Reunited

February 23, 2012

On the second day of the 26th week, the God of Endless Home Renovations bestowed an incredible gift upon us.

A fully functional, newly installed (again) washing machine and dryer.  It was like a mirage before my weary eyes.

No more trips to the wash and fold {farewell, Bruce, and thanks for the great origami laundry folding — maybe we’ll have you over for Christmas}.

No more threats of catheters for the kids.

No more bans on markers.  Or condiments {ketchup for all!}.

Once the installation was complete, I proceeded to go batshit crazy and washed every possible piece of clothing, bedding and linens I could get my hands on.  In my giddy haze, I even considered doing some of those TV commercial experiments where people spill the red wine on the white shirt just to test the detergent.  For kicks.  I mean, the red wine was handy.

I know it will wear off, this laundry buzz.  But, come on, six months was a long time to go without it.  Especially relative to the initial five week timetable.  I think I might apply for the next season of Survivor.

So.  Is the project finished?

No.

{Profane rant directed at General Contractor omitted for the sake of common decency. Or maybe litigation.}

But almost.  It’s so close, I can taste it.  Or maybe that’s just the effect of the wine fridge being installed.

For now, I’m focusing on this small miracle — my shiny new laundry machines are home at last.

So can I get an Amen?

 

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Catalog Life

February 15, 2012

If only real life could be like the Pottery Barn Kids catalog.  I’ve mentioned this before when venting some pent-up rage against the PBK bed that is bigger than my first Manhattan apartment.  But it doesn’t end there.  If you take a broader view, it might be nice to just slip into a day in the life of the PBK Catalog Family.  If you don’t vomit first.

Take this simple display, for example.  I have about 104 issues with this, but for the purposes of your sanity and my potential ongoing readership, I’ve narrowed it down to just a few highlights.

{Image: Pottery Barn Kids}

1.  The Family Schedule.  Here, what you can’t see clearly, because I didn’t enlarge the image enough, is the To Do List for the day.  It lists groceries, dentist, vet appointment, art project, conferences and family time.  PBK Catalog Mom clearly has her act together.  My list, not printed on blue construction paper du’jour, but instead maybe on a dirty paper towel or crumpled Post It, goes more like this:  return long overdue school forms, stock up on caffeine, re-hash latest episode of Revenge via texting, yell at General Contractor, cruise Pinterest and decide what the hell to make for dinner.  Family time?  But of course.  As long as kids fighting over the last chocolate cookie counts.

2 a & b.  The PBK Catalog Kids.  I just can’t take it.  Look how sweet, how participatory in life they are.  The curious minds.  The organization.  Ready to tackle the sunshiny day ahead with their undoubtedly well-balanced, color-coded lunches packed away.  Come.  On.  Who has time for this pointing and Family Q&A Session when surely you are running 10 minutes late for school again, and nobody can find their left shoe?  What?  Oh, that’s just my house?

3.  The “Read” List.  Let’s get all the classics up there, right?  Here, it’s Us Weekly.  And Twitter.

4.  Let’s not miss our Sunday 1pm hike!  Does that also count as Family Time?  Is that why the kids are pointing?  Maybe they feel duped.  Or confused.  Or perhaps resentful of their mother’s Type A over-scheduling that is depriving them of a childhood.  And, where, pray tell, is the PBK hiking backpack and canteen set?  These kids can’t just venture out into the woods without being fully outfitted and monogrammed.

5.  Ugh, the Project Basket.  What’s in there?  Loom materials?  Calculus flashcards?  In my house, that basket would be labeled Small Annoying Toy Pieces From China That Don’t Seem To Fit With Anything And Then Multiply Overnight.

 

Maybe I should seek out other catalogs.  Hanna Andersson is out, ever since I saw the matching family pajama concept.  Does the Land End Family look more realistic?  I’m open to suggestions.  Because the PBK Catalog Family is clearly bringing out the worst in me.  And if they move onto my block, I will not invite them over.  Ever.  Or at least not until I get my kids all monogrammed and ready.

 

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A Brief Affair

February 8, 2012

Yesterday, I was so excited to have one of my posts featured over at Aiming Low — a humor site about promoting the mediocrity in all of us.  If you’re not already a fan, please go check it out.

You may have seen that post before.  It was about — you guessed it — the Fordeville laundry drama.  Or lack thereof.  Day 170 with no machines, incidentally.  For those of you keeping count at home.

