Where the Ground Shook All Day

August 23, 2011

I feel the Earth.  Move.  Under my feet…

But not from the earthquake.  I missed it.  You know why?

Because I was having my own personal, all-day earthquake at home as part of Renovation, Day Two.  Yes, the ccccoonnnstttant jackhammmmmmering in the bbbbbbasssemmmennnnt today rendered me useless in recognizing an East Coast seismic event.

They say pets are often the first to pick up on these types of things.  I saw all kinds of quirky animal videos on the news today, with dogs barking fiercely, ears up in the air — at the ready to alert their owners to potential danger.

Here? Not so much.

My dog’s only source for concern was whether the earthquake was going to force him to move off of his comfortable perch.  Atop the mound of clean laundry I completed just before the machines were ripped out of the basement.  So much for that effort.

So.  How’s Project Pimp My Basement going?

Let’s just say I’m leery when one has the following “development” on Day Two.

See this?

This is the interior door to my basement from our front hallway.  All taped up like a crime scene so that dust is contained and all the magic happens behind the curtain.  Like Oz.

Now.  See this?

Why, that’s not my basement.  It’s my kitchen.  With a square sawed into it.

Just for fun.

To make a very long story short, three guys stood in my house today with looks of surprise.  It seems that what was believed to be a proper plumbing vent in the basement is not actually functional for the purposes of our renovation.  So they need to access one that is up on the main floor of the house.

You can imagine my reaction to them standing in my kitchen, gesturing with a saw — “Just to take a look in there.”

After being pleased with what they found in my kitchen, I was told that, sometime Wednesday, that little sawed-out hole will expand greatly to expose the plumbing guts of this area.  You know, where I cook meals.  Where my kids pass through to get around the first floor.  Where we were not supposed to feel any impact  of the basement renovation.

Day Two.  I think we’re off to a smashing start.  Say it with me:  Domino Effect.

I know I should expect hiccups.  Especially with a house that is 100 years old.  I know.  I also know my nerves aressshotttttt from the jaccckkkkhammmmer.  So never mind that our water is brown and not warming up beyond tepid.  When it’s not cut off altogether.

It’s like camping, but at home.  See — my Purell addiction is not without merit at times like these.

But, hey, good news.  My kids don’t seem quite so loud anymore compared to the jaccckkkhammmmer.

As for the weekend Battle of Keep vs Purge to empty said basement?  Don’t you worry, I have a proper recap brewing in my head, complete with photographic artifacts.  Some fantastic finds — more on that soon.  But I will say, for now, that having that dumpster in the driveway is so freeing.  I love it.  Everyone should have one.  If they were prettier, I mean.

Now, back to wondering if I should just rip out the entire kitchen back splash.  You know, since they’re cutting into it anyway, and I never really liked it.  Then I’d need new matching granite.  And cabinets, of course.  Maybe even some upgraded appliances…

 

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Filed Under: Project Colonial, That Which Drives Me Crazy 8 Comments

The Renovation Sanity Meter

August 20, 2011

On Monday — at long last — Project Pimp My Basement gets underway.  It’s a big job.  Total demolition.  Re-zoning heat, moving the furnace, upgrading electricity.

It’s a total and complete overhaul.  Right now, it’s an unfinished space, filled with boxes and old toys and, well, everything (more on this below).  If I had a few drinks in me, I might have the guts to post some “before” photos.  Sorry.

Anyway, the end goal is to create some great additional living space, both for us and for the kids’ stuff.  Everything will be new.  Like my laundry room, complete with machines that were made in this century.  And the wet bar.  Because I clearly need a place to sit and stare at the pretty new front-loaders.

The sad reality is that, when this is all done, our basement is going to be the nicest part of our house.  By far.

The general contractor said the job should take five weeks.  So I’m mentally banking on six to eight weeks.  Let’s see where we land.  I think we all know that you’ll be along for the ride.

But first.

Important business.

Uh, we have to empty the basement.  This weekend.  Top to bottom.

Have I mentioned that my husband and I have an ongoing difference in world views on keeping versus purging?  He’s a hoarder keeper and I’m a purger.  Mostly.  Unless it’s stuff that I like, and then it stays regardless.

