22 Things

October 27, 2011

You see a lot of lists flying around about things people have not done or would like to do in a lifetime. Bucket lists, I guess.

But this week, Mama Kat’s Pretty Much World Famous Writer’s Workshop asked us to list 22 Things We Have Done. And since I’ve been whining a lot about home renovations and hitting you all up for Breast Cancer Awareness Month support (it’s not too late, by the way), I decided this prompt was a nice light-hearted change.

Here’s the thing: I’m pretty unadventurous and cowardly in many respects, so you won’t see any high-flying, circus-like escapades here (unless you count giving birth to two very large babies).  But I can own up to the following:

 

–Got a Master’s Degree in Screenwriting.  During this time, I wrote two full-length screenplays and a TV pilot (none of which have ever seen the light of day).

–Agreed to be photographed naked.  Get your mind out of the gutter — it was for mandated medical purposes.  Yes, there are images of my pasty skin to thank for advances in melanoma studies.  You’re welcome.

–Pulled a bee stinger out of a screaming stranger’s eyelid with my fingernails.

–Went to the Super Bowl.  While seven months pregnant.  In a Biblical rain storm.  {Had to leave at half time — sorry.}

–Stood waist-high in the Missouri River to attempt fly fishing.

–Dated a man for five years, whom I had hoped to marry, without knowing he was gay.  Yes, really.  Perhaps more on that another day.

–Was told that I have a bad mouth. By a sailor.

–Danced to 70s disco music at a wedding with two legitimate, practicing friars. Robes and all.

–Lived in four of the five boroughs of New York City over a 16-year period. {Related: Had a lapsed driver’s license for almost a decade}

—Said goodbye to one of my best friends way too soon.

–Stayed in an overwater bungalow in Tahiti.

–Attended a Congressional hearing.

–Had a blood clot found in my leg by a doctor the day before boarding a plane.

—Got engaged in a bar. {OK, a wine bar.  Not a total dive.}

–Lost two grandparents within three weeks.

–Fell in love with a Spaniard while studying abroad.  And then spit on his shoes when he showed up in the US to tell me he knocked up another woman.  {Disclaimer:  I have not spit at anyone before or since that moment.  I have no idea what possessed me.}

–Had an ear infection treated by a local proctologist while on vacation.  Hey, you take what you can get on a Sunday in Italy.

–Missed most of my own bachelorette party after foolishly thinking those chocolate martinis at dinner were not that potent.

–Worked my first job in high school as a kitchen girl in The Holy Mackerel Seafood House.  The best seafood joint in town (OK, maybe the only one). I pulled live lobsters out of tanks and de-veined hundreds of shrimp every night.  I didn’t get many dates after work.

–Danced competitively for most of my childhood.  No, not like the kids on Dance Moms.  Well, except for the false eyelashes.

–Attended somewhere between 35 and 40 U2 shows from 1987 to 2011.  I lost count.  I hope to see 50 more.

–Gave my heart away to a pug named Señor.  He is my first child.  Even if he resents me for bringing home two human kids.

 

* * *

There you have it.  Pretty tame, right?

If you have a vote on which one of these I can expand into a full-length future blog post, I’m all ears.

Most importantly, this was a fun distraction from the plot to maim my General Contractor.  Which reminds me, I have to go research a few things.  {Let’s hope this does not result in #23 on a future “Things I’ve Done” list.}

Mama’s Losin’ It

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Despair, Denial and No Ketchup

October 21, 2011

The strangest thing happened yesterday.

A truck pulled up to the house.  Filled with construction guys.  To work on my basement.  The basement that is almost complete.  But only in an alternate universe where “almost complete” means total lack of progress for four consecutive weeks.

Potato, potahto.

So it turns out I can cancel that APB  I was about to put out on my General Contractor (clearly I watch too many crime/forensics shows).  And the handmade “Missing” flyer that I considered posting on my local utility poles.   You know, complete with little fringy tabs with my phone number across the bottom — and a photo of me giving the finger.

But it seems, after the strange appearance of the truck, we can call off the dogs.  At least for now.

