A Week of Freaky

July 28, 2011

Yikes — a week without a blog post went by.  That’s what happens when you run away with Bono after last Wednesday’s epic U2 show.  Oh wait — that was only in my head.

Speaking of things I may or may not exaggerate in my head, let me tell you about a few recent oddities.

1)  Blackout Flashbacks/Panic

If you were in one of the 40-something states under extreme heat advisories last week, you know that it was the ugly side of summer.  Here in New Jersey, we had a brutal stretch of 100+ degree temperatures. 

I hate the heat.  It makes me cranky.  Because, at the end of the day, there is only so much clothing you can remove.  You know, without getting arrested. 

You know what else I hate?  A power outage during a heat wave.  Which is what happened last Friday afternoon.

At first I thought it would be quick.  Don’t ask me why.  Mainly because, I figured, it just had to be.  Because my house heating up to 93 degrees was totally unacceptable.  But there we were, an hour later, at 93 degrees inside.  And climbing. 

I started to have flashbacks to the massive blackout of August 2003.  The one when I had the good fortune of living in the last neighborhood in NYC to have power restored a day later.  The one when my block started to look like downtown Baghdad with looting and limited food.  When my sister and I sat in my sweltering fourth-story walk-up apartment with a transistor radio on our ears, just to understand what was going on. 

That one.

But the truth is that last Friday was nothing like the 2003 episode.  Because only eight houses on my block lost power (there’s that geographic luck again) and because I could load my family up in my air-conditioned car to drive around, go out to dinner and get ice cream.  It’s an SUV, so I figured we could live there for a while if need be. 

Blackouts make me dramatic, I guess.  And, as you may have guessed, it never became necessary to move into our SUV.  Five hours later, the AC was cranking inside again.

2)  The Bear

In the camp of more legitimate drama, I have this.  Last week, a bear cub made his way through the neighborhood before being captured.  We don’t live in a rural area and, frankly, I didn’t sign up for a town that comes with menacing animals.  So I was freaked out.  And promptly considered moving back to Manhattan, where the wildlife mainly consists of insane humans.

With the cub in captivity, everyone was relieved.  Except me.  Because all I could do in my paranoid head was wonder: “Where is the pissed off mother bear, looking for her cub?”

This was met with collective eye rolling. 

Until.

Last Sunday, we had my daughter’s birthday party with about 30 people in our back yard.  You know, because it was down to a chilly 92 degrees, and that was refreshing.  I’m on the lawn and I notice something out of the corner of my eye.

No, not a bear.

It looked like a massive black mushroom in the grass.  And I don’t want to get overly detailed here but the important information is that it was a giant pile of, uh, waste.  That did not come from a dog.  No way.

My husband also raised an eyebrow at this.  But we decided it wasn’t really backyard BBQ conversation, so we enjoyed the chill in the 92-degree air.

The next night, after a few cocktails with one of my dearest friends and her husband — who were visiting from out of town — we decided to re-open the mysterious case of the Unidentified Yard Poop.

At the risk of stating the obvious, Google really is magnificent.  How else do you go about identifying random piles of poop in your yard? I’ll spare you the images. 

You’re welcome.

And according to Google, it came from a bear. 

Holy shit.  {No pun intended}

A bear.  In. My. Yard.  Where my kids play.  Where my small dog, who can easily resemble an oversized kielbasa, hangs out. 

Why did we leave the city?  Oh, how I suddenly missed those oversized mutant urban rats.

So I called the local Animal Control office.  It went something like this.

“Hi, I had a bear in my yard.”

“You saw a bear?”

“No, but I have, uh, evidence of a bear in my  yard.”

“What kind of evidence?”

“A pile of waste.”

“How do you know it was from a bear?”

“Because Google said so.”

“Oh.  Right.  OK.  Well, thanks for calling and we’ll, uh, patrol that area a little more closely.  Let us know if you actually see a bear.”

They were clearly thankful for my research and diligence.

So now I’m holed up inside, in fear.  So the power better not go out again.

3)  Bride of Chucky Doll

It’s not nice to say bad things about gifts.  I know.  So call me mean.