So, in what could be the premise for a bad reality show, he and I will basically lock ourselves in the basement all weekend and duke it out over what stays and what gets tossed into this eyesore in my driveway.  I’ll think of it as inspiration.

Today’s marital showdown will really be just be the tip of the iceberg in testing my Renovation Sanity Meter.  Because, come Monday morning, the crew arrives and the following things will begin to transpire.  All of which are not on my list of That Which I Tolerate Well:

–Noise

–Dust

–Strangers walking around

–People asking me to make decisions on the spot

–A Port-a-Potty in my driveway (not for us, for the crew)

–Revoked access to do laundry

–Did I mention noise and dust?

 

Don’t you worry, I’ll keep you guys posted.  But if you don’t hear from me by, say, Tuesday, you might send someone to check on my sanity.

But there is one bright spot in this weekend’s project.  In our spare basement fridge — the one we use for entertaining — we have a generous supply of wine and beer.  Without anywhere else to put it, things could get interesting in the Battle of Keep Vs. Purge.

And now I’m off to do my Farewell Laundry Loads in these antiques.

 

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Filed Under: Family, Food & Drink, Project Colonial, That Which Drives Me Crazy 8 Comments

Pint-Sized Teachers

August 18, 2011

If someone asked you to name ten lessons your child(ren) could teach you, what would you say?

While you think about it, I’ll give you mine.  Well.  I could tell you all about unconditional love, seeing the magic of the world through the eyes of a child or finding new depths of my heart.  All of these things are true.

But, come on, they’re not really that much fun to write about when you consider some of the lesser known alternatives.

So.

I give you the other lessons — the ones that don’t get put in Reader’s Digest or win blue ribbons in scrapbooking.  In no particular order, my kids have taught me the following:

–There is a clear and compelling reason why God invented the epidural.  I have nominated it to be the Eighth Wonder of the World.

–The Nugget is its own secret category on the Toddler Food Pyramid.  Without it, children around the world would require intravenous drips to make it to age five.

–Baby gates can only be opened by seasoned professional parents and IKEA engineers.  Oh, and — somehow — by curious toddlers when parents are not looking.

–The Toddler Space/Time Continuum states that wherever a person was last seen, that person resides there.  Forever.  For example, teachers live at nursery school full-time with all the other teachers.  The mailman never wears anything other than a USPS uniform in his/her entire life.

–Turning one’s emotions a full 180 degrees, on a dime — repeatedly — is an art form.  It is especially mind-blowing impressive when the person in question is under three feet tall.

–All that sleep you thought you “required” before you had kids was laughable.  If you get more than five consecutive hours now, you feel downright indulgent.

–Genetics and karma conspire to mix in an evil bunson burner, and then come back and kick every parent’s ass.  In my case, for every stubborn fiber in my being, my kids inherited four.  And the genes mutate to become stronger with each generation.

–Breast pumps are the work of the devil himself.  Ask any mom who used one.  She never wants to see that black bag again and experiences a visceral reaction just talking about it.  {Ditto for any husband who ever witnessed a pumping session.  This may be accompanied by a scream of “My eyes — they burn!”}

–You can learn more Spanish and Mandarin from a few hours of Nick Jr. than you did in all of high school.

—Yo Gabba Gabba can result in parental flashbacks to college parties that may or may not have involved hallucinogenics.

–Touching different foods together on the same plate is a crime punishable by epic tantrum.  Said tantrums will last longer than the shelf life of the food itself.  So just do yourself a damn favor and buy the plates with the little Mason/Dixon-like borders to segregate the foods.

 

See what great teachers my kids are?  And we haven’t even entered elementary school yet.  I can only imagine what the next ten items on my list will bring.

What would you add?

 

Mama’s Losin’ It

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Coming Clean

August 17, 2011

I’m not an officially diagnosed germaphobe, but I play one every so often.

To be clear, I don’t wear masks in public.  I don’t walk around my house with rubber cleaning gloves on.  {My house is not even that neat.}

But I do confess that I have become increasingly obsessed about cognizant of germs.  I think I’ve seen one too many of those news segments.  “Tonight at 11:  You’ll never believe what our scientists found after swabbing doorknobs, elevator buttons and escalator handles.”

I shouldn’t watch.  This stuff stays with me.  It makes me want to wear a Hazmat suit.

Not really.  But let me come clean here, so to speak.

