Always a Party

May 30, 2011

Ah, Memorial Day.  The unofficial beginning of summer. 

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

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

—–

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

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

The Future Grand Marshall

 

A little concerned about catching the candy from her seat

 —–

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

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

—–

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

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

—–

Then:  Begin consuming holiday cocktails just after noon. 

Now:  Begin consuming holiday cocktails just after noon. 

—–

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

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

—–

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

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

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

—–

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

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

Taking the Cake

May 26, 2011

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But back to the prep.  

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

Bad Romance

May 16, 2011

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

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

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

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

Like this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Luckily, I’m smarter than that.  Mostly.

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

Again.  For real, this time.

As soon as this jar is finished.

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Filed Under: Food & Drink 24 Comments

Four

April 25, 2011

How can he be four? 

And how can I get upset that he’s already four?  What will I do when he’s five or, say, 18?  I’m going to embarrass the crap out of him with my sappy ways.  Poor kid.

Here he was four days old.

One year.

Two years.

Three years.

What’s he like at four? 

He loves transportation of all kinds, but is beyond obsessed with trains.  If you don’t speak railway, don’t even bother talking to him.  Now that every engine from the Island of Sodor lives here with us, and I can finally distinguish between a steam and diesel train, I can keep up.  Good thing, because Train Rehab is not cheap.

Recently, he has begun to love dinosaurs as well.  This morning, he taught us all about the club-shaped tail of certain carnivores.  In detail.  Before my coffee.  But I love it.  And I’m secretly hoping the dinosaurs will unionize and take over the railway — perhaps eat the trains or just step on them.

He eats like most kids his age, which means an aversion to protein and a distinct pro-dipping/condiment position.  And a love of all nugget items.

He laughs easily and yet also turns on a dime.  He’s sensitive, tentative and studious.  I hope he’ll grow up to the be a solid Reformed Nerd — you know, smart with a geeky-is-cool edge.  I was just geeky, no edge.

Or, he can grow up however he wants.  That’s fine too.  As long as it doesn’t happen too quickly — that’s my only request.

This year, he shared his birthday with Easter Sunday.  That’s hard to explain.  Yes, it’s your birthday and the day we celebrate Jesus’ resurrection.  The streamers are for you.  The church-going is for him.  The bunny with eggs thing is just odd but there’s candy *and* birthday cake.  Got it?

So we had 30 people here for the dual celebration.  I love entertaining as long as everything goes smoothly.  Which it never does.  Then I’m sort of the maniac hostess with the eternally re-filled glass of wine.

But, overall, it went well.  I did a lot to prepare but I forgot one key thing for the egg hunt.

Anything here look amiss to you?

Baskets.  None.  We had a classy egg hunt with plastic Target bags.  I do everything with elegance.

Speaking of which, and as most moms know, it’s not really a holiday until a child vomits.  Luckily my daughter allowed us to keep our family winning streak intact.  Thankfully, it was nothing like the Fordeville Christmas Vomitfest — I think she was just on the swings too long.  She bounced back.  Her pretty new dress, not so much. 

Here she is before.  Don’t worry, I have no after photo. 

My sister-in-law took this picture.  I love it.  My daughter and niece, definitely scheming about how to win the egg hunt.  I think I heard one of them say “Sweep the leg!  Finish him!”

And now, the moment of truth.  Project Stegosaurus Birthday Cake. 

I really struggled with whether or not to post this comically awful result.  But, hey, I owe you guys this much. 

First, the prep.  Which was extensive, and may explain the end product.

Now, a sneak peek with the promised look of confusion on my son’s face (subtitle: “WTF is with my cake?  Is that an armadillo?”)

Aaaand, the close up.  Go easy on me.  I tried.  Hard.

That’s right — you can call me Cake Boss. 

Or Unpaid Cake Intern.  Or just Crazy Person Who Will Purchase Cupcakes Next Year. 

And yes, I’m available for weddings and anniversaries too.

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Filed Under: Entertainment, Family, Food & Drink, Holidays 25 Comments

A Cake, A Guest and A List

April 22, 2011

Happy Friday, everyone!

