My Formerly Glamorous Life

February 9, 2011

Since we left the city for the suburbs last April, people seem to be shocked that I don’t miss it more.

It goes like this:

“You must miss the city so much!”  (head craned in sympathy)

“Nah.  I mean, there are days.  But, surprisingly, I’m really happy with the move.”

“Oh.  So, you like, uh, New Jersey?  How’s that…going?”

The truth is that I haven’t missed it as much as I thought I would.  But, now and then, I do get wistful about my old life in Manhattan. 

But not always.  And not today.  Not when it’s bone cold outside.  Because it reminds me of a very stressful period in my life last winter when the morning ritual of getting two small kids to daycare in this weather pushed me to the brink of insanity. 

At that time, my husband had a new job that required him to leave before the kids woke up and to come home too late to pick them up at daycare.  And I also have a full-time job — one that expects me to be generally on time and pretty much mentally together.  So these were character-building days, folks.  If you had flashed back a year ago, this would have been my morning in Manhattan.

  • 6:15 — Tiptoe out of bed into the shower so the kids don’t wake up.  Promise God a new soup kitchen for the needy if the  baby would just sleep through the night.  Check Blackberry for work-related fires/crises that transpired overnight.
  • 6:20 — Attempt to have five minutes of peace in shower before the chaos begins.
  • 6:22:30 — Have shower interrupted by 1) two year-old announcing his arrival in the bathroom and opening shower curtain for morning conversation about Elmo, 2) six month-old crying in crib and 3) ringing Blackberry.
  • 6:30 — Retrieve Blackberry voice mail.  Check email again.  Respond to three colleagues in Japan before they go to sleep for the night.
  • 6:35 — Feed kids.  Dress them, perhaps more than once if someone spills/vomits/spits up.
  • 6:55 — Dress self, forgetting belt, jewelry or other random accessory.  Attempt to dry hair and look presentable.  Conclude this look is overrated.  Fantasize about breakfast that will surely not materialize.
  • 7:15 — Ignore red flashing light on Blackberry out of corner of eye.
  • 7:17 — Assemble the following items to cart to day care:  Bottles, diapers, jars of baby food, extra clothes (baby); lunch (toddler); various permission slips, medical forms that are long overdue.
  • 7:30 — Pack breast pump and all related accessories for work.
  • 7:35 — Wrestle toothbrush into mouth of two year-old.  Oh and self also — must brush own teeth.
  • 7:40 — Begin excruciating process of convincing two year-old to put on jacket, hat and gloves.  Bargain.  Plead. 
  • 7:50 — Ignore Blackberry. 
  • 7:55 — Strap toddler into double stroller in front of TV while wrestling baby into full bunting.
  • 8:00 — Place writhing baby into double stroller, strap everyone in.  Ensure that all day care items are stowed in bottom of stroller, breast pump on one shoulder and briefcase on the other.  Put on coat, hat and gloves even though apartment is sweltering because 1) heat is not controlled by tenants and 2) body temperature is at 101 degrees from wrestling children into stroller.
  • 8:05 — Dog!  Feed dog!  Sorry!  Keep kids in stroller, wedged against open apartment door.
  • 8:07 — Pine for coffee.  Fear looking at clock.
  • 8:10 — Negotiate double wide stroller into packed apartment building elevator, eliciting eye rolling and audible sighs from fellow tenants.
  • 8:15 — Stop on every floor on the way down (13 in total).  Sweat through winter coat.  Beg two year-old to stop crying about being strapped in stroller.
  • 8:17 — Arrive in lobby to find it is sleeting outside.  Again.  Find rain/snow cover thingy for the stroller buried under daycare supplies and attach it around entire perimeter of stroller while both children cry.  Consider selling soul to Satan for coffee.
  • 8:25 — Navigate snow/ice piles pushing 40 lbs of child weight in stroller.  Resent feeling of numbing ice pellets hitting face.  Panic briefly over possibility of a 9:00 conference call that may or may not have been confirmed.  Will never make it.
  • 8:30 — Realize, when strong wind comes along, that stroller cover is not properly secured and is now flapping about in the wind like a tarp.  Stop on sidewalk.  Drop all bags from shoulder and resecure stroller cover.  Answer questions about trucks, buses and police cars from two year-old.
  • 8:35 — Begin to display signs of pathological need for coffee.  Food would be nice, too.
  • 8:35:30 — Realize [any item — insert here] was left at home and decide that there is no going back. 
  • 8:35:37 — Curse out husband’s new job.  Repeat.
  • 8:40 — Manipulate double stroller through day care entryway and begin the unloading process.  First, the baby and her supplies.  Then, the toddler and his stuff.  They are in separate rooms, of course.  Chat with caregivers about necessary instructions for the day and kiss kids goodbye. 
  • 8:52 — Catch glimpse of clock.  Feel early warning signs of stroke.

  • 8:53 — Trade cursory niceties with other parents, who don’t seem to be experiencing the same type of morning.  Ponder why this is the case.
  • 8:55 — Break into sprint, carefully (watch the ice!), for the subway station.  Check Blackberry with one hand while running.  Assess just how late work arrival will be.  Pray for expeditious subway experience.
  • 9:00 — Curse out the MTA for delayed and overcrowded subway.  Repeatedly.  Question if Mayor Bloomberg *really* rides the subway every day or if his PR people are, in fact, that good.
  • 9:35 — Arrive at desk in full sweat and without coffee. 
  • 9:37 — Begin the day.  Repeat at 5pm for day care pick up.