I’m sure it was expensive and collectible and came from a place of love. It really is a thoughtful gift.

But this doll that my daughter received for her birthday.  It freaks me the hell out.

Is it just me?

She’s judging me, isn’t she?  She’s watching me.  I swear, she moves when I turn away for a moment.

And we’re stuck inside together.

Avoiding the bear. 

And hoping the power doesn’t go out again.

Did you like this? Share it:
Filed Under: Borderline Neuroses, That Which Drives Me Crazy 2 Comments

I Will Follow

July 20, 2011

I rarely get really excited about things.  For better or worse — it’s just not my way.

Today is an exception.

Because tonight — I’ll be here.

Right where that dark blue dot is.  In seats for which I practically re-mortgaged my house.

Because you know who will be on that gray area designated “stage”?

My other husband.

And he just doesn’t come to town that often.  So I’m really glad we can be reunited.  At least in my head.

To all of tonight’s concert-goers around me:  Let me offer an advance apology for my behavior. 

First, it may resemble hysteria at times, a la The Beatles on “The Ed Sullivan Show.”  Because there aren’t many moments, for me, like the one when U2 walks onto the stage to start a show.  My husband finds me unrecognizable at these times. Mercifully, for him, they are not frequent.

Also, I will sing every song.  Loudly.  And I’ll kind of be annoyed if you don’t know all the words too.  Because, why are you there wasting good concert real estate if your devotion is not genuine? 

{On a related note:  If you were born after “The Joshua Tree” was made, please don’t show up with a better seat than mine.  This may cause things to get ugly.}

And finally, I may or may not make a total ass of myself yelling into the New Jersey night time sky.  These cries will be a mixture of glee, anticipation and humiliation. Don’t mind the old geezer mom out way past her bedtime.

So bear with me.  I don’t get out much.  I certainly don’t act like I’m 15 very often. But I’ve loved these four guys from Ireland for about 25 years — they’re sort of the soundtrack of my life.  And I have an irrational fear at each show that it could be the last. 

Watch out, Meadowlands.  Especially section 135. It’s going to be a great night.

Did you like this? Share it:
Filed Under: Entertainment 13 Comments

Carolina In My Mind

July 19, 2011

The residents of Fordeville are back from the Outer Banks.  And, I’m happy to report, the Roadtrip and Vomit Gods were much better to us on the way home than on the drive down.  Thankfully.  Otherwise I might be living in a motel somewhere along I-95 right now. 

It will take a while — say, seven or eight years — before the I-95 Vomitfest leaves my memory.  So you’ll forgive me if I tend to mention it now and then as part of the related Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. 

But.

Once we were there, the place was beautiful and the vacation was really nice.

Mainly because of the ocean view, which was abundant and beautiful.  We were never more than a window’s peek away from the water.  Which I find so peaceful.

Yes, I just said peaceful in reference to a place that housed six kids, four adults and two dogs for a week.

Because from any point inside, you could see this.

And then there were the decks.  Plural.  Which I loved.  And which also served some very special purposes.

Like man and dog reading hour.  I think the book in question involved the history of bacon.

Like critical business tasks.  Obviously.

Like cousins standing guard.  Probably over the Chips Ahoy stash.

Like watching the moon rise over the ocean every night.  {See also: “The blender held up beautifully” and “We recycled enough cans and bottles to generate power for a small country.”}

And when we weren’t on the deck, we were faced with the difficult burden of choosing between the beach and the pool for the day.  I know, I know — but someone has to do it.

The North Carolina beach was beautiful.  And the water was warm — something you don’t find in the Northeast.  Unless you inadvertently swim through some medical waste.  Or some pee.

But the sun was incredibly strong, and made the sand way too hot to really walk on.  Which blew any plans I had for sandcastles, or for jogging barefoot in a bikini.  {To be clear, the existence of the latter plan was slim to none, with slim leaving town fast.}

And so, the water, sand and sun really wore the kids out.  Score.

Back at the pool, life couldn’t get much better. 

It really was taxing, all of this pool and beach and nightime cocktailing ocean moon watching.  We really needed a break.  If only we could find something cold and delicious to eat nearby.

Doesn’t Jerry look cute these days?

