Always a Party

May 30, 2011

Ah, Memorial Day.  The unofficial beginning of summer. 

{And, by the way, Summer, listen up:  We’ve had a long and harsh winter here, so be good to us.}

Memorial Day is such a party day.  So festive.  But as I think back on the Memorial Days of years past — the pre-marriage and pre-children years — there are a few subtle differences from how I spent today.

—–

Then:  Sleep in until at least 11am.  Because I can.  Meet up with friends for brunch somewhere around 2pm.

Now:  Rise at 6am with children.  Explain to them, over the crunching sound of Cheerios in their ears, that the definition of “federal holiday” means “more sleep, dammit” in their language — to no avail.  Be among the first in town to arrive at the 9am parade because, well, I’ve been up for three damn hours already.

The Future Grand Marshall

 

A little concerned about catching the candy from her seat

 —–

Then:  Relax on the beach, armed with latest issues of People and Us Weekly.  Discuss with friends who, in fact, wore it best.

Now:  “Relax” on the couch, folding laundry, while my daughter naps and my son digs in dirt outside.  Catch a few glimpses of Real Housewives marathon in between 26 requests for child assistance.  Browse half-ripped, three-week old issue of Us Weekly, wondering not who wore it best  — but what the hell they are wearing.

—–

Then:  Cap off a fun-filled Fleet Week, complete with a sailor telling me I have a bad mouth.  Briefly consider cleaning up my language.

Now:  Hear a passing reference to Fleet Week on the 6pm news.  Spell all profanity if children are present.  Which really loses its punch.

—–

Then:  Begin consuming holiday cocktails just after noon. 

Now:  Begin consuming holiday cocktails just after noon. 

—–

Then:  Apply sunscreen to myself every six minutes to avoid inevitable ER-level sunburn that makes strangers wince in pain.

Now:  Add two kids to the sunscreen equation who have inherited my unfortunate “are you just pale or sick?” gene.  Chase said children down every six minutes for sunscreen application, a la catching a greased pig.  Reach for cocktail.  Repeat.

—–

Then:  Go shopping for cute and trendy summer clothes to wear to Memorial Day barbecue.

Now:  Go!  Now!  To Sears!  All appliances 30% off!  Areyoukiddingme?  Fantasize of replacing washboard/tub ancient  washer/dryer with shiny new front loaders.  Revel in the options of steam drying and load balancing.  Because I’m pretty sure, if you read this closely, the current dryer has a specific setting for “Polyester Leisure Suit.”

Oh, and my daughter’s shoes are on top of the machine because she managed to keep her Holiday Vomiting Streak intact.  The girl is nothing if not consistent.

—–

See?  It’s always a party around here.  A few details have changed, but I still know how to make the most of a holiday.

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Filed Under: Entertainment, Family, Food & Drink, Holidays 4 Comments

Taking the Cake

May 26, 2011

 

I’m a good cook, but not a great baker.  Is that normal?  I want to be a better baker.  I should be.  After all, I’m a world-class consumer and eater of all baked items.  I consider anything that combines chocolate, eggs, flour and cream to be its own food group on the USDA pyramid.  Shouldn’t that help my cause?

But the truth is that I’m just better on the eating end of the spatula than the baking end.  Case in point:  Some of you may recall Project Stegosaurus Birthday Cake, aka Why My Kid Thought His Cake Was a Chihuahua.  We don’t need to re-hash that.  It’s clear that I’m not the Cake Boss.  Or even the Unpaid Cake Intern.

But all homemade heavenly dessert hope is not lost.  Because anyone can ace the retro delicious item that I made last night.  And why would I go back to cake-making so soon after the stegosaurus incident?  Because it’s for my good friend who just brought home her gorgeous new twin babies, as she celebrates her own birthday as well.  With double the endless feedings and sleep deprivation joy, I’m guessing she might not have celebratory cake top of mind.  I feel the need to fix that, no matter how inept I am.  Plus, I found myself in the mood to eat whipped cream straight from the bowl. 

I’m bringing her the Ice Box Cake that my mom has been making for me since I was a kid.  For my birthdays.  For birthing her grandchildren.  And sometimes just because.  I have many memories of seeing this cake chilling overnight in our fridge.  Well, more specifically, looking over my shoulder to see if I could score a stealth piece before the acceptable wait time was over. 