I am knee-deep in preparations for this Sunday, which is both Easter and my son’s fourth birthday.  For this combination of  events, I will be hosting 30 people at my house.  In full disclosure, this stresses me out and makes me an unlikeable, certifiable maniac for the other poor souls who live with me here in Fordeville. 

Adding to my stress is the seemingly minor request made by the birthday boy.  Ever attentive to specifics, he has asked for not just a dinosaur cake, but a green stegosaurus cake with red plates on its back.  Righto.  Good thing I happen to have that exact configuration handy. 

As if. 

I can cook — but I’m not what I’d call a stellar baker or cake decorator.  So, amidst the various other preparations for Sunday, I’ll be somewhere between laughing at myself and throwing a cake pan against the wall within the next 48 hours.  My money is on the latter. 

I can’t promise any photos of the final product, but let me take a moment to share two photos of what my cake will not remotely resemble.  I will also go through this exercise with my son tomorrow, just to manage his expectations.

Cake I Can’t Make #1:  This is way out of my league on so many levels.  Cole is a lucky boy to have someone create this for him.  Cole does not live here. {photo:  www.cakecentral.com}

 

Cake I Can’t Make #2:  A tad more realistic but still — repeat after me — not going to happen.  See that priceless look of joy on this child’s face?  How sweet.  If you get a final cake photo from me, it will likely include a look on my son’s face of utter confusion and resentment because his cake looks like a chihuahua.  Or a generic orb.  {photo:  www.themeparty.com}

 

This might be a good segue to tell you about my guest post today over at Theta Mom, where I discuss my leap from corporate minion to stay at home mom.  It occurs to me that, had I made this transition years ago, I may not be in this specific state of panic over said stegosaurus cake.  Anyway.  I’m really grateful to have contributed this guest post — and if you’ve been around for a while, you know I think so highly of the Theta Mom community.  So, please, check it out.

And I can’t leave you for the weekend without updating you on the intense town pool wait list scenario.  Thanks to everyone for all of the support during this trying time (and also for the additional conniving suggestions on how to climb the list — you guys are a crafty bunch).  I’m pleased to report that I did not have to resort to many of my proposed, borderline unethical tactics to secure a spot.  It appears that enough people died, went bankrupt, moved away or suffered from abject social alienation to relinquish their memberships to my advantage.  Score.

Here’s how the big news went down.

My husband showed up in the family room waving an envelope in his hands the other night.  I was on glass number two or three of red wine after a long day of chasing down the stegosaurus cake pan.  The envelope, with its return address from the town’s Recreation Office, produced total anxiety; I swear, we both felt like it was a college admissions flashback.

Me:  “It’s so soon.  I don’t know if that’s good or bad.  I’m thinking good, especially after the Caddyshack Baby Ruth story I told at the pre-school bake sale to scare them off.  I had a prime audience.”

Him:  “Yeah, but the envelope is not fat.  Remember with college admissions, the fatter the envelope, the better.”

Me:  “Crap.  You might be right.  But do colleges even send letters by mail now?  It’s probably all electronic.  Did you know there’s a writing section on the SATs and now and the scoring system is different?”

Him:  “What are you talking about?”

Me:  “Why couldn’t they have the writing section when I was in high school?  I would have fared so much better.  My whole life could have been different.”

Him:  “How many glasses of wine did you have?  Open the fucking envelope.”

And then.

I love that they are so aware of the bullshit tension they’ve created, they actually positioned the letter to open exactly as I photographed it above — leading with a big, dorky Congratulations.  Like I passed some character screen (we all know that would have been dicey at best) or a written exam. 

But whatever.  I’m in.  I’m #251 no more.

Let the summer begin!  As soon as I figure out how to make this stegosaurus cake.

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Filed Under: Blogging Cluelessness, Entertainment, Family, Food & Drink, Holidays, New to Town 18 Comments

A Year in Suburbia

March 31, 2011

{Photo: www.ohdeedoh.com}

This week marks a full year since we packed up our city life and moved to the suburbs. And not only did we live to tell, but you know what?  I love it.  It’s true.