Anyway.  It really was a very low-key, low maintenance type of week.  You know, apart from the ride down.  {Sorry, I mentioned it again.  PTSD, I tell you.}

And I would be remiss if I didn’t mention The Christmas Miracle in July.  Something that happens only a handful of times every few decades. 

A. Family. Photo. Where. Everyone. Is. Looking. At. The. Camera.

Crazy, right?  Whatever we did, you can be sure it can never be replicated.  Pure vacation magic.

And speaking of magic, we made it home without incident. 

Did you like this? Share it:
Filed Under: Family, Food & Drink, Places Near and Far 12 Comments

Are We There Yet?

July 13, 2011

We made it to Pluto North Carolina.  I say that with no disrespect to this beautiful place or its people — I just mean that it felt like the longest trip in the history of mankind, as I feared.

No, worse than I feared.  I’ll tell you why.  Because I tend to overshare.

Everything started out just fine.  The engineer husband, as usual, packed with impeccable precision.  Our trunk looked like an advanced level game of Jenga.

We were ready for the open road.  For our adventure.  Bring it.

And then our momentum was kind of deflated at a traffic standstill just 30 miles from home.  Which was discouraging.  The kids got restless.  I started to stare at the (un)moving blue GPS dot on my map and tried to will it to go faster.  Maybe it was broken, I thought. My kids must get the unpatient gene from me.  Just a guess.

Turns out that slow-going was to be the least of our issues.  My two year-old, as you may have read in the past, really is consistent and hates to miss an opportunity to vomit for any major holiday, getaway or other important occasion.  So of course she didn’t disappoint somewhere near the DC Beltway.  I thought it was a political statement at first but then she repeated the episode in Virginia.  Two more times. 

So when we rolled in to the Richmond area at the end of the first leg, she was on her fourth outfit and I was kind of beside myself. 

357 miles.  Four stops.  Three pukes.  Eight and a half hours. 

No wine.

Well, at least we got her out of the car for the night.  I figured that now we knew we had a car sick-prone kid in the family.

Except she wasn’t car sick after all.  As evidenced by the land-bound vomiting in the hotel room that next morning. 

There’s really nothing like 1) having someone get sick in a hotel room that starts to feel like prison after a few such episodes and 2) knowing you have to put a kid with a virus in the car for another four hours. Unless you want to live in the Fairfield Inn.

So, once she seemed a bit better, we threw ourselves at the mercy of the Road and Vomit Gods and set off for the second leg.  Not without some dread. 

That blue dot wasn’t moving quite fast enough for my taste.

Speaking of legs, let me not steal all the pity.  The whole trip was down to a last-minute “go or no go call” Friday night when my 13 year-old niece broke her leg and almost needed surgery.  But she avoided going under the knife, and her parents + three siblings packed her in the car with a hip-to-toe cast to make the trip.  How’s that for adventurous? 

Anyway, I’m happy to report that Day Two to Pluto went much better.  Because we fucking earned it after Day One.  The kids slept more than half the drive, nobody got sick and I even got my husband to turn off his heinous Sirius stations for a bit. 

We were told the drive would all be worth it.

And it totally was. 

It’s so beautiful here.  The house we rented is amazing.  The beach is glorious.  I don’t see any hurricanes in the forecast.  And I’m glad to report that, apart from the ride, my list of concerns has not produced any other issue. 

So there’s just one question remaining:  Who’s going to airlift us home at the end of the week?

Did you like this? Share it:
Filed Under: Family, Holidays, Places Near and Far 17 Comments

Two

July 8, 2011

 

Two.  How can that be?

I won’t get all weepy on you (I can’t promise the same to my family), but it’s hard to believe.  And even with all the excitement of what’s to come as she gets older, I do find it sad that she’s not a baby anymore.  

Like she was here, at a week old.

Or here, on her first birthday.

So what’s she like at two?

She’s incredibly strong-willed.  She’s her older brother’s number one fan and biggest agitator.  She likes to be in on the joke.  And, above all, she knows how to play the devil in disguise.  Brilliantly.

I don’t worry that she’ll ever be a shrinking violet.  I do worry that she’ll be outrunning me in another year. 