The key ingredient in this cake is a box of Nabisco Famous Chocolate Wafers, which I’m pretty sure is still in the original packaging that one might see in an episode of Laverne & Shirley, or in an elementary school time capsule.  I can spot that 1970s gold box from halfway down aisle four.  You know the one, with the font that has surely been discontinued.  And if you’ve never seen this box until now, you’re welcome.  Your life is about to change.

So.  Even a non-baker like me, who makes a stegosaurus cake look like a rabid chihuahua, can do this.  You can follow the easy peasy directions on the Nabisco box.

Or, you can get a fancier version from someplace awesome like Smitten Kitchen or Magnolia Bakery.  You can even make a low(er) cal version, which is almost as good.  There are other variations all over the Internet, but I like the old school Nabisco version from my childhood.

However you prepare it, the bottom line is this:  Something fucking magical happens when those chocolate wafers absorb any form of whipped cream overnight.  I almost failed high school chemistry, but I bet there is some scientific term to describe this process.  The same term they use to describe what happens in a meth lab.  So don’t eat or serve the cake until you let that magic finish, no matter how tempted you may be.  That means overnight for ultimate goodness.  Trust me on this — it’s so worth it. 

Plus, if you make it through the night, it makes for an excellent breakfast cake. 

What?  You don’t believe in breakfast cake for special occasions?  Like the day before the Friday of Memorial Day weekend?  Oh, OK.  But, if you did, you could get all of your dairy intake for the day by sneaking in a serving or two of Ice Box Cake behind your kids’ backs while they consume some healthy mainstream breakfast foods.  You just have to perfect your angle so they don’t see you.  And turn on the TV to distract them so you can go back for more.  Suckers.

One word of caution:  In your pre-caffeine breakfast cake haste, it’s easy to forget that you put a bunch of toothpicks in this thing the night before to keep it from clinging to the Saran Wrap.  Watch out for those — get them all out before you eat the cake.  {You’ll make that mistake just once.}

But back to the prep.  

Overall, it’s super easy, as long as you can locate/operate the hand mixer and remember how to stack things.  However.  The sad truth is that there will be some broken wafers in the box, which simply won’t hold up well in making this cake.  That means you can either 1) crush and sprinkle them over the finished product or 2) eat them.  Be sure to also flag any wafers that are structurally unsound and on the verge of breaking.  Just eat those too — pre-emptively — as an act of mercy killing.  It’s for the best.

And when you’ve done the good deed of eating all of the defective wafers and finishing up the Nabisco instructions, you’ll have this deliciousness ready to be toothpicked and chilled.

 

OK, I can see that my top coat of whipped cream is a little uneven.  And I realize that little bald spot on the side may or may not look like a thumb swipe.  But it’s not — really.  I’ll fix it before delivery. You get the idea. 

In my defense, I was distracted not only by wafer mercy killings, but also by this.  

A Brand Seal with cut-out dotted lines?  Why do I need this?  Maybe it has to do with extreme couponing.  But if it’s for proof of purchase purposes, I feel I could just as easily accomplish that by providing Nabisco with a photo of the weight on my scale.  Clearly I have purchased the damn wafers.  Many times.

So there you go.  Homemade dessert tips from the gal who has no business giving them to you.  But I think you’ll love this.  Just don’t tell the birthday girl that the cake is on its way to her place this morning. Or that I may or may not have licked the bowl.

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Filed Under: Entertainment, Food & Drink, Friends 10 Comments

The Dark Ages

May 23, 2011

My husband just told me that he has to do some traveling for work over the next few weeks.  I’m upset.

Not because the trip has screwed up any grand plans.  But because it makes me face one of my biggest fears.

Yeah, I’m a grown adult afraid of the dark.  It’s ridiculous.

I have several mainstream fears, like heights and flying.  I have others that are perhaps less common — like crock pot infernos and being struck by a flying baseball.  But being home alone overnight really shakes me up.  I’m a complete and total chicken shit.

It’s worse since we moved out of the city.  You would think I’d be more scared in Manhattan, but I felt right at home there.  And I liked the fact that, 13 stories up, nobody was going to climb into my window.  There was plenty of crazy to go around, but it had to get past my doorman and seek out my apartment in a huge building. 

Here, in pretty suburbia, I feel like someone could just walk up to a window and smash it.

