’s OK — for now.  But someday, when sippy cups are not on the packing list, I will cut into my Must Visit List again.   At least in my mind.  How this idea co-exists with college tuition is TBD.

We all have such a list, right?  Even if some of it is sheer fantasy.  So, if budget and logistics (aka Real Life) were not factors, I would be sure to see these places in my lifetime (in no particular order — and, yes, some are more specific than others):

  • Ireland
  • Australia
  • Dubai
  • Hong Kong
  • St Petersburg (Russia, not Florida)
  • Sweden/Denmark
  • French Riviera
  • Tuscany
  • Greek Islands
  • Seychelles
  • Mauritius
  • Maldives
  • Grand Canyon
  • Buenos Aires
  • Angkor Wat
  • Montreal
  • Napa Valley
  • Anguilla
  • St Bart’s
  • Rio de Janeiro
  • Thailand

With all the cash I’ll have left over after those trips (as if), I can’t forget the must-do return visits.  You know those places that strike you in such a way that you must go back at some point?  For me, those places are Spain (yes, the whole country, repeatedly, or even permanently), Paris, Tahiti, The Amalfi Coast and Rome.

And there’s no elegant way to insert this but I’m itching to go back to Vegas at some point.   Yeah, I sort of love to gamble — but in a low-roller, don’t-lose-my-house kind of way.  Well, how else am I going to pay for all of this travel?  If you want to compare roulette strategies, drop me a line sometime.

How about you?  What destinations, first-time and return-trip, top your list?

{On a related note, last night’s winning Mega Millions numbers for $355 million were  4, 8, 15, 25, 47 and 42.}

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