Beyond that, the sky’s the limit.  As it should be.

Did you like this? Share it:
Filed Under: Family 12 Comments

Pre-Vacation Stress: A Top 10 List

July 6, 2011

I’m one of those annoying people who gets stressed out before vacations. At least when my kids are involved.  Which is usually the case, since there’s no Maria Von Trapp in sight to watch them and make clothing out of curtains while we whisk ourselves away.

In just a few days, we’re getting in the car and driving to The Outer Banks. That’s at least ten hours by car.

Ten hours. Without traffic. Each way.

I realize that many people do the long-drive-with-kids-thing all the time.  This will be our first attempt.  And I’m skeptical.  Because, I don’t know about you guys, but my kids are not what I’d call road warriors. In fact, they often make me a little crazy just driving within a five mile radius of our home. But in a moment of either insanity or drunkenness, I overlooked this detail.

And now departure time is drawing near.  So here are the Top 10 Points of Concern (not necessarily in order):  

1.  The drive. As I mentioned. And no, we don’t have a DVD player in the car. But my engineer husband has assured me that he has fashioned some sort of homemade contraption to keep our iPad in place for optimal kids’ viewing. I am picturing some balsa wood and a bungee cord.

2.  The packing. I hate packing. And I since I like to have options, I tend to overpack — which results in a lot of stuff.

3.  The mountain of laundry that, despite all my staring and willfulness, just won’t wash and fold itself.  Don’t the shiny new front loaders have that feature?  I need to get some of those.

4.  The fact that there is a birthday in this family to be celebrated between now and then. A birthday belonging to a certain youngest child.  And that means I need to get on the stick and ensure that merriment ensues.

5.  The dread of my husband’s horrible Sirius radio stations never going out of range on the drive.

6.  Did I mention the drive?

7.  The more-than-casual curiosity about the availability of wi-fi. You know, because I start to twitch if there’s no signal. Yes, I know it’s America and all. But you just can’t be sure.  It would be reckless of me to prematurely rule out the need to tweet using carrier pigeons.

8.  Bringing the translucent-white, pasty skin of my whole family ten hours closer to the equator. (See also: Where is the closest natively grown aloe plant?  Or ER?)

9.  Can the blender at the rental property handle the amount of alcoholic concoctions I plan to prepare and consume, or will a back-up generator of sorts be necessary?

10.  How many baby gates defines crazy? My daughter is still a stair risk, and this house — as far as I can tell from the photos — has about 367 steps encompassing multiple levels.

Here’s the thing.  It’s all going to be great.  We are sharing the house with my brother-in-law, sister-in-law and their four kids.  This fact has not been revealed to my children because they will spontaneously combust with excitement.  And they will also pepper the ten-plus hour drive with questions about the color of their cousins’ bathing suits, who will get first pass at the Teddy Grahams and who is bunking together. 

So the aunt/uncle/cousins component will be in the “pleasant surprise upon arrival” category.  Right after we exhaust the “Why the hell are we still in the car and where are we going?” category.

The point is that, despite my preparation anxiety, everyone gets along famously and we’re going to have a fabulous week. 

Once the laundry is all done.  Once the birthday girl blows out her candles.  Once the balsa wood/bungee  contraption is built.  Once I figure out how to block the 80s British Pop station from Sirius. 

And once I pack the industrial-sized blender.  Just in case.

 

Did you like this? Share it:
Filed Under: Borderline Neuroses, Family, Food & Drink, Places Near and Far, To-Do Lists Extraordinaire

Born in the Wrong Decade

July 1, 2011

I think it was D6.  Or maybe E6. 

I’m not entirely sure which slot “Sherry” by the Four Seasons occupied in the jukebox, but I think it was one of those.  I struggled to remember as I sat through last Saturday’s matinee of Jersey Boys.  And I was transported.  Not to the 60s, because I wasn’t born yet.  But instead to the late 70s and early 80s, when my childhood consisted of Saturday and Sunday mornings with my middle sister, listening to great music on the jukebox my parents had in our basement. 

Most kids watched cartoons on weekend mornings.  We listened to oldies.  For hours at a time.  And to this day, I remember those old labels my mom typed up to display the choices, and I can tell you where some of the songs were placed. 