First:  I may or may not be addicted to Purell. I bust it out a lot.  Travel sizes in the diaper bag, the car.  A standard size pump at the ready at home.  I should probably sit on their Board of Directors.

Next:  Wet Ones.  You know, the wipe things.  Also in my car, my house and my bag.  I guess in case I fall victim to a Purell thief.  I have a back up.

And of course:  Hand washing.  I know this is really the solution here.  So don’t you worry, I get maniacal insistent about that too.  Again, not like I-need-my-own-reality-show levels, but I hear myself saying to my kids all the time “Did you wash your hands?”

“With SOAP?”

I wasn’t always like this.  Au contraire.  But somewhere along the way, years of living in the city got me hooked on Purell.  That was the gateway drug.

Then I had my first child and I became an unrecognizable Sanitation Crazy.  You know the type.  I blame it on post-partum hormones.

It started with one of those steam sanitizing machines that people get for a newborn’s pacifiers, bottle parts, etc.  I latched right onto this thing like a lifeline.  I boiled water.  I steamed.  I washed my hands.  A lot.  The thought of that small infant getting sick became a bit of a fear.

I think it sort of snowballed from there.  Because I can’t really blame post-partum hormones four years later.  And aren’t you supposed to relax about this stuff with your second kid?  I missed that memo.

But, look, I know there’s a fine line between “Let’s not be covered in filth” and “Hi, I’m Crazy Mom.”  And I know you can’t shield kids from everything.  I know, I know, I know.  So, before you go calling TLC to film a segment on my craziness, just know that I’m trying to let this go a little.

But it requires baby steps.  Meaning, I am learning to relax about this stuff in general.  But please don’t expect me to loosen up my Purell Death Grip in any of the following environments that don’t have soap and water:

–Public restrooms

–Petting zoos

–Grocery shopping carts

–Playgrounds

–Restaurant high chairs

–New York City in general (just kidding — partially)

 

Purell seems to do pretty well.  So it can’t be just me keeping them in business.  Right?

Anyone else want to come clean here?

 

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Filed Under: Borderline Neuroses, Family, Food & Drink 13 Comments

Cutting Class

August 10, 2011

She was on to me.  She was watching.  In the halls, day after day, as I came and went.  Waiting, ever so patiently, for me to act carelessly and blow it.  It took the better part of a year, but she gained the upper hand.

She had caught me.  The jig was up.

The funny thing about that day of my senior year of high school — when I was summoned to the principal’s office — was that I wasn’t sure what it was for. Which offense, I mean.  I thought I was getting in trouble for parking in the gym teacher’s parking spot again.

Nope.  It was worse.  Way worse.  Kind of like that moment in Goodfellas when Henry Hill thought he was busted by local cops for  “normal” crimes, but it was really the Feds getting him for drug trafficking.

OK, it  wasn’t that bad.  Especially since I was in high school and all.  And no narcotics or broken laws were involved.  I guess that was a dramatic example.

Anyway.

I remember I was wearing this prairie-like dress from the Gap.  Apparently from their 90s Amish Collection.  And penny loafers.  The principal sat me down and asked me very directly, “Is there a problem you want to discuss with me?”

“Uh, no.”

“A drug problem maybe?”

“No, definitely not.  Why would you say that?”

He pulled out a file. And I knew.

“Because, according to Mrs. Vogel’s records, you have missed 40 days of school this year. 40.  The state maximum is 20.  So you see the problem we have, mere weeks before graduation.”

Mrs. Vogel. The school attendance officer.  That little troll.  She was like my non-Seinfeldian version of Newman.  She knew I was, shall we say, on the truant side.  And I knew she knew.  And she knew I knew she knew.  It was an ongoing dance between us.  But she couldn’t prove it.

Because I had one airtight alibi after another.  I was a good girl.  Student Council officer, Honors student, the whole thing.  But.  I had this older boyfriend who went to the local community college and lived at home, up the street from the high school.  With a mullet.  So I made a habit of skipping classes — not whole days, just one class at a time — to hang out with him.  I used  excuses of National Honor Society meetings, college essay application writing workshops and other upstanding activities.  My teachers all believed me, and my work was always done, so I kept getting away with it.

But Mrs. Vogel was watching.  She would see me leaving school property or sneaking back in.  She was on a mission to make an example out of me.