How did we get here?  I get this question a lot.  Actually, the question I get more often is “What the hell is going on with your basement? ”

And the honest answer is that I’ve lost track how we got here (which is nowhere, for the record) at this point.  I know this much is true:

–We made a decision to drop the basement floor down to give us more headroom.

–This decision exposed parts of the foundation on our 100 year-old house that needed to be reinforced.  As in, there were piles of rocks in their original 1909 formation, a la Blair Witch Project.  These piles may or may not continue to hold up the house over the long term now that we have dropped the floor down.

–As a result, new plans and inspections were required in terms of how the foundation work would be accomplished.

–As best as I can recall, it was right about here that weeks of finger pointing between the architect, the town’s building inspectors, the mason and the contractors ensued.  Just when you thought one person was holding us up, that person would tell us it was someone else.  And so on.

–Four weeks passed like this.  With an insufficiently secure foundation.  Which has resulted in floors buckling, door frames shifting and walls cracking.  While we waited for the Finger Pointing Tournament to reach the next round.  Or for the house to fall.

I recently broke down and begged my husband to go batshit crazy on have a reasonable discussion with our General Contractor.

Because, remember, while fingers were being pointed and floors buckled, our heat was also not restored to some rooms, and the work has left an exposed hole from the house to the elements.  (For the calendar and weather-challenged folks out there:  It’s almost November in New Jersey, aka we’re screwed).  And I continue to forbid my kids from using any condiments on their food because we have no laundry machines.  They’ve been eating very bland meals since August 22.

And they miss ketchup, my kids.  A lot.  Also, I’m kind of weirded out by the fact that I’m considering adding the laundromat manager to my Christmas card list at this point.

So.  At my urging, my husband tried to go batshit crazy have a reasonable conversation with our GC.  But.  His voice mail box was full.

Every day.

Where does one go from here?

Well, I got some good suggestions from people about next steps.  Like call one of those Consumer Action reporters.  Or even the HGTV Holmes on Homes dude (who I may or may not have a renovation crush on).  Or get meds to keep my frail remnants of sanity intact.  Oh, and I got some great leads on space heaters.

It was right about then that our GC returned from the missing and got back on his game.  It seems.

So the work has resumed and our five-week summer/early fall project may wrap up before 2012.

In related news, I no longer give a shit.  That’s the sad truth.  I’ve gone from rage and frustration to total detachment and apathy.  I am ignoring it.  I’m burying my head in my pile of outsourced laundry and pretending the whole damn basement no longer exists.  I don’t care anymore.

As you can imagine, this is a problematic approach for several reasons.  The biggest of which is the fact that some major decisions still have to be made.

My husband knows I’m at my limit.  Tonight, he suggested, as a joke, that we can roll with my whole denial approach and then I can have the Big Reveal Moment at the end.  A la HGTV.  I then suggested we take it up a notch.  Let’s take the pressure off of him with the remaining decisions — we could have the blog readers vote on options and make the final choices.

On my second glass of wine at the end of another long week without condiments, the Big Reveal/Let the Blogosphere Decide option seems pretty compelling.  Maybe I should pitch this somewhere.

Or.  You guys could just do me a favor:  Adopt a vigilante/mob mentality and break my GC’s knees.  Or at least restore his voice mail box.

—–

 

Separately, a huge thanks to all of you who have commented on the post about my Aunt Debbie to help raise $100 for the Susan G Komen Foundation.  You guys rock.  If you haven’t commented, it’s not too late — October 31 is the deadline.  And I will nag you all until the bitter end.

I’m about 30% there.  Spread the word!

 

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

Survivor

October 19, 2011

 

I love October for its fall colors.  The greens that slowly turn to oranges, yellows and reds. But today I want to talk about the pink that is all around us.

As you likely know (which is a good thing), this is Breast Cancer Awareness Month.  And, unfortunately, it’s also likely that you know someone whose life has been affected by this terrible disease.

Of the 2.5 million breast cancer survivors in the US right now, one of them is my Aunt Debbie.  My mom’s youngest sister.   A woman who, my entire life, has been nothing but generous and unassuming and modest and lovely.  I’m so grateful that she is allowing me to share her story with you.