BUT.  Get this.

Who knew that the folks over at Aiming Low had such amazing super powers?  Because here’s what happened.  My post ran on their site and then, within 24 hours, I couldn’t believe my eyes.

 

All hooked up.  Fully operational.  Ready.  To.  Go.

{Cue angels singing.  Or smelling salts.  Or, where the hell did I put that fabric softener back in August?}

BUT WAIT.  Not so fast.  Get this.

Before you send me champagne or some lovely lavender-scented congratulatory detergent, I’ll tell you that my joy was short-lived.  No, not short-lived as much as killed — by way of the We Have a New Basement Problem files.

The whole laundry room has to be reconfigured.

Translation:  My machines will soon be disconnected.

What?

Yeah.

I won’t bore you with the whole story, but the short version is this:  It wasn’t until the machines were installed that we noticed our mason had graciously jutted our new foundation out about six inches from the wall.  Six inches that we didn’t really have.  Six inches that he never told us about.

Yes, that’s right.  Six inches of error stands between me and Laundry Nirvana.  Because, in the current configuration, I am basically squeezed out of the laundry room.  So my machines fit — barely — but I’m standing outside the door.  Which doesn’t really work.  Especially, on a more urgent note, with no place to rest my glass of wine.  Now, we must rip up the wall to move the plumbing around, in order to hook the machines up to a different spot.

That’s OK — things were getting boring around here with progress, smooth sailing and the like.  It was throwing us off of our game.

So, for now, I’m treating my beautiful new machines kind of like going on a fabulous first date and then finding out the guy is temporarily moving out of the country or being shipped off to war.  I like my new machines, a lot.  We spent a fabulous first evening together.  But I fear getting too attached too soon.  I want to buy them nice things like cabinetry and high-efficiency detergent, but I don’t want to move too quickly.  I don’t want to be left in tears when they are suddenly pulled away from me sometime this week — all before we really got to know each other.

Such a brief love affair.  Such heartbreak.

We almost had it all.

But if you love someone, set them free.

{I’m on a Lite FM heartbreak ballad roll.  One more? OK…}

Take a look at me now — there’s just an empty space.

{I couldn’t resist.  End of Lite FM melodramatic references.}

Anyway, I just hope I can let my guard down when they come back to me and we move forward with our life together.  Day 170, you were lovely to behold.  This was no one-night stand.

Oh — and if anyone has seen my mason (because we sure as hell haven’t), can you tell him that I’d like a word?  Thanks.

 

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The Problem With House Hunters

January 31, 2012

 

You know how people on reality TV can make you marvel at the stupidity of the human race?  And yet we (or at least I) still watch.  Maybe to feel better about myself.

Anyway.

Ever-obsessed with real estate — and yet far too mentally fragile from my own basement project to watch renovation shows — I have a borderline-unhealthy, love-hate relationship with House Hunters on HGTV.  It’s like the Law & Order of reality shows — it always seems to be on when you can’t find anything else to watch.

But I need to air my grievances about the show.  Because yelling at the television alone on my couch, repeatedly, doesn’t seem to effect change.

So can we talk about these people for a minute?  The ones on the show.  On the house hunt.  The ones who say something like this:

“We’re in our early 20s, just married and living in my mom’s basement.  What we’re really looking for is a 5 bedroom, 4 bath home with at least 4 acres, a pool, top-notch finishes and a golf course view.  And a butler.  We are putting down zero percent and our budget is $65,000.”

I realize that, living within 30 miles of Manhattan, I am a victim of inflated pricing.  I’m all for a bargain — trust me — but the real estate crack pipe some of these people are smoking drives me crazy.

I especially love when these house hunters walk away from a perfectly good home option for things like the horrid paint color on the walls (because that would be tough to fix) and the dated furniture (did anyone remind them it’s not built into the floors and staying?).

But one of my all-time favorite House Hunter Crack Pipe Moments was when Bill From Pennsylvania complained that there simply wasn’t enough storage.  For his vast hat collection.  In every room, Bill was all:  “Well, I can’t fit all my hats here.”

Bill.  Bill!  Areyoukiddingme?