Most of the time. 

However, after 365 days in this new world, I’m here to report there are still a few things that I could do without:

  • The reliance on a car:  I miss walking all over the place.  Of course, I can walk in the suburbs — it’s permitted — but the truth is that the car is usually the more realistic option.  And along with that comes the endless in-and-out-of-the-car seats nonsense that makes me just a little more insane every day.
  • Lack of anonymity:  In the city, there wasn’t any small talk or chit-chat with strangers.  And that was fine by me.  I’m terrible with small talk.  It was perfectly acceptable to stand in your building’s lobby and stare straight ahead while waiting for the elevator.  I did have some very sweet, older widows who lived on my floor, and it was nice that they stopped to check in on me when I was very pregnant (though there was a certain “Rosemary’s Baby” vibe that I tried not to overblow) — but they stayed largely out of my business.  I’ve since had to re-learn social graces like inviting someone in when they knock on my door.  The week we moved into our house, several families stopped by with trays of  cookies and cakes to welcome us.  I have to be honest — it freaked me out a bit.  And as I reluctantly opened my door to them, all I could wonder was if I now have to bake every time someone moves into the neighborhood.
  • No quick errands:  At times, I miss the corner bodega more than I can express.  Like when I just need a can of beans to finish a recipe.  No problem — I’ll just walk to the corner and…nevermind.  Now it’s back in the car, finding parking, going through the whole big grocery store.  It  just takes longer than it’s worth.  {That’s right, I don’t have much patience.  I’m not really working on it but I will own it.}
  • New Jersey Transit and the PATH Train:  They are the 8th and 9th circles of Hell, respectively.  I never thought I could miss the NYC MTA so damn much.  It’s a well-oiled machine by comparison.
  • Suburban Starbucks:  Yes, I have a Starbucks problem.  You know it and I know it.  Now, if we’re all done judging me for my overpriced coffee habit, can we just weep in solidarity over the hoops I must jump through to secure this beverage?  Before, I walked to the corner.  Now, I drive (just a mile, but a drive nonetheless).  I circle for parking.  I pay for parking.  And I have to make small talk while waiting for my coffee.  I really think there’s a viable business model in a Starbucks Addict Premium Delivery Service.  I know I’m not alone here, or the green coffee goddess wouldn’t still be in business.
  • BYOB:  I know that, in many respects, it’s better that you have to bring your own booze to restaurants. It’s cheaper.  You get what you want.  There are many upsides.  Except when you are me (or my husband) and you never, ever remember that this is part of going out to dinner in our town.  And then what — a dry meal?  Uh, no, sir.  It’s instead this: “You run, as fast as you fucking can, to the wine store, before they close — quick!! — and I’ll find an appetizer on the menu to order for you” (translation: an appetizer of my choosing so that I can enjoy half of it).

OK, OK — I sound horrible, I know.  So let’s be nice to Suburbia — she has quite a lot to offer.  Though my love affair with her started slowly, I am now pretty enamored.  And even though New York City will always be my first geographic love — I lived in four of the five boroughs over my 16 years there, so I’m not just talking Manhattan — let’s fight fair and point out some annoyances of urban living that I really don’t miss.