Her journey down a road she never wanted to travel entails being diagnosed twice.  The first time, she was 41.  Her kids — my cousins — were 10 and 8.  The breast biopsy was done on a Friday afternoon and she had to wait out the weekend to hear the results.  Since 80% of biopsies turn out to be benign and she was so healthy, she wasn’t worried.  As she tells it now, “It wasn’t going to happen to me.”

Monday.

Results.

Cancer.

Devastation.

Thankfully, early stages.  No lymph nodes impacted.  She was relieved to know that the recommended treatment for her case was a lumpectomy, followed by seven weeks of radiation.

After her treatment, she followed up with her doctor every three months.  Life returned to normal — as much as normal can be at that point.

Fast forward four years, when one such follow-up mammogram indicated the need for biopsies.

This time, she said, “I wasn’t so sure it wouldn’t happen again.  I wasn’t surprised when the biopsy came back showing malignancy.”

Both breasts, though more advanced on the left side.  It was stage 2B/3A.

The doctor definitely recommended a mastectomy of the left breast and said it would not be unreasonable to opt for a bilateral mastectomy.

Aunt Debbie said it was an easy decision.

“At this point I was going all the way.  At the first diagnosis I was so relieved I didn’t need a mastectomy, relieved to not need chemotherapy and relieved to not be put on Tamoxifen.  After the second diagnosis, I wasn’t looking to get out of anything.  This was serious this time.”

And it was.  12 out of 13 lymph nodes tested positive.  This news came several days after the bilateral mastectomy.

My cousins were now 14 and 12.

Then came the question of high dose chemo with stem cell transplant versus regular chemo.  At that time, it had not been proven if a stem cell transplant would give a better prognosis in a case like hers (where there were positive lymph nodes but no metastasis, or spreading to vital organs).  There were clinical trials going on to determine this, and she had the opportunity to join one.

Her doctor felt her prognosis with regular chemo was about 15-20% chance of five-year survival.  With the stem cell transplant, he felt it could go up to 30%.  Up to 30%.  To survive five more years. At 45 years old.  

She opted to go with the high dose chemo and stem cell transplant. This entailed a three-week hospital stay, during which time her entire immune system was completely wiped out and then rebuilt again (through the transplant of her own previously harvested and frozen stem cells).  It put her body through the wringer.

{Interestingly, after the clinical trials were over, it was determined that a stem cell transplant does not improve the prognosis in cases like my aunt’s.  But she says that she’s glad she went through it, regardless, because she knows she did everything possible to fight the cancer.  And her husband, my Uncle Dave, is convinced it made a difference.  It’s something no one can ever know with any science, but she has no regrets.}

So.

13 years have passed.  As have eight surgeries, three rounds of regular chemo, the high dose chemo/stem cell transplant and two courses of radiation.  And my Aunt Debbie is great!

How does she feel today about her ordeal?  In her words:

“Being a breast cancer survivor is so much a part of who I am.  I don’t dwell on it or worry about it.  Each year without recurrence gives more reason to not worry, although I am still on a medication which I may be on for the rest of my life because I am still considered high risk.  But I feel very proud of myself for going through what I did and feel that I am stronger than I ever thought.  At this point, the good things that came out of it:

1.        I know I am strong.

2.       The phrase ‘don’t sweat the small stuff ‘ is so true now.

3.       Support of family and friends is so important — Uncle Dave was my rock!”

 

And my uncle’s perspective:

“Debbie was/is the strongest and bravest person I have ever known through those many years. She stayed strong for the kids and they never really knew how serious it was until years later. Even when given a low survival rate beyond five years, she made it her life’s mission to survive  — to first see her kids graduate, and then maybe someday marry. After 17 years of living with cancer, we rarely think/talk about it now, but for more than ten years, a day never went by without thinking about it.  She is a true hero.”

When I asked her if I could write about her story and if she could jot down some of the key facts of her case, I can say that I truly never knew her prognosis was so negative until now.  I knew about her treatment and her surgeries when they were happening, but I never knew from her outlook, her attitude and her bravery how serious it was and how scared she must have been.  I always looked up to my aunt for what she went through, but hearing her whole story really blew me away.

Now that I’m a mother myself, I can’t imagine how she felt when she had to tell her kids.  Or when she had to wonder what the future held for all of them as a family.