As far as I’m concerned, there is a special place in heaven for the realtors on this show.  I’d love to see the outtakes.  I imagine Bill’s realtor had this to say, which — sadly — ended up on the HGTV cutting room floor:

“Bill, let the motherfucking hats go.  This was the 37th house I showed you, even though viewers at home think there were only three.  That  last house?  It was a foreclosure property that far surpassed anything your budget would normally allow you to purchase.  Why not put your damn hats in the massive en-suite bathroom I showed you?  Oh wait, you didn’t like the color of the pristine marble finishes.  Fine.  We’ll go see a 38th property.  But if you mention the hats again, I’m going to drop kick you.  Liz, that goes for you too — keep Bill quiet or I’ll run you both down with the golf cart that comes with this next house.”

Something like that.  Or I might be projecting.  A little.

Maybe what the show needs is to shake up its format.  The people are annoying. And they always pick the third choice.  It’s like watching Hugh Laurie on House, knowing that the real diagnosis can’t be valid if you’re less than 50 minutes into the episode.

But I think I’ve found the solution.  House Hunters should consider joining forces with another reality show.  Hear me out — I think this might work well.  Here are a few teaser ideas:

1)  House Hunters Survivor:  You are shown houses in a group dynamic.  The moment you make any unrealistic demands {I’m looking at you, Bill} you are voted out of the real estate hunt and you will stay in your parents’ basement forever.  The last couple standing gets the house.

2)  House Hunters Intervention:  Level-headed people living in the real world sit you down and tell you that you need to put down the real estate crack pipe and get some help.  Mortgage applications are involved.  Suze Orman makes a cameo in the pilot episode.

3)  House Hunters Hard Core Pawn:   You reject aforementioned intervention and begin pawning off your worldly possessions to afford the house  you think you must have.

4)  16, Pregnant & House Hunting:  Your parents kicked you out because you got knocked up, and now you need a place to live.  Preferably within proximity to your OB.  Luckily, your BFF from study hall can come along to help.

5)  House Hoarders:  You are presented with a home that belongs to a hoarder.  If you agree to clean it out completely, you get it for free.  Everyone wins here, no?

6)  House Dance Moms:  Caught in a bidding war?  Your daughter will dress in a completely age-inappropriate manner and participate in a dance-off for your cause.  Winner takes all.

7)  House Storage Wars:  Your daughter lost the dance-off and your options are running low.  You decide to bid on a sweet storage unit and consider the real estate value of living in there for a while.  After all, these things are bigger than most Manhattan apartments.  Plus, they are climate-controlled.

8 )  Ice Loves House Hunters:  I think this is the real win, from a network pitch perspective.  At the end of your real estate rope, none other than Ice-T himself will show you some final housing options.  And he will make sure you stay within your means.

Any other suggestions before I take my ideas to HGTV?

I think they are totally going to invest in one of these golden nuggets and make it the next reality sensation.  In return, my demands are meager.  Just a new basement please.
Finding the Funny

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Baby Steps

January 26, 2012

You guys.  After 22 weeks of insanity, we have decided that the time has come to just walk away and abandon Project Pimp My Basement.

What?  Yes, of course I’m kidding.  What the hell would I write about if I didn’t have the basement chronicles?  And what would I do with my time if I didn’t have to run to Home Depot every single day?  I would be lost without my ongoing chats in the Flooring section.  Or my kids asking what time we’re going to ride in the orange cart.

So where do things stand?  I’ll put it this way.  Remember when we had some wagers placed on the original five week timeline?  If you bet on the “outrageously high” side and said, say, twelve weeks.  And then doubled it?  Well, you still might not win.

I’ll withhold photos at this stage {I’m going for the HGTV “big reveal” moment}, but I’ll tell you what we have in the works.

First, there is visible progress.  Which beats the hell out of the invisible progress that allegedly transpired for months.

There are stairs.  Which is nice.  We’re obviously going for total luxury here.  Plus, it got dicey to take our friends and family down the ladder for the “I Don’t Understand What the Hell Is Taking So Long Tour.”  Especially after a few bottles of wine.

There are lights.  Some lights.  Not all of them, but enough to see that guys are down there working.  Or just living there — I’m not sure which.  I haven’t checked the basement fridge in a while — but last time, most of the beer was gone.  {The wine stays upstairs with me.  Obviously.}

There is noise.  All day, every day.  Which makes my kids scream.  Which creates more noise.