  • Lack of living space:  Do me a favor.  Take your hand and open it up as far as you can.  That was about the size of my bathroom in my last apartment.  For a family of four.  And did I mention I pathologically hate clutter?  It was a battle I could not win. 
  • Circling for parking:  You could pretty much bet cash that, any Sunday night when we returned from a weekend trip with the kids, the dog and all of our stuff, it would be raining, sleeting or snowing.  So this insane dance would ensue of double parking while unloading our kids and our stuff curbside while someone ensured the car wasn’t ticketed. 
  • Being accosted by crazies:  Don’t get me wrong.  There are plenty of nutters in suburbia — but they keep more to themselves.  The New York crazies really get up in your face.  It’s been awhile since an amateur preacher screamed in my face about the end of days or my sinning ways.  Or a one-armed ukulele player spit at my feet for not giving him my half-eaten soup.  I don’t miss that so much.  If I want crazy, I know plenty of people I can call.
  • Planning for higher education of a child in utero:  Pre-school lotteries and interviews — with college-sized tuition bills to match.  No thanks.  If I told you what I paid in day care costs for two children in the city…I can’t even think about it.  In fact, I had to tell the day care place that I was pregnant with my second child before most of my relatives knew — so that she could have a spot in a year.  For day care.  Not Harvard.  Not even private kindergarten.  Day care.  Anyway, I felt like I won the lottery when I was reminded that my property taxes in the suburbs cover the cost of a very good public school system.  Now I can keep up my Starbucks habit.
  • Escaped Egyptian Cobras from The Bronx Zoo:  OK, so it was just this once.  But, still — it gave me the creeps.  Who can live in fear like that?

In full disclosure, I’m still in Manhattan every day for work, so I probably haven’t had a proper chance to really mourn the death of my city life yet.  But I do get wistful about it now and then.  Central Park.  The West Village.  Delicious food at all hours.  The energy and the diversity.

And then I think about that tiny, tiny bathroom.  The windows that didn’t really close all the way.  That occasional but nasty rat running out in front of you on the street.  The navigation of the double stroller through the endless winter.  The day care tuition bill. 

So I guess what I figured out, after this year of change, is that my heart belongs to both the city and to suburbia.  But a girl can have more than one great love, right?

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Filed Under: Borderline Neuroses, Food & Drink, New to Town, Places Near and Far, That Which Drives Me Crazy 18 Comments

Back to Reality

March 14, 2011

I’m back!  Hope you all had a great week.  Can someone please explain why winter is still here?  Winter and I had an agreement that she would make her 2011 departure while I was away.  She is so fickle. 

Anyway.

A huge thanks to my fabulous guest bloggers who held down the fort while I was gone.  Because of them, I had a lengthy list of vacation cocktails.  I wish I could say I sampled every one of them, but then I’d be writing to you from rehab.  But they will stay with me for future reference.  And my DVR is ready to combust with the variety of great suggestions.  Not a bad problem to have.

Ten days away from reality is just what I needed.  But, I assure you, I wasn’t in a deck chair or floating in a pool the whole time.  We were on the move.  My set of plans revolved around visiting my mom and step father at their Snowbirding Headquarters in Florida. 

Don't be mad, Mom :)

Yes, there’s much more to their lovely set-up than a Bingo board — but I had never seen one before, so I had to snap the photo.  My mom and stepfather could, truthfully, dance any of us under the table — so I’m sort of misrepresenting them with the Bingo bit.

Anyway, with that as a home base, we also took two side trips:  1)  Two nights at Disney and 2) This is where it gets brilliant — two nights without the kids in the Bahamas, while my mom graciously babysat. 

With the Kids

This was the first trip to WDW with our kids (P and I have gone on our own, pre-offspring).  They are still young, so two nights was enough.  We had a ball, though not without some challenges, given their ages.  Here are some highlights:

–Money saving tip:  A nearly four year-old train fanatic doesn’t really care about anything except riding the monorail around the perimeter of WDW.  Repeatedly.  He is also map-obsessed, and so he was far more delighted by the map than by the real-life experience of WDW.  Which is totally fine.  Just so long as, in the future, I plan to simply ride the monorail for two days with map in hand and skip the ridiculous expense of park admission.  Of course I’m kidding.  Because then you can’t have ice cream shaped like Mickey’s head — which, in and of itself, is worth the price of the Park Hopper Plus ticket.

–So, I knew that 20 months old was not, shall we say, an ideal age for Disney.  This is The Era of Squirming.  The Age of I Won’t Sit Still.  The Time of Give Me Motion, Dammit.  And, of course, The Vacation Where I Refuse Any and All Seating.  Running free in the world’s most overcrowded theme park for long spells wasn’t really an option.  So the poor thing was just pissed most of the time.  But here she is in a “set free to run for a while” moment.