Her journey is truly heroic.  And it’s one with far too many women on the same road — some with better outcomes than others.

This year, 200,000 women will be diagnosed with invasive breast cancer in the US, along with 50,000 non-invasive cases.  40,000 will die from the disease this year alone.  {Source: Susan G Komen Foundation}

I know I’m not telling you anything you haven’t heard.  Or perhaps, unfortunately, you know first-hand from a loved one on some level.  But I think it bears repeating, no?  For my aunt.  And everyone else who has walked in her shoes.

So listen to The Susan G Komen Foundation’s message this month.  Less Talk, More Action, they say.  And they’re right.  Visit them to see what you can do.  I’ll get us started, OK?  I’ll supplement my existing donation to my aunt’s Breast Cancer Walk team by $1 for every comment on this post (up to $100).

Come on, you guys — help me reach the $100 goal.  You just have to type, and I’ll pay.  Not a bad deal.  I so appreciate it.

And if you didn’t think highly enough of my Aunt Debbie already, I’ll leave you with this.  When she sent me the photo below from last Sunday’s Breast Cancer Walk, she closed her email by thinking of all the other women in our family: “If there’s something I DO worry about, it’s my daughter…and my sisters…and my nieces.  My history affects all of you.  Have you had your first mammogram?”

I have, indeed.

Thanks, Aunt Debbie, for showing us so much courage and character.  For being the face of survival.  For becoming an involuntary role model in a fight you never wanted.  Your journey is beyond inspiring.

 

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Crashing the Party

October 13, 2011

I totally owe you guys an update on the basement renovation.  And by “update,” I mean complete and total lack of any progress.  I also mean regression.  And anger.  And approaching the worst case scenario scale of the project.  Because I don’t remember signing up for the floors buckling in my living room — a full story above said basement work.  Or doors that don’t fit their frames anymore on the second floor of the house, accompanied by cracks in the wall.  Or a side of my house fully exposed to the elements.  Without heat.  As we approach the season of dropping temperatures.

But let’s save that for another day.  Who needs bad news going into the weekend?

Because, in the meantime, I’m really excited to have done my first guest posting gig.  Can you believe someone entrusted me to put content on their site ?

But Jennifer over at Take2Mommy did.  How nice is that?

Jennifer is a fabulous blogger and almost New Jersey-ite.  She has the dream gig of working from home, and writes about her adventures raising her two sons.  I’m crashing at her place today to talk about alternate career paths in my future and I’m really grateful that she let me stop by.

So please pop over and show her blog some love.  And pray for my basement renovation and sanity.  Because both are hanging by a thread.

 

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Making Friends With Math

October 10, 2011

Two things that have never mixed well:  Math and me.

It started with Mrs. DeBlock’s eighth grade Algebra class.  Up until that point in my life, I was always a great student without putting forth any effort.  Then my brain collided with Algebra.  It was the first time I could not understand something being taught in the classroom.  This was a totally foreign feeling.  And I hated it.  Unfortunately, my disdain and fear of math never really went away.  My years of college prep classes included torturous runs in Geometry, Trigonometry and Statistics — I hated each one more than the last.  My mind, it seemed, was not cut out for math.  I convinced myself that was OK — I wouldn’t really need it.  My life’s work would be word and language-driven.

And it has been.  But, still.  Even as an adult, I can’t escape math.  My inadequacy has always haunted me and leaves me easily intimidated at times.  In business settings, going through necessary financial discussions and equations — I always felt like I wasn’t on top of my game.  And forget about it when I have to someday help my kids with their Algebra or Trig.

The point is, I needed math to be my friend more than I ever thought.  And, like many other things, I’m determined not to pass this deficiency or fear on to my kids.

So I was intrigued last week when I was invited to attend a press preview for the new Math Midway exhibit at the Liberty Science Center in Jersey City.  I took my two year-old (figuring she and I have the same math acumen) and went to check it out.

I was really happy to see the approach this exhibit took with math — which was both highly interactive and rooted in real-world examples that kids of all ages could relate to.

The best part?  The kids don’t really realize they are dealing with math in most of the activities.  Like here.

Do you think she knows she’s creating a tessellation of monkeys?  Nah.  {Neither did I, FYI.} To her, it’s just fun magnets that fit together in a pattern.