And if that’s not neurotic enough, I’ll disclose that my fear is not exclusively reserved for the living.  I am also afraid that my 100 year-old house will, one night when I’m alone, make itself known as haunted.

Could all of this crap happen with my husband home?  Yes, of course.  But the neurotic mind doesn’t work that way.  Except for last week, when I realized around 3am that P had left the side door to the house open (not unlocked — open).  I was convinced a serial killer was hiding somewhere in the basement.  So of course doing laundry down there was out of the question for at least a week.  Safety first.

You know how you have those moments of “I’m so not qualified to be a parent”?  That’s how I feel when I’m home with the kids on my own overnight.  Like a 13 year-old babysitter who has seen one too many horror films.  Who has also broken into the liquor stash.  But without the forbidden make-out session with the boyfriend on the couch.

I do blame some of this fear on a very specific memory bank of images culled from scary movies over the years.   I’m seriously scarred for life, but am finally wise enough not to even try to watch them anymore.  Even commercials.  Like the one for Paranormal Activity.  The baby monitor image, with the kid standing in the crib and the dog barking.  Areyoufuckingkiddingme?  I can’t even think about it.  Or those ghost-chasing reality shows.  Because this is the crap that my mind conjures up late at night when my husband travels. 

And, for the record, logic has no place here.  I can make any far-fetched horror movie plot fit into my life at 2am when all alone in my bed.  At that hour, it seems so obvious that an evil leprechaun is of course living under my stairs and trying to kill me.  Or one of my kids’ dolls has morphed into the Bride of Chucky.  Or Charlie Sheen is on a bender and roaming the streets. 

So.  What do I do to get through these nights?  A few things.

First, it’s a good thing I have my ferocious guard dog. Pffft.  The only action he would take is to demand a belly rub from an intruder.

I do a full sweep of the house before I go to bed.  And I mean full.  Closets.  Under the beds.  In the showers.  Within the mountain of dirty laundry.

Of course I lock every part of each door and window.  Depending on how many strange noises I’ve heard — like cars driving down the street, heat coming through the pipes — I may or may not put a chair in front of the back door. 

I shouldn’t share this — but why stop now?  My secret weapon is closing the baby gates at the top and bottom of the stairs.  If anything will slow down an intruder, it’s taking the time to unlock those gates in the dark.  This will buy me precious minutes to wake up the guard dog by promising him bacon wrapped in chicken for a week.  Unless the intruder is a father to toddlers and can master the gate latches blindfolded.  Then I’m done for.

Naturally, all of this will not help me against the undead who may be angry that I’ve put a monstrous swing set on sacred ground.  Or don’t like the color choice I’ve made for the dining room.  So I sleep with the phone by my bed (to call who, I’m not sure — Bill Murray, Dan Aykroyd, Harold Ramis and Rick Moranis?).  Maybe I leave one little light on in my room, too. 

I also keep the TV on for white noise — but not Poltergeist white noise, to be clear.  More like Real Housewives white noise.  Because that’s calming.  And as much as I’d love a bedside flask to keep my nerves calm, I can’t risk compromising my speed and agility if confronted.  Priorities, people.

Who allowed me to be a parent?  Or an adult with voting privileges?  I’m as mystified by this as you are. 

I swear, I have heard and overcome some scary things in my life.  Things like “We’re going to induce you to deliver this nine and a half pound baby now” and “Shoulder pads are totally coming back in style.”  But this fear of the dark, I can’t shake it.

So, go ahead and laugh at me.  I understand.  Or send me any suggestions you might have for me to pull it together.  Or tell me you are the same way (yes, lie to me).

Or just offer to come and sleep over while my husband’s away.  Pretty please.

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Filed Under: Borderline Neuroses, Family 31 Comments

The Final Countdown

May 18, 2011

In case you haven’t heard, the end is nigh.

Not just the End of Days — which is allegedly this Saturday, by the way (fine, but can it all shake out after my fabulous dinner reservation?). 

But worse.

The end of Oprah.

I don’t often tackle controversy around here, unless you count things like the best movies ever, or whether or not I should have been detained for accidentally attempting car theft.

But there’s something I have to put out there, and I think many of you aren’t going to like it. 

I don’t like The Oprah Winfrey Show.  And I can’t wait until it’s finally over.