–In fairness, I can’t blame my daughter’s crankiness entirely upon her need to run.  It’s very likely that she was also pissed about inheriting my Floridian look, which is not attractive.  Do you know that “Friends” episode when Monica is in the Caribbean, and her hair continues to expand out horizontally from the humidity?  That’s me.  And, apparently, my daughter — whose hair began to resemble Nick Nolte’s mug shot after day two. 

–Lastly, can we please discuss these kids who fall asleep all over the place?  In their parents’ arms.  In a stroller.  While riding It’s a Small World (which, incidentally, still freaks me out).  On the Disney transfer bus.  Are they doped on Benadryl?  I don’t have these children who pass out when tired.  They instead get overtired and, well, you know how it goes after that.  But all of you with your sleeping beauties in their strollers, while you luxuriously eat your lunch with two hands, tell me your secrets.  Because I don’t get it.

But don’t get me wrong — we really did have a great time!  I just had to adjust my expectations to “OK, I guess three attractions per day is enough ground covered.” If the kids were happy, all was good.

And God bless WDW for giving a borderline-germophobe like me an endless array of marble, clean-as-heaven diaper changing stations.  Since you can’t drink in the parks, this went a long way towards keeping my sanity.

See?  Everyone is happy.  Except the baby, because she’s strapped into the stroller.

Without the Kids

After WDW, we ditched the kids dropped off the kids for quality time with their grandparents, while P and I grabbed a quick flight to the Bahamas for three days.  This was the polar opposite of our time at WDW (except for my hair, unfortunately — same look).  There were spa appointments.  Entire conversations without having to referee a fight over a toy.  The ability to eat a meal sitting down and with the use of two hands.  People waiting on us.  Reading things that don’t involve trains, cars, dinosaurs or Dora.  But I won’t pretend that I absorbed any fine literature.  Let’s just say that if you need any updates on celebrity gossip, I’m your girl.

However, I don’t want to you get the idea that it was all relax, relax, relax.  We did, after all, hit the casino both nights after dinner.  This was hard work, people.  It requires strategy (“I know that 8 and 20 will be next to win on roulette.”), communication (“Look, are you going to the ATM for more cash, or am I?”) and perseverance (“It’s crazy to leave now — I’m about to break even”).  So don’t accuse us of simply sitting around, eating and drinking. 

Before we could say “May I have another pillow for my beach chair?” — it was time to hop back over to Florida and pick up the kids.  It’s funny how, in 48 hours, you can simultaneously relish being without them and also miss them to pieces.  I owe my mom big time for babysitting.

So yesterday brought us back to New Jersey, with one less hour of sleep (where can I apply to get that back?).  And post-vacation Monday is a drag.  But I’m exceedingly grateful we got to take this trip.  And now I have to go talk to Winter about our arrangement. 

I’ll keep you posted.

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Tales of a Vacation Avoider

March 13, 2011

Today is the last day of my vacation guest blogging gig.  Which means it’s the last day of my vacation.  And I’m not ready to process that, so let’s instead talk about all the great writers who were here this week, inlcuding my final guest blogger today.

It’s my pleasure to have Anna from Random Handprints here to wrap up the week.  Much like me, Anna left the city for the suburbs and has been adjusting to life ever since.  Unlike me, she is a seasoned blogging pro, going more than four years strong.  She writes about her three kids, food, holidays and – perhaps closest to my heart – a newer section of content called Instructions for My Husband.  A must-read – especially this entry, which made me suspect that we may be married to the same man.

I’m thrilled that she agreed to share her unique angle on (non) vacationing with us (as I burn bask in the sun and try to hold a cocktail with one hand while chasing two toddlers).  Be sure to check out her full blog and follow her on Twitter @RandomHandprint.

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I am really excited to be guest blogging here at The Fordeville Diaries today because it is actually (to paraphrase Pee-wee Herman) my very first guest blog, ever. I am a Fordeville Diaries blogger. I’m. Really. Excited.