Or here.

I can assure you that she doesn’t realize there were 11 steps to creating a Tetraxis with these mats.

I think she was somewhere around step three.  But owning it.

Or here.

Bending mirrors at various angles create different images.  Hey — I like any math that makes my legs look four times longer.  Where was that in high school?

And, my personal, way-over-our-heads favorite.  You start with this.

 

Crank it through the machine with your favorite math attributes.  Cube it, square it — you decide.

It was about here that my anxiety flashbacks started to kick in.  And then we got this.

Obviously.

* * *

One of the exhibit coordinators put it best:  “Math is the science of why.”  And if your kids ask “Why?” half as much as mine do, then the reason to get them into math at a young age is pretty compelling.  That, and they should avoid my math fear hangover at all costs.

So, thanks, Liberty Science Center, for showing this old gal how math can be a friend after all.

 

{I was not compensated for this post.  I received complimentary admission to the exhibit for the purposes of a review.  All opinions, as you would expect, are entirely my own.}

 

 

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Filed Under: Entertainment, Places Near and Far, Reviews 6 Comments

Party Planner For Hire

October 5, 2011

I have read several times over the years that October 5 is the date with the most American birthdays.  Mostly because of New Year’s Eve.  You know, people liquored up, jumping under the covers in the chill of December.  And voila, a baby arrives around October 5.

My husband is one of these babies.  And now I have unfortunate mental images of my in-laws on a cold winter’s night that I’d prefer to block out forever.

But anyway.  Today is my husband’s 16th annual 29th birthday.

I like to tease him about his age.  Not just because he’s older than I am (though this is most of the reason).  But also because he doesn’t care.  And because he looks about 34 and acts feels about 27. Which is probably why he doesn’t care.

In honor of his birthday, I won’t pick on him.  Much.

I’ll instead say how grateful I am that he puts up with me.  Which is the purest truth.

And what better way to show him how loved he is on this special day than by taking the family out for — wait for it — Back to School Night.  Because nothing says It’s a Party like cramming the halls of a pre-school with your kids right as the bedtime/meltdown point on the clock approaches.

Except for one thing:  It was a parents-only event.  Which I somehow overlooked.  Somehow.  In my Type A-ness, this kind of big detail escaped me.  Don’t ask me why I thought kids were supposed to attend this thing.  It makes no sense at their age.

My brain should not be donated to science.  Clearly.

So, there we were in the parking lot of the pre-school, with this revelation upon us — the birthday man, me and two kids who weren’t supposed to be there.  To really put the evening’s party effect over the top, I went into the school alone and he circled the neighborhood with the kids in the car until my 30 minutes of pre-school mingling were over.

Yes, he’s a lucky man.  It’s true.

But don’t you worry.  I’ll take him out for dinner and copious drinks one night soon.  So that we can catch up on other exciting things — like why our living room floor is now buckling from the endless basement renovation.

And in the meantime, we had cake.  Baked by my awesome sous chefs and me.

There was palpable anticipation as they waited by the oven.  And, during which time, I began to wonder if I should have eaten my weight in uncooked cake batter.

 

Then there was the frosting process.  We might have eaten more than we used.

 

And, if you’re four years old, it’s important to be a good cake eater.  Like a world record setting, where-the-hell-did-that-piece-of-cake-go eater.

 

So, as you can see, all was not lost.  Our kids got to cruise the neighborhood after dark to check out Halloween lights.  And our son showed us his future in competitive cake eating.

My husband?  He totally rolled with it.  Which is what makes him the best.

Happy Birthday, P.  I promise to give you a proper celebration that doesn’t entail construction paper, toddler meltdowns and wife dipshittery real soon.

 

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Filed Under: Family, Holidays 11 Comments

Money in Flames: Parking Edition

October 3, 2011

 

I’m thinking of starting a series here called How to Set Money On Fire.  Maybe I will. Because, sometimes — regrettably — my husband and I are better at this than we should be.

Don’t get me wrong.  We don’t look to waste money.  Nor are we sitting on a gold mine where these things go unnoticed.  It’s just that, at times, it would probably be faster to light money on fire than to go through the headache of how it was put to waste.  Like taking a three year-old to Disney World who only wants to ride the {free} monorail around the perimeter of the property — after we’ve already paid in limbs for park admission.

