Gratitude, Tradition & Pie

November 24, 2011

I am knee-deep in all kinds of goodies and food prep.  And I am wondering, honestly, how did Thanksgiving get here already?

I feel like it was just yesterday I was hatching plots to gain admission to my town pool for the summer.

And yet, here I am, helping my friends in town find a way off the Thanksgiving wait list for the highly in-demand Williams-Sonoma Gravy Starter.  {This was my first exposure to the WS Gravy Starter Scandal — it’s not pretty.  Add this to the list of reasons why I won’t be making the turkey.}

Here I am, wondering who the secret local Extreme Couponer is, because she clearly hoarded all of the heavy cream within a five mile radius.  It’s not nice to put my pies in jeopardy.

And here I am, making a tray of appetizers for tomorrow’s dinner, complete with a friendly PSA that any food item stuffed with goat cheese and wrapped in prosciutto is sent from Heaven {figs, in this case}.

So, with the holiday season about to unfold, I want to take a deep breath and soak it in.  I want to say I won’t get stressed out with holiday logistics and preparations.  I want to say I will remember every day to be grateful.  And I want to say I won’t eat too much pie.  But, try as I may, I’m guessing that all of these things probably won’t pan out quite as smoothly as I hope.

But I will do my very best to create new memories for my kids and show them what the holidays are about.  To remember those less fortunate and those who are missing loved ones.  To not sweat the small stuff.  To keep some perspective.

Thanksgiving headgear: Check

 

This weekend I’ll enjoy the small but fun details that make traditions in a family.  Like eating my mom’s famous Pumpkin Chiffon Pie and playing super-competitive/out for blood rounds of Catch Phrase, complete with a tournament bracket construct and accompanying headgear.  And I’ll think about what traditions to begin with my kids, so that they don’t forever associate Thanksgiving Week with “that time when Mom & Dad went apeshit on the general contractor.”

I’m snarky on the whole, as you may know, but I’m a sap at this time of year.  I don’t wish this season away for a moment.

So here’s to you and yours this Thanksgiving — I hope you have a holiday filled with love, tradition and good pie.

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Money in Flames: Power Outage Edition

November 1, 2011

Up until Hurricane Irene, I never had a discussion with anyone in my life about the importance of the following:

–Sump pumps with battery back ups

–Sump pumps, in any capacity

–French drains

–Generators

I guess I was living the Polyanna life all these years.  But there I was this morning, at my two year-old’s play group, talking with four other moms about all of this.  And let me tell you, we were all terribly well-versed on these topics.  More so than any of us wanted to be.

Not just because of Irene and the related problems she caused in August — but also because of last weekend’s insane October snow storm.

It all sounded so quaint and fun at first.  A little snow before Halloween — how sweet.  I passed around the projected accumulation chart at happy hour on Friday night — because nothing screams “let’s party” like a weather graphic.  And we all had a good laugh, in a mocking sort of way.

But when it arrived, this little storm was distinctly not sweet.  Or  little.  Or fun.  At all.

The trees, still heavy with leaves at this time of year, snapped everywhere from the weight of the snow and ice.  Roads were blocked.  Lines down.  And yes, power out.

For the second time in 60 days, we faced a multi-day power outage.  This was also known as my Amish Training.  Or my Laura Ingalls Wilder reenactment.  Either way, not areas of strength for me.  Because I am not a fan of weaving at the loom by candlelight.  Or, more desperately, having to read Us Weekly a riveting book with a flashlight.  How am I supposed to hold my wine if I have to also hang onto my trashy tabloid magazine book and a lighting source?  How did the Ingalls family do it?

I guess they had those giant lanterns.  But since I didn’t, you can see the dilemma I faced.  Without enough hands, obviously the reading went by the wayside so I could safely hold my wine in the dark.  In the name of survival.

And, if you were ever wondering which is worse — a power outage in the heat of the summer or in the cold of fake-winter-in-October — guess what?  It’s your lucky day, because I am now qualified to tell you.