Oh, and there are walls.  Sanded, primed and painted walls.  Which gives me hope.  And after a little war with the Benjamin Moore color wheel, I think I finally found a shade of navy for my laundry room that works.  Because the first two choices made my husband ask if Suicide Goth Den was the look I was going for.

Speaking of the laundry room, I have…wait for it…

I have two outlets staring at me.  Begging to be hooked up to — no, wed to — their soul mates, Shiny New Washer and Dryer.  {Did I mention 22 weeks?}.  And it looked promising for  awhile.  I especially enjoyed the very earnest look my contractor directed squarely at my eyes on January 16, when he said: “We will do everything we can to have those machines installed this week.” It seems by “everything we can,” he meant “notsomuch, really.”  And by “this week,” he meant “this fiscal quarter.”  It’s my fault for thinking otherwise — I should really speak his language by now.

This is all good news for Bruce, who owns the laundromat and will probably come over for Christmas Dinner after all of the time we’ve spent together these last few months.  He’s always pretty excited to get more business out of me.  I think I heard him squeal when my daughter mentioned all the painting they’re doing at pre-school — without smocks.  Come to think of it, while I was weighing in my latest pay-per-pound laundry haul (56 lbs), he turned his back to me and called his wife.  Something about pulling the trigger on that beer tour of Germany they’ve always wanted to take.  Glad to help, Bruce.

But, you know, it’s all fine.  We are learning important life skills.

Like staying grounded.  Because the sight of the red dumpster in my driveway every day and its companion piece, the port-a-john, prevents us from trying to keep up with the Joneses.

We are also improving the kids’ eye-hand coordination.  All of the work being done underfoot now causes the hundred-year-old floors on our main level to spring a nail pretty regularly.  So we get out the hammer before dinner and play Whack-a-Mole.  The Tetanus Version.

Baby steps, I guess.  Like stairs.  And semi-goth walls.  And outlets at the ready for that laundry.  Any day now.

Or so I’m told.

 

 

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Pre-School is the New Ph.D.

January 12, 2012

January does not only mean that the holidays are over. It also means, if you have kids, that you have to get your head out of your ass the clouds and plan now for the next school year.

Yes, pack up your Christmas stockings or menorahs.  It’s time for 2012-2013 school registration.

First up, my son.  How is it possibly time to register him for kindergarten?  Wasn’t he just born like 20 minutes ago?  It makes me a little weepy.  Next thing you know, he’ll be off to college.  Complaining about  his roommate.  Telling me he’d rather go to Mexico for Spring Break than come home to see me.  Using my credit card at a liquor store without my knowledge.

OK, I need to pull it together.  I’m still zipping his jacket for him — he can’t get to Mexico yet.  Just kindergarten.

I’ve heard moms talk about how hard it is to see that school bus pull up in front of their house for the first day of kindergarten.  I begin to picture this very emotional milestone, and then I remember — oh wait, I will never have that moment.  Because my town does not bus kids to school.  {No, I don’t know why either.}  So my moment next September will be the usual “Get in the car, please — we’re late.  Did you hear me?  Can you please put down the toy and get in the — Hey, I’m leaving, I’ll be over here.  I’m going now.  GET IN THE CARRRRR!”

So at least that transition will be minimal.

Then, there’s pre-school registration for my daughter.  And it’s this process that may be the death of me.

I’ve hit the pre-school open house circuit around town over the last week.  And let me tell you  — it’s not pretty.

I like where my son currently goes to pre-school just fine.  When we moved here, they had a spot for him and that’s where he went.  So I didn’t have the chance to get hung up on my other options.  Now, with my daughter, I have the opportunity to look around.  Which may not have turned out to be a great idea.

Here’s the thing:  One of the reasons we moved out of my beloved Manhattan was to avoid the insanity of the private school process.  {That, and we had four people living in an apartment the size of a postage stamp.}  With the city schools, you have the competition, the wait lists, the legacy applicants, the lotteries.  On an epic level.  You’re quickly led to believe that if your two year-old doesn’t interview well and get into the “right” pre-school, it’s going to make things difficult down the road.  First, it will be tougher to get into the right elementary school later on.  And then nearly impossible to go to a top high school.  Especially after that stint in juvie or rehab.  Forget college — she will be living with you forever.  When she’s out on parole.  All because she fucked up that pre-school interview 16 years before, on that day when she hadn’t napped enough beforehand.

At least that’s how it feels.  But I may be prone to exaggeration every so often.