But my gig as a guest blogger isn’t the only thing I’m excited about today. I’m also excited that I am guest blogging here so the Lady of The Fordeville Diaries House can take a “vacation” with her two small children and her husband. And let’s admit it, the nicest I can do here is to put “vacation” in quotes. Because as anyone who has kids knows – there are vacations, and then there are trips with your kids.

Let me give a full disclosure right up front that I am a total vacation avoider. My husband begs us to take a family vacation every few months, and I refuse with a litany of excuses – we can’t afford it, the kids shouldn’t miss even a day of the rigors of the kindergarten and second grade curriculums, let’s wait and take a trip in a few months when the weather will be just perfect for going to… you get the idea.

I wasn’t always a vacation avoider. Oh no, before kids I liked to travel anywhere, anytime. Then we took our first post-baby trip. A modest undertaking to an all-inclusive resort in Florida. Days before we were to go, there was a hurricane. A big hurricane. The hotel suffered extensive damage and was forced to close and cancel our reservations. My husband insisted on re-booking.

After the questionable success of our thrice scheduled Florida trip, he next lobbied for (and won) a trip to Arizona. In August. We (and by we, I mean my husband) thought this vacation would be made even more perfect with the addition of his parents. This trip reminded me to never complain again that there is no one to “help” with the kids. Suddenly, with my in-laws around, the idea of being just with my husband and kids (even in Arizona in August) sounded like paradise.

But I digress, this post isn’t about my bad vacations. This post is about wishing the residents of Fordeville a great family vacation. I just know you’ll have a wonderful time and come back tan, rested and gloating about drinking daiquiris on the beach as the kids played adorably in the sand, all while the rest of us shoveled our cars out of yet another snowstorm and spilled scalding half-decaf coffee on our almost clean work clothes because some people can’t wait a minute, dammit, to get on the train.

If you’ve never had a Yellow Bird, I highly recommend it as my drink of choice when lounging around tropical climes. It’s a jigger of Rum with a ½ jigger each of Galliano and crème de Banana, mixed with orange juice, pineapple juice and a splash of lime. I only have one when my kids are playing indoor beach, their only option for waves and sand as the offspring of a vacation avoider.

And when you get back home, I suggest you make one more Yellow Bird, then head over to your DVR for the episodes you missed when you were away of The Office and 30 Rock. While you watch the reminders of your work life that sit waiting for you Monday morning, and you drink the last sips of your Yellow Bird and take a moment to wonder… maybe there is something pretty damn great about this whole vacation thing after all.

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Post-Prom Cocktails

March 11, 2011

It was The Best of Times.  Literally.  As in, Styx.  That was the theme song when my pal Ed Marsh took me to his prom in 1989.  My hair was large, as was my dress.  He had a mullet.  The good news is that we’ve aged well and evolved from our Jersey Prom Look.  Thank God.

Ed and I fell out of touch for many years but resolved that through Facebook and Twitter once I joined modern society last year.  Turns out, he has been busy since the prom.  A musician, technical writer (yes, one of those annoying right AND left brain people), a home beer brewer, a foodie (often gluten and dairy free, no less), a racing fan and a blogger.  And one of the wittiest people I know.

I tend to gravitate toward the parenting/mom blogger crowd a lot for obvious reasons, so I thought it would be fun to get a totally different perspective at Fordeville today. I’m so happy he agreed to be the token male writer this week. I’m even happier that, despite his best efforts, he could not locate said prom photo.  

Pssst.  It’s also my six-month bloggerversary today.  No biggie, I know — especially when you’ve got folks like Ed who have been doing this for years — but I’m the gal who also likes to see a half-birthday acknowledged (mine, specifically).  Anyway.  Be sure to go give Ed’s blog some love — where he may begin accepting blackmail payments for the withholding of the prom picture — and follow him on Twitter @edmarsh.

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So, our friend Fordeville gives me, me an open forum to embarrass her, including that fateful prom with big hair and taffeta — and that was just me. Thankfully, we both made it out of high school alive, and still friends, though admittedly since those days she has turned out much better in quantity of hair category.