In the cold is way worse, especially if your heat is in any way reliant on electricity.  Oh, and super especially if you have a little something like a gaping hole in the side of your house  from an endless basement renovation, which allows all of the freezing air right in.  {Have I mentioned the basement renovation before?  I have, haven’t I?}

Good times, my friends, good times.

What’s that?  Why didn’t we get a generator after Irene?

Well, we were simply waiting for the electrical upgrade in the basement to be finished.  We didn’t realize that 1) this work might not happen until 2017 and 2) it would snow like crazy in October.

So there was only one thing on fire in the cold dark night:  Our money.  As in, the $200 of groceries I had just purchased that were spoiling in the refrigerator.  Because, surely I didn’t think our cute October snowstorm would mean ultimately sacrificing fresh meat and dairy products.  Trust me, I would never knowingly endanger cheese.  Or chilled white wine.  Or — for the love of all that is holy — an unopened pint of Edy’s Slow Churned Mint Chip.

But, there I was — just about 60 days after the last time I did this — emptying out the refrigerator into my trash can after the power was restored.

Money.  On fire.

And snow in October.  I think it’s going to be a long winter, folks.

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The Better Bermuda Triangle

September 28, 2011

 

Hey, is this thing on?  It seems more time went by than I had realized since my last post.

That’s what happens when you get stuck in The Bermuda Triangle.

“The Bermuda Triangle, also known as the Devil’s Triangle, is a region in the western part of the North Atlantic Ocean where a number of aircraft and surface vessels allegedly disappeared under mysterious circumstances.” {source: Wikipedia}

That’s the traditional, widely-accepted definition.  Or you can use this one:

“The Bermuda Triangle, also known as Getaway Paradise, is a region in the western part of the North Atlantic Ocean where sleep-deprived adults vacationing without their children disappear somewhere between three distinct points:  Drinks, Spa and Reading.” {source:  Fordeville}

 

Regrettably, I’ve returned.  Re-entry to reality was tough.

Where is my drink on the beach that shows up from a mere wave of the hand?

Where is my daily massage?

And, why, for the love of all that is holy, does my room key not work as a form of payment in the real world?  I’ve tried.  Nobody will take it.  This sucks.

But I’m happy to report that My Bermuda Triangle was downright dreamy.  Truly.  For starters, I totally dodged the falling satellite debris.  Add in my husband, great friends, gorgeous weather and you really can’t go wrong.  It’s amazing what you can do in a day with no agenda.  Sleep in.  Eat room service for breakfast, with an ocean view.  Run on a treadmill without a child hanging off your leg.  Get pampered at the spa.  Read magazines to your heart’s content.  Have drinks delivered on the beach.  Repeat.

Now.  Since there has been much trepidation and fear about The Bermuda Triangle over the years, I’m here to tell you that my version — The Better Bermuda Triangle — is worth demystifying.  Here’s a quick look at each point.

Drinks:  This may have been the most stressful decision I had to make over the course of the trip.  Repeatedly, of course.  Because, sometimes, it takes a while to get your tropical palate back.  For me?  It was a combination of wine, pina coladas, and, by night, the ever-fabulous espresso martini. Because a potently smooth cocktail + delicious caffeine boost = my personal version of heaven.  Which may not surprise you.  And this cocktail is an ongoing tradition in Fordeville, particularly with our friends who joined us on this trip.  Try it one day — any season — you’ll thank me.

Spa:  I think I can sum it up by quoting my massage therapist:  “Uh.  You need a lot of work.  What are you carrying around all the time?”  Sort of a loaded question, I thought — but I assumed she didn’t want me to turn this into a psych session.  Two massages later with Let — who was a 95 lb, Asian female version of Chuck Norris in terms of ass-kicking — and my back feels like a million bucks.  Which is almost what it cost me to procure her services.  And with my spine newly intact, I was able to take on arduous tasks like sitting upright for a sunset cruise.