And that’s not to mention the expense of Manhattan’s private schools.  I mean, I wasn’t really in the mood to pay $40K for kindergarten.  I’m tight with my money like that.  Hats off to my Manhattan friends who put up with this madness and live to tell.  I just didn’t have it in me.

While I’m not being asked to shell out that kind of tuition here in Jersey, I do feel like the lotteries, the wait lists, the “Where will you be sending her next year?” thing is alive and well in the burbs.

So I dutifully went to the open houses.  Where I was quickly reminded of just how many families move here from the city.  Things got a little intense as folks asked about the 3 year-old enrollment.  Have a look.

Top Five Questions Overheard at Pre-School Open House:

1)  How are you addressing the apple juice arsenic concerns raised by Dr. Oz?

2)  How can you be really sure that each kid is washing their hands before eating?  And then again before sharing any toys?

3)  Are we able to watch the lottery process or is that done behind closed doors?

4)  Are you really serving pretzels and crackers for snack?  What about fresh fruit and vegetables?

5)  What is the term limit policy for the PTA?  Do you have a copy of the charter available?

I looked around.  Surely the ghost of Allen Funt was behind this.  Where was the hidden camera?  Because these women can’t be serious.

OK, look.  I freely admit to being a Purel-addicted, Type A mom on some issues.  I’m no picnic.  But I felt things were getting out of hand while touring Harvard the local pre-schools.  We’re talking circle time here.  Colors.  Letters and numbers.  Basic social skills.  It’s hard to screw it up too much, right?

Or am I not being Tiger Mom enough here?

I think I’m more like Sloth Mom.  I mean, I still have Christmas decorations to pack up.  Which is what I may do this week while putting off the pre-school applications.

 

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A Battle of Wills

January 8, 2012

You know what’s fun?  Arguing while you’re driving.

Now, I’m used to my kids bickering with each other or with me while I’m invariably driving them somewhere.  It’s not a picnic but it’s just part of the gig.

But the time I spent today fighting with a GPS system was beyond my limits.

I was off to a friend’s baby shower in Brooklyn.  Not a very long drive, mileage-wise.  And I’m very comfortable driving in the city.  But I hadn’t been to her particular neck of the woods before and needed some specific directions.

If only there was a device for such a thing.

Normally, I’d drive my car and use OnStar.  But today I took my husband’s car.  Because it’s 1) older (we’ll care less if I dent it while parallel parking) and 2) smaller and easier to maneuver (I may or may not get my urban road rage on when I cross the New York state line).

But.  His car has no navigation system.  Except for the old portable Garmin.  But hey, I figured, its job is to give directions.

Or not.

Its job, apparently, is to get all passive aggressive and argue with me.

It’s evident that the GPS has a preferred route in its head.  What’s not clear is how this preferred route is established as the front-runner.  But my guess is that it’s the closest way by how the crow flies.  It certainly doesn’t account for likelihood of traffic.  Or the use of major highways above side roads.  Or logic in general.

Fine.  She has her route and I have mine.  But once I deviate from her route, why can’t she accept the socially mandated terms of the client-vendor relationship?  Wherein, I paid for this thing — I’m the client.  I want to go a different route — do your job and stop trying to put me back on your road.

It was like an escalating battle of wills.

“In .5 miles, turn right onto Garden State Parkway.”

“The Garden State Parkway?  Is she actually trying to steer me toward the Holland Tunnel?  No, I’m going through Staten Island.”

I skip her turn.

She huffs.  “Recalculating.  In 2.2 miles, turn right toward the Garden State Parkway.”

“Not doing it.  I’ve made this mistake before.  I’ll sit for an hour out of the tunnel.”

I persist and skip her turn again.  It’s at this point, I feel that — absent my gross miscalculation of heading toward Canada — she should take the hint and give me the directions to the other route.  The better route.

The huffing seems to escalate.  It’s like she’s whining and growing impatient, as if she has somewhere else to be.  Or someone else to misdirect.  “Recalculating.  In 5 miles, turn right toward the Garden State Parkway.”

“Ohmygod, woman.  Seriously?  How did you even get this job?”

Now my two year-old chimes in from the back seat:  “Mommy.  I think she wants you to turn right.”

“Yeah, well, she has no idea that if we take the Holland Tunnel, we will be stuck on Canal Street until your third birthday.”  I then mumble something about this dipshit having no concept of traffic suicide.