On the matter of alcoholic beverage consumption, let’s call it a draw.

Speaking of beverages, I consider myself somewhat of a connoisseur. I had a process for coffee at a prior job that involved grinding my own coffee at home, and at work a hotpot, French press, thermos, and one of those cup warmers that actually never do shit other than make the bottom of the mug searingly untouchable.

It took me a bit longer to warm up to beer. Now, don’t get me wrong, I ran with the wrong crowd in high school – the drummers – so I learned early on about the sweet, sweet demon alcohol, and the inevitable consequences that come with unsupervised drinking of excessive amounts when you’re 13. However, I could never handle the taste of cheap beer; clearly a precursor of things to come. So for most of my high school career, I drank the manliest of drinks… the Fuzzy Navel.

Fast-forward a few years to a kinder, gentler time when drinking (very) good beer makes not only good economic sense, but there is actual appreciation of the various flavors and styles. A time when you are serious enough about the beverage to brew your own.

Then forget it.

Because if there’s one thing that women generally don’t go for on vacation, it’s beer. And since I’m not entirely sure of the Fordeville’s vacation destination, it is hard to recommend a local, seasonal beer to drink, no matter the climate. For example, if you’re drinking Guinness in July and Sierra Nevada Pale Ale in February, you’re doing it wrong.

With that in mind, I suggest a drink that I love, though has more than once called into question my masculinity. It is a drink that, without one simple addition, is nothing but two kinds of booze. That drink is the White Russian. Three simple ingredients – Kahlua, vodka, and cream – is a potent cocktail and acceptable in any temperature. And it is often created, but not often done well.

Now that I’ve established my credentials as a man of culture and maturity, allow me to suggest, at Fordeville’s request, a show that she absolutely must Tivo/DVR while she’s away… Outsourced.

At this point it should be obvious that I’ve consumed several Delicious Beverages™.

But seriously folks, Anthony Bourdain is a chef, world traveler, and fantastic writer, though often consumed with too many superlatives. I’ve read most of his books, which confirmed for me that as much as I love making restaurant-quality food, the professional kitchen is not for me. However, his show No Reservations on the Travel Channel has only whetted my appetite for traveling to good food destinations. As the son of a Vietnam War vet, I’ve wanted to travel there for different reasons, but Tony has convinced me it’s someplace that I simply must go, if only to taste the alluring noodle soup pho.

{Courtesy www.cookingpanda.com}

I’ve had pho in New York’s Chinatown, replete with testicles (they weren’t kidding on the menu that said beef balls), but I want, no need, to travel to Vietnam at some point in my life to taste the authentic thing.

So there you have it, Fordeville’s requests fulfilled. A drink (or four) to enjoy while she’s de-stressing on vacation, and a show to come home and enjoy on the Tivo.

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Bubbly With a Side of Irony

March 9, 2011

Fordeville Vacation Week continues!  {Is it snowing at home yet?}

I’m so excited to have my dear friend Kim Holcomb writing here today.  As she references below, we go back quite far.  1996, to be exact.  Two gals maxed out on student loans in pursuit of some crazy dreams via graduate school.  She was there to study Broadcast Journalism and I was there for Screenwriting. 

She made the wiser choice. 

She is, in fact, a fabulous TV personality on KING-TV in Seattle.  But not just a pretty talking head!  Smart as a whip, political junkie, style maven and mom of two kids to boot.  And Tweeter extraordinaire.  I won’t give it all away — find out all about her on her blog and follow her on Twitter. 

And, as a hard-hitting journalist, she bravely tackles my two vacation questions below.  One day, she is interviewing your favorite film stars and the next, she shares her thoughts below on booze and TV.  I know you’ll love her as much as I do.

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If I were to describe my relationship with Fordeville in an anecdotal screenplay, it would go something like this: 

SCENE: New York City. Somewhere near the financial district… I think… we’d walked a few blocks… who am I kidding, it could have been the Upper West Side for all I know. 

Anyway. 