And she did.

You can imagine my parents’ reaction to the news that I had skipped double the state’s maximum allowable days — under their noses — and that my graduation eligibility was questionable.  At best.  As I was wait-listed to attend my top college choice, pending final transcripts.  It was not a good day.

{For the record, I think 40 days was a gross exaggeration.  I would put it more around 28.  But I wasn’t in a position to be arguing technicalities at that point.}

The standard disciplinary action for such misconduct was suspension.  Which the Mullet Boyfriend and I thought was fabulous — until the administration realized the irony of this punishment.  Perhaps it seemed a bit short-sighted to order the Extreme Truant to miss school.

So they commuted my sentence to something far worse, in my mind.

In-School Suspension.

Seriously?  It was like a juvenile detention hall.  There I was with my perm, my horned-rimmed glasses and my U2 text book covers.  I was blood in the water.  These other students — if you can call them that at age 21, on average — were basically criminals.  Who wanted to eat me for lunch.

But I’m nothing if not resourceful, and I befriended them by offering to help with their English essays, if they promised not to dismember me while the teacher took a bathroom break.

And, three or four times a day, Mrs. Vogel would walk by and just give me the stink eye.  And laugh.  Just like Newman.

I spent my incarceration plotting my road back to graduation.  My first thought, though fleeting, proved just how quickly a desperate person can consider turning to a life of crime.  A good friend of mine had some attendance issues as well and she, as a joke, said we should consider stealing the “M” file (both of our last names started with M) while Mrs. Vogel took a cigarette break.  I was totally and instantly on board.  At least in my head.

Then I reconsidered and figured there must have been a way to put all of that debate practice from history class to use.  After all, I thought, how would it look for the school to have missed such gross misconduct on the part of one of their student body leaders?  Surely, there was a misunderstanding at hand.  Obviously, the records were wrong.

I may have missed my calling in professional debating.  I’ll leave it at that.

Though I had to face the music at home, I did graduate with my class.  I went off to college as planned.  I kept Mullet Boyfriend for a year or so, but it wasn’t meant to be.

As for Mrs. Vogel, she kept her post long after I left.  She was pretty pissed that I slipped through her clutches.  I could have been her swan song.  It had been so close.  She had watched and watched, and plotted, with minimal payoff.  So she set her sights on a new victim in my absence:  My sister.

And, with that, Round Two was on back at home.  While I skipped my fair share of freshman core curriculum classes away at college — where nobody was watching.

————-

{This post was inspired by Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop.  The prompt was “Write about a time you believed someone was watching you.”}

 

Mama’s Losin’ It

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We’ll Just Stay Here

August 7, 2011

MEMO

Date: August 7, 2011

To: Travel Gods

CC: Karma Masters

From: Fordeville Vacation Planning Headquarters

Subject: Vacation Illnesses

 

I’d like to take this opportunity to inquire about the apparent Fordeville Vacation Vomit Policy that has been implemented without my knowledge.  As a key planner in all Fordeville vacation destinations, timing and itineraries, I would very much appreciate a copy of this policy so that I can prepare accordingly.

You see, at first I thought it was a fluke when my daughter came down with a stomach bug during our drive to North Carolina last month.  But after the events of this past weekend, I began to take a good look at things and feel an explanation is in order.

It started Thursday afternoon, the day before we were to depart for a much-anticipated weekend trip with good friends.  Not only were we looking forward to everything about this — the resort, the time with friends, the ocean — but I also found it to be an excellent distraction from missing the BlogHer conference out in San Diego.

Anyway, Thursday afternoon, my daughter — the same child who puked her way to North Carolina a mere month ago and who, I swear, had not been sick for a year prior to that point — had a definite fever  and stomach issue on Thursday.

And Friday morning.

By lunchtime, she seemed decidedly better, so we pressed our luck and got in the car.  Yes, that was a little risky.  But by the time we finished cursing out the I-95 North corridor and arrived in Rhode Island, she seemed totally fine.  All was well.  There were clambakes to attend.  And spa appointments to savor.  And cocktails aplenty to consume.  And unmatched ocean views to take in.

Life was good.  We had dodged a bullet.  So we naively thought.

Until Saturday morning.  When my husband could not get out of bed.  Could not.  All day.  All evening.  Not until Sunday.