Should I seek a spot in the witness protection program?  Probably.  It’s a terribly un-American attitude to have towards one of our country’s sweethearts.

So let me clarify a few things.

I think she’s a brilliant businesswoman.  I admire her philanthropy and generosity.  She brings important issues to light.  She does far more good than harm. 

So what’s my problem, you ask?

It’s the whole Oprah Empire.  Or what has been labeled in the media as The Oprah Effect.  I feel like she has her hands in everything.

A TV show!  A magazine!  A book club!  Oprah Radio! A TV network dedicated to all things Oprah! {Because if the episodes themselves weren’t enough, you must have a behind-the-scenes look at them.}

I guess I like my TV hosts, well, just hosting their TV shows.  And making an occasional, Oscar-worthy turn in a movie, maybe. 

Before you hang me in public, let me be fair.  I haven’t been home to watch her show for 98% of the time it’s been aired, so I’ve had limited exposure.  

And yet, I still feel her Oprahness in everything around us.

I just think we, as a country, have Oprahdosed.  And it’s time to come down.

It’s the book club in particular that I think I have a problem with.   By pure coincidence, I happened to catch one of her most infamous episodes while home sick a few years ago.  It was the day she raked James Frey over the coals for the is-it-or-is-it-not-fiction smackdown of “A Million Little Pieces.”

And I do mean smackdown.  Whoa.

That scared me.  Not because she is personally scary, but because it was clear that she felt some sort of personal stake in what people read.  Some moral authority over a writer who is not on her payroll.  And this confused me to no end.  I thought perhaps my fever had spiked to the point of hallucination.

Yeah, I know.  She got people reading, based solely on her recommendations, who would not have otherwise picked up a book.  Golf claps all around. 

But she forgot somewhere along the way that she doesn’t run the publishing industry. 

So, for the first time ever, I purposely tuned in this week.  I had to see the Smackdown 2.0 with Frey, both days of it.  I was dying to know what she meant by “bringing this full circle.”  I thought this might be code for Murder 1.

What I saw was, perhaps, the most riveting daytime television since the wedding of Luke and Laura on General Hospital. {The first one.  With the giant 1981 veil.}

During Smackdown 2.0, Oprah basically got Frey to say that her 2006 public lashing of him was “a gift” because it ultimately made him a better person.  I think he even thanked her.  I was too shellshocked to hear it clearly.  But I did hear her apologize, with a few caveats.  And they hugged it out.  This time I had no fever, but I considered double-checking.

But I guess we should acknowledge some of the key legacies of her empire.  Dr. Oz.  Nate Berkus.  Dr. Phil. 

Thanks, Oprah, for giving us someone legit to host the “Teen Mom” series recaps.

And, if you still aren’t with me — which I suspect most of you are not — let me offer you this final incentive to come over to the dark side.  Do you know which celebrity has made the most appearances on the show? 

Celine Dion.  27. Times. 

That alone should have you signing up to be my witness protection roommate.

On the upside, Oprah pretty much introduced Spanx to the world.  This truly may be her most valuable contribution as far as I’m concerned — one for which I am truly grateful.

I know.  The free cars, the trip to Australia, Oprah’s Favorite Things.  Yes — that’s all amazing. 

If you’re in the audience. 

But not for us mere at-home mortals.  I’m left with Spanx and an amplified hatred of Celine Dion.

Whether you love Oprah or not, May 25 is drawing near.  On this day, she will air that final show (with advertisers allegedly paying $1 million for 30 seconds).  And I just want to take a moment to be happy that one hour of Oprahness each day will be relinquished.  That’s all.

In the meantime, there are plenty of commercials, teasers, recaps and celebrity endorsements to show us how Oprah changed the world.  Lest we forget.

Don’t worry.  She’ll never be far away.  You can still read what she tells you or get your O Magazine fix — or tune into the Oprah Winfrey Network (don’t even get me started).  Baby steps.

And Tom Cruise will pop up on another couch somewhere, someday.  He has plenty more crazy left in him — you can be sure.

I have to go now.  My new ID just arrived and I have to take up residency in an undisclosed location.  Just don’t let Rachael Ray and her EVOO get any more air time while I’m gone.