“Oh.  Can we hear This Old Man on the CD?”

“We just listened to it 17 times, honey.”

“Again, please — This Old Man,” she pleads.

And then more huffing from the Garmin:  “Recalculating.”  I was pretty convinced, at this point, she was going to try to drive me off the Verrazano Bridge out of spite.

Between the toddler songs and the estrogen navigation standoff, I was never so happy to get to a baby shower in my life.

Until I had to go home.  My bitchy nemesis was waiting for me in the car.  She learned nothing while I was at the party.

Next time, I follow the direction of the sun.

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Twitching in 2012

January 4, 2012

Happy 2012, everyone!

Personally, I’m very happy to be in an even-numbered year again.  It’s just one of those things — odd numbers make me uneasy.  And prime numbers downright scare me {I’m looking at you, 2011}.  So, welcome, you beautifully even and divisible-by-much 2012.

And yet, I have been a little twitchy since we rang in the new year.  More than a little perhaps.  And I attribute this to two primary causes.

 

Twitchy Cause #1:  My blog was hacked on New Year’s Day.

Nothing really says Happy New Year like being locked out of your own site.  At first, I thought it was some kind of bizarro, Y2K-ish fluke.  I would go to log into my blog and it didn’t recognize my info.  Username.  Password.  Email address.  Nothing.

Did you ever have one of those moments — in school or at your job — when you typed up a long piece of work and then lost it before it was saved?  That internal {or external} scream.  I  kind of felt like that.  Times four million.

Ever the vigilante, I took matters into my own hands.  I turned to Facebook and offered Fordeville Blog Hacker Amnesty, which proved strangely unsuccessful.  I thought social media was a powerful tool, but now I’m not so sure.

So, I turned to professionals.  No, not those professionals.  Geeks before thugs, my friends — even in New Jersey.  I called my web hosting company and tried to muffle my sobs of despair.  And they were total rock stars.  They detected some malicious files placed on my site.  Files that, when I googled them, had all kinds of horrific tales from affected bloggers calling this malicious code “pure evil” and “a nightmare to eradicate.”  Great.  I had visions of my site redirecting to penile implant and bulk prescription drug sale ads.  Or worse — Lady Antebellum or Katy Perry fan pages.

I was twitching.  Who had control of my site?  Was it a Russian gang?  A nerdy teenager in his parents’ basement set up like NASA?  Or a mean-spirited blogger who really wanted my espresso martini recipe?  There was no way to know.

But the folks at Liquid Web fixed the problem, and all is back to normal now.  At least it seems.  Unless you are seeing a big photo of Lady Antebellum right now.  Or their music is playing upon entering my site — with no mute button.  If so, please alert me immediately and I’ll get you the far less offensive penile implant ad instead.

 

Twitchy Cause #2:  The Keurig arrived.

As requested, I got my new Keurig.  Wow.  It’s magnificently easy. Too easy, methinks.  Because, people, I’ve averaged about six cups a day since this device entered my home.  From the Desk of Captain Obvious:  This may be the real reason I’ve been twitching.

Also, I think I’m boring a hole through my stomach lining, one k-cup at a time.  In my unprofessional medical opinion, this ulceration can be alleviated by drinking frothed milk.  Right?  Good.  Because my mother, fearing the societal consequences of my Starbucks withdrawal, bought me the companion Keurig Milk Frother to enable my latte addiction in the comfort of my own home.  Which is pretty amazing.  Now I can be all skim-latte-but-no-foam-high-maintenance without getting dirty looks in public.  You rock, Mom.

And look what arrived today.  These should get me through the rest of the week.

I will say one negative thing about the Keurig, though.  In what I’d call a shortcoming of epic proportions, this thing doesn’t make very hot coffee. Really.  I mean, it’s hot.  Ish.  But once you add milk, it goes to lukewarm in an instant.  If I were manufacturing a coffee machine, one of the first things I might check is the temperature of the coffee.  But that’s just me, I guess — high maintenance and all.  Nothing a microwave can’t fix, but seems silly.

But don’t listen to me.  My brain is on caffeine overload and online criminal chasing highs.  I’m off to a twitchy start in 2012.

And I think wine seems like the logical antidote.