That kind of stuff.

And we have today’s example:  Commuter Parking.

You may remember past references I’ve made to the absurd wait lists here in my town.  Namely, for the town pool and for commuter parking at the train station.

We’ve conquered the pool wait list, thanks to my craftiness.  Now, the parking.

This issue directly impacts my husband, not me.  And I would be more passionate about it if I still commuted.  But, six months out, that morning routine is still fresh enough in my memory that I can offer full empathetic rage to P about where he can park his car for the privilege of boarding NJ Transit.

Here are the facts:

1)  We have been on the wait list for 18 months to get a permit for the commuter lot.  A resident permit.  In the town where we live and pay taxes.

2)  Without said permit, there are several equally unattractive options:

–Walk the mile each way from our home to the station.  Which sounds all noble/peaceful/eco-friendly/pick your adjective here.  But the truth is that we are not people who allow enough time for this in the morning.  We know our limits.  It would be a disaster.

–Arrive at the station early enough to purchase a $5 non-permit spot from a police officer who sits there every morning for this purpose.  Sounds easy enough, right?

No. Here’s why.

It’s a secret as to exactly how many spots the officer will sell each day — depending, he says, on factors like snow or construction.  Or, it seems, the mood of his sergeant — based on whether or not he had chicken pot pie the night before.  It’s that random.  One morning, 50 spots for sale.  The next, 15.  You have to factor in other variables like rain (fewer people walk, spots go quickly), day of the week (easier on Fridays, crazy on Mondays) and time of year (winter is harder than summer).  And the only way to know if the officer has anything left is if his lights are flashing (that means sold out).  Of course, you can’t see this until you’ve already sped at an illegally fast pace pulled into the lot and passed up your next option, which is the following.

–Pay $5 to park at the gas station up the street.  The one that’s between home and the train station — and to which P must backtrack after seeing the unfortunate Sold Out lights on the officer’s car.  Then you basically leave your keys with a random gas attendant, throw him $5 and sprint for the train, while waving nicely at the officer with the Sold Out lights so that he might cut you a break someday when you forget to feed the meter at Starbucks.  Hypothetically, of course.

It’s an awesome way to start the day.  Totally not stressful.

So you can imagine my husband’s joy when he received a call last week that the town had a spot available for him.

At the secondary lot.

The secondary lot?

Yeah.

You have to go through Parking Purgatory to get to Parking Heaven in our town.  And we’re told we should expect to spend another four to five years waiting in purgatory.

Here’s the best part:  The secondary lot is way further away than the gas station option.  And obviously further away than paying the parking cop at the train station.

There is absolutely nothing beneficial about this.  So we’ll just pass on this lot and wait for our name to come up for the main lot.  OK?

NO.  Not OK.  Presumably, the same municipal maniacs who preside over the town pool nonsense have also stated that we must take the purgatory spot to stay on the list for the main lot.

And herein lies the setting of the money on fire.

Because, again — knowing how we are and how close we cut things — the likelihood is pretty slim that my husband is going to get to the purgatory lot in time to walk over and make his train.  Especially once winter comes.  He will very likely just pull into the train station, pray that the Sold Out lights aren’t flashing on the cop car and make it easy on himself.  And I can’t blame him.  Even with that shiny new purgatory lot permit sticker in the window.

So.  We’ll be paying for the purgatory lot, which we now view as a Waiting Fee, while P also spends $5/day either with the cop or the random gas station dude.

Money.  On fire.

We’re not proud of it, but it’s the ugly truth.

Maybe he should reconsider walking.

And if you guys have any tales of Money in Flames, now would be a good time to throw them out there — just so I feel a little better.

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Filed Under: Money in Flames, New to Town, That Which Drives Me Crazy 8 Comments

The Untold Terror of Halloween

October 2, 2011

Last year was our first year living in the suburbs for Halloween.  And we totally underestimated what a big deal it was.  On several levels.

Not this year.  We’ll be ready.  Bring it, I say.

But before I can join my neighbors in Christmas-level outdoor decorations and buying enough candy to feed a small country, I have to get the basics done.