Reading:  I’m happy to report that my vacation allowed me to get fully up to speed on important global issues.  Like the Kardashian wedding.  And the top picks for the fall TV line-up.  Once my mind was sufficiently challenged by these pressing matters, I made the questionable decision to tackle my backlog of home/life/parenting magazines.  Feeling a false sense of DIY confidence that was surely fueled by my twelfth-teenth pina colada, I dog-eared the ridiculous:

  • How to make realistic Halloween bats to hang from my front porch (screw you, Martha).
  • How to organize that junk drawer “once and for all” (further underscoring my ongoing love/hate relationship withReal Simple).
  • And, of course, how to stop those toddler temper tantrums before they start (Parenting).
  • Not to mention the countless overly-ambitious recipes that I’ll never really cook, despite their promises to make my life easier.

Because, under the harsh and sober light of New Jersey, without the reflection of the Atlantic Ocean bouncing off the pages, I can see that I’ve probably set myself up for failure.  That’s OK.  I’ve been looking to increase my recycling contributions — so perhaps we’ll just forget all about those magazine-driven ambitions and literally kick them to the curb.

 

That said, everything wasn’t all palm trees and sunshine.  I did have to contend with some mishaps.  There was, after all, a total wi-fi failure at the resort.  As in, I had no connectivity for 24 hours.  You may think that’s the very definition of vacation.  Not me.  I get all twitchy if I have to completely unplug.  And how the hell was I supposed to track the falling satellite debris without an Internet connection?  How was I to tweet enviable photos of my beach views?

So there was that.  And also this.

In a rare moment of connectivity, I pulled up my Starbucks app.  You know, just out of curiosity.  And this crazy message appeared that I’ve never seen before.  What do you mean, no stores were found in my area?  You’re Starbucks.  I’m on Earth.  How is this possible?

Thankfully, this crisis was fixed by the swift delivery of an espresso martini.  You use what coping skills you have, right?  Now I know what it’s like to be on Survivor.

Those were the only tragedies of the trip.  So I’d say we fared well, on the whole.  And nobody threw up — setting a new Fordeville record.

* * *

I hope you can now see that The Bermuda Triangle doesn’t have to be a scary place.  I’m glad I was able to take this trip as a public service — so that millions of prospective travelers know not to fear this much-maligned region.

Take it from me.  You’ll be fine.  Just be careful re-assimilating to reality — take baby steps.

Now I’m off to see if I can use my room key at the pub down the street.


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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

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

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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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. 

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Filed Under: Family, Food & Drink, Places Near and Far 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.

 

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Filed Under: Borderline Neuroses, Family, Food & Drink, Places Near and Far, To-Do Lists Extraordinaire

Project Distraction

June 13, 2011

OK.  Another week of trying to work through the loss of my good friend Jen.  I’m trying to hold it together but am only doing so with varying (and wildly unpredictable) degrees of success.  I told you last time that my punishing new workout is keeping my mind occupied for one crazy hour, several times a week — even at the expense of other able-bodied tasks, like walking.  I have found that some other things also tend to work in keeping me distracted:

  • My kids shouting at each other.  Thankfully, this happens often.  I’d like to think they are doing this for my benefit — but the truth is that the lure of ensuring order, at all costs, on The Island of Sodor is really what drives them.  I facilitate so many negotiations and trades among Thomas, Percy, James and others all day that I could probably build a credible resume for an international diplomacy career.
  • Grocery shopping.  Seriously.  I don’t know why, but it makes me feel better. Except for the horrific soundtracks that may medically predispose one to clinical depression.  Anne Murray and Sheena Easton, I’m looking at you.
  • My fury toward NBC for allowing Ann Curry to replace Meredith Vieira as morning anchor.  My husband and I have several theories about this, the front runner being that, for years, NBC has actually been playing a game of “Beat the Clock” to kill off Ann before they were forced to promote her.  Or until she learned to read the news.  So they sent her to the forefront of every possible dangerous story — from the ridge of erupting volcanoes and pretty much all natural disasters, to in-person conversations with Angelina Jolie.  Somehow, like a cat, she prevailed in this ultimate game of Survivor.  So my mornings are even crappier now that I have to get all acclimated with GMA as my replacement show.  Because I can’t watch this woman.