A1:  “Since I Don’t Have You” by The Skyliners.  My dad’s favorite song ever, so it got  the top spot on the jukebox.  It’s fantastic.  I can tell you that they say “you” (or “youuu-ooo”) 13 times at the end of the song.  My dad was pretty pissed off when I told him, decades later, that Guns ‘n Roses made a little-known cover of this.

E9:  “Be My Baby” by Ronnie Spector.  I remember pressing  my mom to tell me her favorite song, and she didn’t really have just one.  But after repeated requests, she said it was this.  Which I love.  I may have been one of the few eight year-olds to know all about Phil Spector’s Wall of Sound and be able to place it. Who knew he’d go on trial for murder?

G2:  “Runaway” by Dion.  Such a great song.  I loved everything he sang.

J10:  “Mack the Knife” by Bobby Darin.  To this day, still one of my favorites.

K — 6?  I think:  “My Boyfriend’s Back” by The Angels.  One of the top choices for my sister and me when we wanted to choreograph a little dance.  Looking back on it, I think the material was a little over our heads to tell a good narrative.  But I hear we were cute.

There were many others whose precise location on the jukebox I can’t remember but I know we played them to death.  The Four Tops, The Temptations, The Beach Boys, Elvis, Paul Anka. 

We knew them all by heart. 

This dynamic seeped into the 80s, when my mom filled the last two columns of the jukebox with her contemporary favorites.  Which meant, at that time — oh yes — Disco. 

Burn baby burn.  Boogie oogie oogie. 

My father hated disco.  Hated it.  It had to stay contained to the right side of the jukebox.

But whatever, Dad.  We had the coolest stay-at-home-disco-queen-mom around.  She vacuumed the house to Michael Jackson’s “Off the Wall” album.  And when roller skating was all the rage, she didn’t just drop us off or sit and watch — she was skating.  On her very own pair of skates that she brought along (my sisters and I wore the rentals).  She skated backwards, did turns and cut the corners in that cool way that I could never really do. She tried to teach me but I was much better at playing Pac-Man in the rink.

Now I have “Instant Replay” in my head.  Sorry…

Anyway.

My parents’ mutual love for music was one of the greatest gifts they gave us.  They knew all the back stories of the songs and artists, all the words — and they told us all of it.  I still call one of them from time to time to name a song I can’t place. 

Our family car rides always meant listening to Cousin Brucie on 101.1 WCBS-FM.  To this day, it is the only station my sisters and I can agree on when we drive somewhere together.  It’s not just coincidence that one of my sisters ended up with a guy who is not only a musician, but one who knows all the songs we know.  One who has, remarkably, played back up for some of these very groups on their reunion tours.  Yes, really.

I do sometimes feel like, when it comes to music, I was born in the wrong decade.  It’s not that I don’t like the music of my own childhood (hello 80s), college years or even today.  I do.  But the music my parents shared with us just has a much more special place in my heart and carries so much influence over the taste I have.  Sitting in Jersey Boys last weekend, it was amazing to me how I could feel nostalgic for an era I never lived in.  But I was wistful for my own experiences with those songs, my own childhood memories of that jukebox.  For being the only second-grader who knew “Rag Doll,” “Working My Way Back to You” and “Walk Like a Man.”  Because my parents and their fabulous collection of 45s in that jukebox ensured that I knew.

I want to do the same for my kids.  I wish I had that old jukebox.  I wish I had those 45s.  I know I can get most of the songs digitally, but it’s somehow not the same.  Oh well.  I think Breakfast with The Beatles every Sunday morning on Q104.3 is a good start.  I’ll work them up to the Four Seasons and my love of Motown someday. 

And they’ll ask  me what the hell a jukebox is.

{Addendum:  My mom called me this morning after reading my post.  She pointed out that I was wrong about my “Runaway” reference above.   It wasn’t Dion.  It was Del Shannon.  My bad.  Now you see my point about the ongoing back and forth we have about oldies.  Thanks, Mom, for keeping me honest.}

Did you like this? Share it:
Filed Under: Entertainment, Family 15 Comments