That means costumes for my kids.  Which, it turns out, is the real terror behind Halloween.

Because, at ages four and two, they have definite opinions about their costumes.  Which would be fine if said opinions did not change, on average, every 7-9 minutes.  And were not accompanied by numerous public tantrums.

I’ve tried several strategies to take the pain out of this process.  For example, I don’t ask open-endedly anymore “So, what do you want to be for Halloween?”  Because that’s just signing up for pain, coated in confusion and sprinkled with disappointment.  When given this free-wheeling positioning, my kids will either choose obscure characters or overly specific creatures {e.g., not just a dinosaur, but a purple Brachiosaurus} whose likenesses are impossible to purchase.  They are even more impossible to recreate, particularly if you have my distinct lack of artistic vision coupled with zero crafting execution.  Or desire.

We’ve got to keep the economy running, people.  I’m buying costumes.  There will be plenty of years to make them.

I also try to steer their choices, so that we are dealing with something that 1) I can easily purchase {see above} and 2) is not totally inappropriate {nothing trampy for my daughter or violent for my son}.

See, I’m all reasonable and practical.  Let them choose, but help manage their choices so it’s not overwhelming.  Or annoying.

Let me tell you how well my strategies worked today during a few stops at costume stores: Epic fail.

They were driving me crazy.  One minute, they each had four costume choices in their hands.  The next, they wanted nothing.

The feigned excitement in my voice became absurd with each new suggestion:

“What about The Backyardigans, you guys?  What do you mean you don’t like them?  You begged for four episodes at breakfast.”

“Oh look, a cowboy and cowgirl!  No, it doesn’t have a horse but we can pretend, and — Guys?  Where are you?”

“Pirates are awesome!  How about pirates?  Yes, there are girl pirates, but their skirts should be longer.”

“The Cookie Monster!  You’ll love this. Remember, you love cookies.  It’s blue and furry — and probably comes with cookies in the sleeves.  Come on!”

Then I got it in my head that it would be fun to have them in some sort of pairing.  You know, Mickey and Minnie.  Red Riding Hood and The Wolf.  A baker and a cupcake.

Nobody was biting.  So to speak.

Then, my kids just got lame with their suggestions.  Or maybe they were hungry.

“Oh, you found one?!  A banana??  Really?  Well, no.  No, because, that’s just, well, not very fun and you’ll thank me later, quite honestly.”

I mean, come on, kids.  We have to represent here.

But, hey — they are children.  They should absolutely enjoy Halloween and feel some ownership/excitement about their choices.  So I just want them to pick something that they will still like 28 days from now.

Time is ticking.  I’m looking at the costume websites with their SOLD OUT red letters becoming more and more prominent.  Because the catalogs started coming in July.  Right before the Christmas stuff started showing up in August.

So we’ll regroup and try again in a few days.  But I have a few threats ideas in the meantime.

Threat Idea 1:  Garden Gnomes

They are creepy as Hell.  They totally scream Halloween.  Or The Full Monty, depending on your frame of reference.  They also scream “My mom chose this for her own entertainment and I had no say.”  Which is what it may come to if they don’t pull through with something soon.

Threat Idea 2:  Seed of Chucky and {not pictured} Bride of Chucky

Yeah, I know — totally and entirely inappropriate.  But let this be a warning about my Halloween sanity meter.

* * *

But.  Guess what?  We did make one key purchase and I’m so excited about it.

The dog’s costume.

It’s true.  I dress up Señor most years.  He was pretty pissed the time I got him a sombrero and cape and dressed him as, well, a señor.  Sort of.

And he’s still getting over last year’s hot dog gig.  But he was totally the hit of the neighborhood, even if we didn’t speak for a while afterwards.  He was all blah, blah, blah, animal cruelty, blah, blah, I want bacon, blah, blah.

 

But, today, amidst my kids’ indecisive insanity, my husband spotted a great dog costume.  We tried it on Señor this afternoon and he seemed pretty OK with it.  I can’t wait to show you.

But not until the I dress the small humans here for trick-or-treating.  Even if they end up with banana costumes.

 

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Filed Under: Holidays, That Which Drives Me Crazy 12 Comments