 

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Filed Under: Borderline Neuroses, Food & Drink, Tech Bits, That Which Drives Me Crazy 8 Comments

Anatomy of a Holiday Card

December 21, 2011

The holiday cards are piling in every day now.  It’s one of my favorite parts of this season — hearing from so many people and seeing the cute pictures of their families.

The photos on these cards are always so interesting to me.  Mainly because I wonder how tough it was for each family to get their kids to cooperate.

As far as I’m concerned, holiday card photos fall under the Parental Amnesia category.  This is a serious condition that causes parents to forget about the mental or physical pain associated with certain aspects of having and raising kids.  The most obvious example is childbirth.  If women remembered, in detail, what they endured in that process, nobody would have siblings.  Ever.

Parental Amnesia also applies to other things like sleep deprivation and potty training.

And yes, holiday card photos.  It’s true.  I should know.

You see, had I remembered how utterly painful it is to attempt to get a decent photo of my kids for our annual holiday card, I would have just hired a photographer.

But no, I figured — how hard can it be?  {Anyone with small kids is laughing with an evil snort right now.}

**Classic Parental Amnesia.**

Before you call me crazy or high maintenance, let me first define what I mean by the term “decent photo.”  To be perfectly clear, my requirements are minimal.  I would like my kids to:

–both appear in the frame

–have more than half of their respective faces showing

–be generally in focus

–have their eyes open (this does not apply when they are infants)

–not be crying

That’s it.  I don’t care if they are in holiday outfits, or if there is a lush seasonal backdrop in the photo.  {Where is that mystical Christmas meadow in these photos, anyway?  I don’t think my town has one.} Two kids who look generally clean and not ready to cry is really all I want to show family and friends in this season of joy.

These photo sessions never go well when planned — I have learned this  much.  So, this year, I decided to wing it one day in November when both kids happened to be dressed decently and looked generally photo-ready. I took them out to the front lawn, where it was oddly 70 degrees that day.  They were in good moods and had full stomachs. Figuring these were the best odds I would get all year, I sat them down in front of a few plants in the yard and just went for it — snapping away with my iPhone and using my best cheerleader voice.

In the span of 36 seconds, the following photo shoot and general commentary transpired.

“OK, you guys, have a seat right here in front of the plants.  It’s so nice and sunny out, isn’t it?  Let’s take a few nice pictures!  Put your arm around your sister! Here we go!  Smile!”

“OK, OK, let’s try to look at Mommy!  No, it’s not a bug on your finger — just put your hands in your lap, OK?  Over here!  Look!”

“Guys, I’m up here {snapping fingers}!  Looooook over here!  Say — cheeeeese!”

“OK — again please.  Cheeeese!”

“Wow, that’s a lot of cheese.  Hm. How about ‘Christmas?'”

“Yes, that’s the neighbor walking her dog over there.  Look back at me.  No, the dog can’t come up here to play right now.  Back over here, guys!  Look at Mommy!  {Now jumping up and down.}  It’s warm out here, isn’t it?”

“Wait!  Where are you going?  No, no, we’re not done yet — almost!  Grab your sister’s hand and tell her to sit by you.  Look back over here. Pleeeeease.”

“Can you try holding hands for me please?  And sitting just a little closer?  Come on.  Santa is watching, you know.”

“Great — you’re sitting closer and holding hands!  Thank you.  Just.  Look.  Over.  Here.  For.  The.  Love.  Of.  God.”

“Both of you!  Loooooook heeeeere!  {Waving frantically now.  My construction crew has emerged from the basement to see if there is a crazy person on the premises.} I have candy inside.  Who wants candy?  Look here for candy.  And your college money.  All eyes on me for tuition.”

“Get your sister!” {I lunge for her, now breaking a full sweat.}

“It is so HOT outside.  What’s with the 70 degrees?!  Yes, I know, you are losing patience.  Just another minute.”

“Guys.  Stay with me.  One more — I promise.  Let’s make it a good one and then we’ll have candy and an extra TV show.”

“Oh thank you.  That’s a wrap.  Mommy needs wine now.”

* * *

OK, maybe my son looks slightly medicated in the photo, but I took what I could get.  And really, does anything say festive holiday season quite like a pair of camouflage pants?  I think not.

So this is where you guys come in.  Next year, if I appear to make any attempts at the holiday photo again, please remind me of this post.  Save me from Parental Amnesia.  And feel free to refer a good photographer in the greater New Jersey area.