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Filed Under: Entertainment, That Which Drives Me Crazy 23 Comments

Bad Romance

May 16, 2011

]

Yeah, so I’ve been hanging around with a bad influence again.  One I swore off years ago.  But I had a recent moment of weakness somewhere around aisle six.

Everyone has, at some point, had a bad romance and stayed with someone who’s no good for them.  Sometimes you hide it.  Or justify it.  Or ultimately leave — only to determine later that maybe that person “wasn’t so bad” after all.  And that just never ends well, does it?

Such is the sad history of Nutella and me.  Star-crossed lovers who can’t make it work.  Unless “making it work” means that I plan to grow my ass tenfold.

Look, I’m not stupid.  But I am tired and, at times, a sucker for good marketing  — when its messages conveniently meet my needs. 

Like this.

A wholesome breakfast for my kids?  Uh, no (not yet, anyway — let’s not be hasty about the future).  But as an occasional snack for me?  Hey, it’s a good little dip for my healthy fruit slices.

Or, alternatively, I could skip the fruit and just dip a large serving spoon into the jar and eat as is.  {Details, details.}

But, hey, it’s skim milk!  And wholesome hazelnuts!  And pure cane sugar!  You aren’t so bad for me after all! 

Oh, Nutella.  You sneaky minx.  You almost had me again.

But, I’m not alone.  People around the world are falling prey to the Nutella advertising.

Like the Dutch.  Apparently, they don’t mind a kid waking up the whole family by digging into a jar of chocolate before sunrise (did you see the clock reading 5:33 am?) — hey, let’s make it a party!  But they’ve also legalized pot.  I think the two are related.  Just saying.

The Germans have turned it into some wacky, four-minute infomercial with French rivalry.  You only need to see the first 20 seconds to get the idea.  Are these guys like the Billy Mays of Germany?  I feel if I stayed tuned in, I might get Der Oxy Clean or Der Shamwow free with my purchase.

And, my God, I love the Italians.  It’s practically a Nutella orgy.

Luckily, I’m smarter than that.  Mostly.

The truth is, you’re no good for me, Nutella.  It’s over. 

Again.  For real, this time.

As soon as this jar is finished.

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Tiny Dancer

May 13, 2011

 

Call me under-caffeinated, but I was just thinking about who this photo reminds me of.

My daughter and Elton John (the early years): Separated at birth?

The big glasses. 

The hair. 

The “too much going on” outfit. 

The superstar pose.

The love affair with the sound of their own voices.

Just saying.  They’re not dissimilar.  And I suspect she’s envious of his feathered shirt.

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Progress Report

May 10, 2011

{courtesy: coalesque.blogspot.com}

OK.  It has been a month of being a stay-at-home-mom.  And many of you have asked me how I’m doing with the transition (thanks for that).  So I feel I owe you a progress report.

To keep my workplace communication skills sharp, I thought I’d do this in summary form.

Bottom Line:  All is well.  I’m happy.  My kids seem happy, even though they may not grasp the change that has occurred.  {Exception:  Whenever my son, 4, gets in trouble, he asks me which train I’m getting on/when I’m going to work.  Sorry, pal, there’s a new sheriff in town.}

Things I Miss About Work:

  • Ongoing adult interaction with some fabulous people
  • The awesome cafeteria woman who made me a perfect grilled chicken wrap every day
  • That’s about it

Things I’m So Glad to Be Without:

  • Commuting
  • Evil blinking red light on Blackberry
  • The word “synergy”
  • Early warning signs of a stroke

Biggest Challenges:

  • Showering
  • Getting the kids out the door in a human amount of time
  • Finding 10 minutes to make a personal phone call/email
  • Parking at Starbucks
  • All the schlepping in and out of the car seats
  • Deciding which aisle I like best at Trader Joe’s

Top Phrases That Come Out of My Mouth:

  • “Who’s not eating?  There won’t be any [insert bribery dessert-like item here] if you don’t eat.”
  • “The seat belt/shoe/sock is not too tight.  It’s fine.”
  • “Share it or I’m taking it away.” {or: “How did I get to sound like my mother?”}
  • “Getinthecar, getinthecar, getinthecar.  I’m leaving — GETINTHECAR.”
  • “That birdie is called Twitter, sweetheart.”
  • “No, honey, I don’t know why Diego’s parents leave him alone in the jungle.”