In between keeping my kids occupied/out of the room all day and wondering if we should get the man a doctor, I started to get visits from the Ghost of Fordeville Vacations Past.

First, the time we went to Turks & Caicos a few years ago.  Our son, then age 1, and me, then four months pregnant, came down with food poisoning.  Oh yes, those calls to my OB back home about potential Caribbean hospitalization were great.

Then, memories of another trip to the Caribbean, when just P and I went on our own about a year before.  That had been our first getaway since our son was born.  And we spent it with my husband sick in bed.

Then North Carolina.

Now this.

The poor guy.  He was. So. Sick.  It’s a good thing we had a beautiful room, because it’s the only thing he saw for 24 hours.

Are you thinking what I was thinking?  Could the spin of the Salmonella Roulette Wheel on Taco Night have been his downfall?  Or was it the bug my daughter had?  Or a rogue mussel from the clam bake?  I don’t know.  My money is on option #3 right now but it doesn’t really matter.  Well, it will matter if the rest of us get sick.

But here’s the point.

You may not believe this, but we rarely get sick.  At least not at home.  So this is getting sort of bananas.

I’m starting to think it’s karma.  For all the times I cut class in high school.  For cursing like a sailor on a regular basis.  For being snotty about the suburbs when I lived in the city.  Yeah, I think it’s small-scale karma.

Or a family allergy to leaving the tri-state area.

I can’t even speak out loud about the travel plans P and I have in September.  I can’t.  Because then I’ll get Bubonic Plague.

So, until I get a copy of the policy — including the cause, timeline and potential remediation — we’ll just stay here.

 

 

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For the Love of Taco Night

August 3, 2011

If you’ve been here before, you know that I freely admit to some neurotic tendencies.  Some are more rational than others.

Today, I present to you my fear of food borne illnesses and how I, uh, swallowed that in the name of a great Fordeville tradition:  Taco Night.

I’m one of those people who is leery of undercooked food.  Not at nice restaurants or — for the love of all things holy — sushi bars.  I’ll eat beef tartare or some sashimi at a nice place.  Any day.  But in my house, when I run the stove, I’m conservative.  I don’t like to poison people.  Well, maybe there are a few people I have been tempted to undercook for.  But that’s a different story.

On a related note, I also file food expiration dates under “things we should abide by.”  My husband, ever the skeptic, likes to think of them as mere suggestions.  You know, if we’re within a few weeks of the date, it should be fine.

Those are meals he eats on his own.

Anyway.  Back to Taco Night.

Taco Night is a year-round occasion in our house.  It’s more frequent in the colder months, but we still tend to go for it once in a while during the summer too.  And we were overdue.  I had all of the ingredients on hand.  I was ready to go.

Then, right before I started cooking, I saw this online:  “Ongoing Salmonella Outbreak Linked to Ground Turkey Unsolved.”

Of course I read it.  Which I never should have done.  Because there was zero helpful information.  They don’t know the source.  They don’t know if it’s contained.  They’re not sure if they’ve given a complete list of impacted brands.

All this, as I stared at the package of ground turkey on the counter.

Fuuuuuuck. I love Taco Night.  I don’t want to give it up.

Now, as much as I can be neurotic, I’m also prone to gambling.  So I considered that only 77 people nationwide have died of the Salmonella outbreak since March — most of whom had compromised immune systems.  OK, yes, hundreds of others got sick but whatever.  I spun the Salmonella Roulette Wheel in my head and decided I would go for it.

With a few conditions.

First, in my state of justification, I figured I’d cook the meat to the point of no return.  I mean, I wasn’t making burgers that had to be juicy — or recognizable, for that matter.  This is ground meat that’s getting saturated by taco seasoning in the end anyway.  It’s just the vehicle for flavor.  So I decided that cranking the flame up well beyond a normal “done” status would kill the germs.  And since my husband got home late, it had to be nuked again later.  Score.  More Salmonella-zapping heat opportunities.

Then, I looked at the incubation period for salmonella poisoning.  12-72 hours.  This does present a problem.  We have some big plans on Friday to go away for the weekend with friends — a trip we’ve been looking forward to for a long time.  So as I’m charring the hell out of the meat on the stove, I’m praying that I won’t have to miss the fabulous spa appointment I have booked at the hotel Friday evening.