SCENE: New York City. An oaky, dimly-lit restaurant featuring Italian/Asian fusion cuisine. Fordeville gives the name for our reservation, and upon being seated, it’s clear no reservation was necessary. 

FORDEVILLE: There’s something wrong with this place. 

ME: What do you mean? (takes drink from glass of water) 

FORDEVILLE: There’s only two other tables seated. (pause) I think we have to leave. 

ME: (pause) Seriously? 

FORDEVILLE: Yes. I hope you don’t mind. I just think we should go somewhere more lively. 

ME: (glances down shamefully at half-empty glass of water) Should we make up an excuse? 

FORDEVILLE: (looks surprised by the question) No. l’ll just tell them we decided to go somewhere else. 

HOSTESS SEEMS UNFETTERED BY FORDEVILLE’S EXPLANATION.  EXIT STAGE LEFT TO LIVELIER, MORE POPULATED RESTAURANT. GREAT TIME HAD BY ALL. 

Now I know how to unapologetically leave an unimpressive situation. 

And that’s par for the course. Ever since I first met Fordeville more than a decade ago, she’s inadvertently taught me how to live out loud. In a smart, funny, poised, irreproachably honest way. 

So it’s with some irony that I’m now here, in her absence, recommending how SHE should live whilst on vacation. 

Having said that, I’m all about irony. So let’s get cracking. 

First up: “What is your must-have vacation cocktail?” 

That’s easy. Champagne. An entire bottle, if possible. 

This stems from two truths deeply imprinted in my mind.

Number one: “Breakfast at Tiffany’s.” Holly ALWAYS has champagne in the apartment. It’s the staple of a glamorous, rail-thin, unhinged woman. Which I aspire to be. So I favor champagne in an effort to transform. 

Number two: champagne signifies celebration. And when I’m actually on a vacation, away from work, commutes, tantrums (hopefully,) and mundane chores, THAT’S REASON TO CELEBRATE. 

Champagne is a universal drink of “YAY!” It’s gender and weather neutral. In many ways, it’s the perfect beverage. So whether a holiday is spent in the snowy mountains of Whistler, BC or on the shores of a tropical island, I view champagne as the appropriate choice. 

Second question: “What show must I record on the DVR while I’m away?” 

I’m pretty sure Fordeville specifically asked this one for no other reason than to stump me. Because she knows, in the same way I could never name my favorite movie, it’s impossible for me to narrow down my television viewing. 

I blame my parents. They limited my teevee watching as a child. PBS only. Maybe some C-SPAN or 60 Minutes if I behaved. Did I mention this was at age 7? 

In my lifelong rebellion, I became a television reporter and ardent supporter of all things remote-able. So rather than just naming just one choice, please indulge me in a brief-ish list. 

1. Top Chef All-Stars (because it’s a perfectly executed reality show. With gratuitous shots of cheese, wine, and Fabio.) 

2. Real Housewives of Beverly Hills (this may not count since I believe the series is over. But a former child star from “Little House on the Prairie” and her sister, another child star from “Escape to Witch Mountain,” are featured. YOU CAN’T LOOK AWAY.) 

3. Big Love (not my favorite HBO show, to be sure, but the only one that’s not in hiatus right now. And this season has some pretty decent moments, with the promise of a girl fight. Fingers crossed.) 

4. 30 Rock (because you just never know when Liz Lemon is going to put on another “I give up” outfit. Fanny pack? Indeed. Comedy gold.) 

5. Luther (again, the season is technically over. But it’s a BBC show, so in the space/time continuum, maybe we can pretend it’s new? Either way, it’s a gripping, intelligent, very British modern detective drama starring the incredibly sexy Idris Elba – of “The Wire” fame. Speaking of which, if you haven’t watched “The Wire,” throw out all of the suggestions above and get yourself some Netflix action.) 

So there you have it. My attempt to impart my limited wisdom on Fordeville. And possibly you. 

Take it for what it’s worth, and feel free to comment/criticize freely. I’ll be fine. There’s champagne chilling in the fridge.

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