Top Phrases That Come Out of My Husband’s Mouth:

  • “You used the oven again?”
  • “You folded all this laundry?”
  • “You vacuumed?”
  • “I think I see locusts approaching.”
  • “Prepare for The End of Days.”

My biggest win:  Mastery of Early Toddlerspeak

Our daughter is 22 months old, which means that she thinks she is speaking like the rest of us, when you actually need a doctoral degree in Mandarin or Sanskrit to decipher what she’s saying.  Since there’s a new word every day at this point, and I’m now home with her all the time, I speak her language.  This mystifies my husband.  For example:

She says: Shamon

Husband hears: Undecipherable filler word used in many earlier Michael Jackson songs

I know she means:  Lawnmower

—————

She says:  Kreom

Husband hears:  A request to upgrade from milk to heavy cream

I know she means:  Climb

—————

She says:  Sveeee

Husband hears:  Child has located the missing piece to IKEA storage bin assembly

I know she means:  Swing

—————

So, you see, things are going well.  I have made some mistakes and have had some crappy days, but on the whole, it has been a great change.

And it’s a good thing I’m home.  Otherwise, my younger child would probably be listening to vintage MJ with a cup of cream in one hand and an IKEA instructions manual in the other. 

Then again, I might have time to shower in that scenario.

 

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Filed Under: Family, Work Stuff 28 Comments

CSI: New Jersey

May 1, 2011

It is clear to me that my husband has been watching far too many crime and forensics shows on TV.  

It started with some lost keys.

The following string of events occurred on my last day of work, which explains why this whole story was not immediately communicated to me by my husband — I had a lot going on.  And he was handling the situation.  Like Gary Sinise or David Caruso.

Our then-nanny had our one year-old daughter at the Stop & Shop.  Somewhere between arrival and departure, she couldn’t find the keys to our car.  She swore she had them at the check out in order to present the little key chain-held savings card to the cashier.  And then they were gone.  She suspected the woman in front of her on line accidentally picked them up from the payment counter top area.

Problem was, the supermarket employees not only weren’t helpful, but they didn’t seem to care at all.

So the keys were gone.

She said she’d pay for a new set, but it’s not cheap to replace the remote lock and all that nonsense.  This is when my husband decided to draw upon his well-formed knowledge of TV’s best crime and mystery shows to go all Ice-T and take matters into his own hands. 

So he calls the Stop & Shop and speaks directly with the store manager.  Seems about right.

“And then I asked her to just pull the tape at check out.”

“Excuse me?  Did you just say ‘pull the tape'”?

“Yeah.  Pull the tape.  So we could see what happened to the keys.”

I started looking around the kitchen to see if Sam Waterston or the ghost of Jerry Orbach was in on this.  (And if the latter, could I get him to say “Nobody puts baby in a corner” just once?)

I laughed at my husband a little.  OK, a lot.

“There’s no tape to pull.  This isn’t the eighth precinct.  It’s the suburban Stop & Shop  — the one with the nice low-cal ice cream selection — across the street from the soccer field.”

{On a related note, I’m wondering at this point — priorities intact, as always — if this is why I have no new stash of Skinny Cow ice cream bars in the freezer.}

Pulling the tape.  Nice try.

My Ice-T smirked. 

“They totally pulled the tape.”

“Shut the fuck up.  There was no tape.”

“Oh, there was tape.  And the tape showed, just as suspected, that the previous woman on the line took our car keys off the payment counter and put them in her coat pocket.”

I was blinking audibly.  I was still stuck on the fact that there was tape.  And that we were talking like this.  Soon we’d be saying “perps.”

Then.

“And,” My Ice-T says.

“And?”

“And.  The woman who took the keys had just swiped her Stop & Shop savings card at the register, so the manager got her contact information.  And called her.  And she drove our keys back over to the store.”

Come.  On.

Our suburb is so hard core with their tape pulling, their forensic fact-finding.  And My Ice-T totally shook them down for the information.  Bad asses all around.

Who knew?

Speaking of questions, do you have a few?  If you were me, you might. 

Namely, how did the nanny and my one year-old get home that day without the car keys? 

“Oh, that.  She just had some store employee give them a lift home.”

Uhhhh.  What? 

My Ice-T thought this was a minor detail. 

And this is when I took out the overhead light and began my own interrogation session.

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Filed Under: Entertainment, Family 36 Comments