 

 

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Filed Under: Family, Holidays, That Which Drives Me Crazy 14 Comments

Still Standing

November 23, 2011

For those of you who think I’ve been incarcerated for clubbing my General Contractor in the knees, it’s not so.  So where have I been?  Well, I’ve just been recovering from the anxiety of Operation Presto-Change-o, whereby the phantom contractor and his crew made a one-day cameo appearance to take out the beams that were supporting our house to replace them with one ginormous piece of steel.

Never one to overreact, I figured I’d evacuate for the day.  But the logistics didn’t work out, so I decided on the next best thing, which was to have my good friend Beth come over and distract me with the ridiculous cuteness of her six month-old twins.  I figured, since she has two infants, she probably has a high threshold for noise and maybe she wouldn’t even notice the construction.

After distributing hard hats and reviewing safety drills highlighting the nearest exits with Beth, we had a lovely visit that managed to take my mind off of what was going on under the house.

{Side note:  My husband is also a big fan of Beth’s but he has begun to dread her visits.  Not because he doesn’t enjoy her company.  That’s not the case at all.  It’s because he sees the maniacal “I-might-kidnap-these-infants” look in my eyes.  And he knows that, hours later, the other side of my split personality will emerge and tell him we should have four to six more kids.}

We actually had a full house, as P worked from home that day — either to keep me from kidnapping Beth’s babies or to assist me with any necessary evacuation — I’m not sure which.  So he took the opportunity to bring me down to the basement — where I have not ventured in a while, to avoid a nervous breakdown — and showed me how they were switching out the beams.  It was a real, live HGTV show right under my house.  See, we don’t need high def after all.

In the most non-technical and unprofessional craftsman terms, here’s my understanding of what they did.  First, they took out the old beams and replaced them with this makeshift support structure.

I’m not an engineer or an architect but this seemed like a flimsy replacement to me.  Should it really look like a fort?

Then they took this big-ass beam and, somehow, moved it to the back of the house.  Eight guys.  One beam.

Then they slid it under the house, through the makeshift wooden fort.  And by “slid,” I mean yelled a lot and moved the Earth under my feet for about 90 minutes.

 

Then.  They jacked up the beam to its proper place.  By this point, Beth took off with her kids, which was smart.  Because I was convinced my 100 year-old house would not withstand the amount of shaking that this process brought.

But it did.  We’re still here. Somehow.

I should also mention that while P and I were touring the makeshift fort, the head mason was down there.  So we took this opportunity to corner him and try to get more clarity around things like, say, why the hell his crew shows up on a random and increasingly rare basis.

It went like this.

Us:  “Bill, what’s going on with the schedule?”

Bill:  “The schedule?”

Us:  “Yeah.  You know, we are on week 12 of a five week job now and we’re not really feeling like anyone is communicating with us.”

Bill:  “Oh but we’ve had problems with {inaudible} and {mumbling} and look, is that a bird over there?”

Us:  “Bill.  You promised us the beam would go in today {Friday} and the concrete floor would be poured on Monday.  Is that still going to happen?”

Bill {reaching for pocket}:  “I have to take this call.”

Us:  “I don’t hear a phone ringing.”

Bill:  “Oh.”

Us:  {blinking audibly}

Bill:  “Well, we need an inspector to come out here before we can pour the concrete.”

Us:  “Fine.  This is the first we’ve heard of this.  Did you schedule the inspection?”

Bill:  “No, no, not yet.  But I will, first thing Monday.  And they should get here on Tuesday.  And then maybe we can pour the concrete on Wednesday.”

{Translation: Concrete floor will not be poured until after Thanksgiving weekend.  Probably once the calendar reads December.}

___________

We could have said more.  Much more.  But the timing felt wrong.  Vulnerable, even.  I’m usually not afraid of confrontation, but I didn’t think I wanted to piss off the guy in charge of holding up my house at that moment.

And so the house stands.  Even if our nerves are hanging on by a thread and we’re about to be awarded VIP status at the laundromat.  Because, 12 weeks in to my five week project, this doesn’t really feel like quite the milestone photo I’d hoped to post.

Baby steps, my friends.  Baby steps.

As for Bill, he somehow slipped through our fingers right after our conversation and disappeared into thin air, much like Kaiser Soze.  And just like that, he was gone.

 

 

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Filed Under: Holidays, Project Colonial, That Which Drives Me Crazy 10 Comments
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