Because my priorities are clearly in order.

Then I decided — based on my vast expertise in science — that we’d be more likely to get sick within 48 hours, which would give us just enough time to bounce back for half of the weekend.  You know, if it came to that.  Plus, after our recent road trip to North Carolina, we are accustomed to people vomiting in the car.  So we’d be OK.

Did I mention we love Taco Night?

This was verified by my husband’s reaction to this evening’s menu selection.  It’s sort of like a fist pump/guy/sports thing.  I think.  Or maybe just a little dorky holdover from the 80s.  I’m not sure.  I don’t want to know.

The point is, my decision to gamble our lives for Taco Night was met with appreciation.  Well, and mockery.  Let’s compare the time we have spent worrying about us contracting Salmonella.

Him:  0.8877664 seconds.

Me:  3 hours and 12 minutes, consecutively, since I read that first headline.  And counting.

But now we were in it together.  We were both going down if we lost the spin of the Salmonella Roulette Wheel.

So I savored the tacos, knowing they might be my last meal for a few days while I’m hospitalized and hooked up to an IV.  With that in mind, it made perfect sense to give that wine glass an extra pour or three.  I mean, hospital food is horrible so I may as well enjoy this.

At one point during our last meal, my daughter came over to the table (the kids had eaten something in the Breaded-Nugget-No-Flavor Toddler Food Pyramid earlier) to see what we were eating.  As my husband went to hand her a bite of the taco to try, I sprung up to swat it out of his hand.  Like one of those dramatic slow-motion reels, complete with “Nooooooooo!”

He stared at me in cluelessness.  Because his 0.8877664 seconds of thinking about Salmonella poisoning had ended light years ago.

He wondered why it was OK for us to eat the probably-only-contaminated-in-my-mind meat, but not the kids.

“Well, because we really love Taco Night.”

“We really do.  Hey, is this the sour cream you asked me to throw out last week?”

{If anyone wants my appointment for a killer massage on Friday evening in Rhode Island, I’m now accepting names for the wait list.}

 

 

 

 

 

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The Words That Won’t Come

August 1, 2011

I’ve had the card sitting here for almost two months. Blank. Waiting. I know I have to send it. I’ve wanted to send it. But the words wouldn’t come.

Words rarely fail me.  But this is just more than words are equipped to deliver.

I’ve thought about it every day.  Once in a while, a sentence would come to me.  And then, no.  It didn’t work.  It didn’t make it to the pen.

And I’ve stared at the card.  Waiting.  For what, I’m not entirely sure.  Maybe for undiscovered words or a better way to say what raced through my head.  Maybe for the chance to think, for a moment, it hadn’t happened.

But it had.  With every day of the last two months, it became more painfully evident to me that it had happened.  So the card needed words.  Yet my problem remained.

How do you take 27 years of an unforgettable friendship and put it in a folded piece of Hallmark card stock? It seemed almost ridiculous.

How do you say I’m sorry she’s gone, I’m sorry you lost your wife, the mother of your young kids — without warning?

I’m sorry? It doesn’t begin to cover it.  Not even remotely.

How do you say I wish I could do something to change it? Or at least something to take away your pain, even when my own loss still feels gaping and raw and unimaginable?

And I know my loss doesn’t begin to compare to that of a husband, a parent, a brother or a child. I truly can’t imagine how they feel.

How do you say I’ll always remember and I’ll always be here?  As much as it’s a pure and absolute truth, is sounds so incredibly trite.

As I’ve tried to find a way to say any of this, more times than I can count, my mind races.  It tells me that once these words, or some version of them, hit that card, this is all somehow more real. Once I write that home address on the envelope, once I seal it and stamp it, once I let it leave my hands forever — it’s more real. Even more real than the hole I feel sitting in front of the blank card. More real than the inability to call her, to see her, to have her stay.

I know the card doesn’t have to be everything. I know they know what is in my heart for Jen. And I know they know I’ve meant to send it sooner. I really should have.  I just couldn’t.

I suppose the words — the real words — don’t actually exist. The ones from deep in my soul — they can’t find their way onto a Hallmark card. They will have to translate to other things — visits and prayers and memories. And over time, old stories told through both laughter and tears.

But for now, this card has to be written. It’s time for it to leave my hands. Even without the right words.

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