YouTube Preview ImageSee?  I’m distracted.  So that’s good.

I was only recently allowed to come out of witness protection for my opinions on Oprah, so I won’t further endanger myself by belaboring the Ann Curry point.  Instead, let’s go back to the grocery shopping — from which an interesting development has occurred.  I’ve become a Trader Joe’s convert. 

A convert?! 

{Gasps all around.]

How did you not love Trader Joe’s? 

Yeah.  I get that a lot.

For a long time, I didn’t feel the TJs love.  Because, plain and simple, I can’t do all of my shopping there.  For all of the original TJs treats that are sublime, I don’t want to make a separate trip to buy other essentials that they don’t carry.  It’s annoying.  Do they think that people just sit around and eat delicious appetizers, exotic yogurts and yet never need a roll of paper towels?  I appreciate the bargain wine selection — I do.  But, dude (or, Joe, I guess) — I need to buy diapers for my kid.  And I don’t want to grow them from flax seed.

However. 

TJs is the closest grocery store to my house, and so I’ve recently found myself walking its aisles more and more as part of Project Distraction.  And with each trip, I become just a little bit more enamored. 

I know.  I’m really late to the TJs lovefest.  So I need your help getting my cult credentials up to par.  I’ll tell you my favorite finds if you tell me yours. 

Sea Salt Brownies.  Sweet Jesus, these are good.  The culinary sea salt rage seemed a little overboard to me for a while until it entered the chocolate realm.  Now I wonder how I ever ingested anything chocolate without sea salt.  You complete me.

Marinara Sauce.  Shhhhh.  I’m supposed to make kick-ass homemade tomato sauce like my mom taught me.  Like a good partially-Italian girl from Jersey.  And I do — a few times a year.  But for quick fixes, I need good jarred stuff and this is my new favorite.  Also pretty low in calories.  See ya, Classico.

Whole Wheat Pizza Dough.  The current mutual love of my kids and me at dinnertime.  99 cents.  20 minutes to pizza.  Hello.

Chocolate Covered Banana Slices.  Frozen deliciousness.  Don’t let the packaging fool you — I don’t waste these on my kids, since they have zero appreciation for the sublime effect of dark chocolate smothering their fruit.  It’s all mine and I hide it in the depths of the freezer.  Behind the frozen cauliflower decoy bag.

Mini Chicken Tacos.  My secret weapon for easy entertaining.  Always an appetizer hit.  Crack open some salsa and/or guacamole and you’re good to go.

Classic Hummus.  So much better than other brands.  Creamier, more flavorful.  Love.

Frozen Turkey Meatballs.  Back under the category of “Shameful Italian Shortcuts” (see also, Marinara Sauce) — really good stuff.

Honorable Mention:  Bucket of Chocolate Chip Cookies.  You know the ones.  My husband loves these.  He could eat the whole container himself.  I think they’re good but not special.  But I have to promise him I’ll buy them during my TJs wandering sessions, so they make the cut.  Sort of.

Also: This list does not include wine.  Because I am still conducting thorough and proper due diligence on TJs’ offerings and I wouldn’t want to speak prematurely.  But definitely let me know if there’s a bottle I should move up the list.  You know, in the name of research.

So, TJs enthusiasts, hit me up with your Best Of list.  I know you have one.  And I know you want to share it.

{I was not compensated for this post.  All opinions are my own.}

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Filed Under: Food & Drink, Friends 20 Comments
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