Isn’t city life glamorous?  My life in the burbs isn’t so bad on days like today.

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Filed Under: Borderline Neuroses, Family, New to Town, That Which Drives Me Crazy, Work Stuff 26 Comments

Farewell, Louie

February 8, 2011

My sister and brother-in-law lost their sweet, sweet dog Louie yesterday. 

He was lean and fast and strong, with a tail like a whip and a love of squirrel chases.  

But, despite his size, he was always like a pup in so many ways — a sweeter dog you could never find.  He whimpered when it thundered outside.  He crawled in your lap as if he weighed five pounds. 

He was loving and gentle, and gave lots of kisses — with a tongue the size of my head — which made my kids squeal. 

He played with our dog, Senor — who was a quarter of his size and speed — and treated him like an equal in their wrestling matches.  They were cousins and fast friends.  The canine David and Goliath.

He wasn’t my dog but it really hurts to lose him.  He was part of our extended family.  Louie, thanks for all of the joy and memories you brought to us.  We’ll miss you more than I can say.

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Outsourcing Life

January 24, 2011

{Photo courtesy: www.greenandcleanmom.org}

Imagine what you could get done with a personal assistant. 

Just indulge me for a minute.  It has been a long week.  (Wait, it’s Monday?)

It takes very little for the wheels to fall off the wagon around here.  I know it’s because I’m maxed out and trying to do two things equally well — working and parenting.  Ditto for my husband.  The good news is that we have not failed miserably at either of those tasks (yet), but who is doing all of the household stuff in between?  Who will make Operation Fordeville hum if we don’t have the time? 

{Surely you can make the time.  Many working moms do just that.}

OK, correction:  We technically have some time, somewhere.  I guess.  But, who would you rather hang out with in your time away from the office — your kids or your to-do list? 

So, here it is — my fantasy ad to make things run more smoothly.

* * *

WANTED:  Personal Assistant for a working mom on the edge of insanity.  Must be anal rententive, list-oriented and anticipatory.  Mind reading helpful. 

Daily responsibililties will include: 

  • Serve as point person for daily interaction with contractors, repairmen and prospective vendors on various improvement and renovation projects for 100 year-old house.  Conduct related due diligence and present findings/recommendations to employer.
  • Pay household bills in timely fashion and assemble report of spending trends as they relate to family budget.  Liaise with financial planner to ensure ongoing alignment on long-term retirement goals.
  • Handle all incoming mail management, including purging of family name from unwanted lists and physical removal of junk mail to avoid recycling pile the size of small tree.
  • Run various errands, including but not limited to: dry cleaning, grocery shopping, filling prescriptions, various returns of clothing items that don’t look as good in person as they did online, purchasing seasonal items that are consistently overlooked until it’s too late (shovels, sidewalk salt, sunscreen, rakes, family holiday cards, general Christmas preparation, etc.), and, importantly, the identification and purchase of all gifts for children’s friends’ birthday parties.
  • Retrieval and management of all pre-school documenation — permission slips, medical records, monthly tuition and endless RSVPs to birthday parties (see related item on gifts above).
  • Schedule, cancel and reschedule various family medical appointments as needed.
  • Undertake all outstanding home furnishing needs, including outdoor siding color options, replacing hideous ceiling fans and tacky gold entryway sconces that came with the house and finding the right end table for living room. Take initiative to find out what window treatments are all about and which ones employer requires to stop Family Fishbowl lifestyle in full view of neighborhood.
  • Serve as face of Fordeville to neighbors Monday through Friday, baking as necessary.  Participate, appropriately, in any neighborhood gossip sessions and report back full list of names with corresponding house numbers to employer, who still knows nobody on street eight months later.  
  • Present various family vacation options to employer after thorough research and site visits.
  • Ensure that the red and white wine household reserves are kept at an appropriately stocked level at all times.
  • Maintain employer’s real-life (non-Facebook, blog or Twitter) friendships by scheduling monthly girls’ night out or related activity to preserve employer’s sanity.  Also, coordination of babysitters now and then so employer and employer’s spouse may have a civilized meal out of the house and away from all sippy cups.
  • Conduct any and all household interaction with the New Jersey DMV.  No exceptions.

Necessary Qualifications:

Must have experience dealing with very well meaning Type A-yet-coming-undone employer who clocks little to no face time at home Monday through Friday; interaction with two children under age four, even when they wipe their noses on you; total respect for full time nanny; and utter love for a middle-aged snoring pug who begs for people food (please don’t give him any, unless he makes that really sad face when he twists his head to the side).  Ability to type 180 wpm on mobile devices a must.  Knowledge of crock pots and blog design a plus.

* * *

That should do it.  OK guys — now you’ve seen my Domestic Outsourcing Wish List.  What’s on yours?

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Filed Under: Family, Friends, New to Town, Project Colonial, Work Stuff 6 Comments

Crafts, No. Crafty, Yes.

January 22, 2011

My three and a half year-old son got to do two things this week that really rocked his world.

The first was bringing his parents to pre-school for Visitation Day.  In reality, it was Visitation Hour.  It was sweet — circle time, the songs, sharing the whole routine with all of the parents (the dad whose car I almost stole last week was not there, thankfully).  My son was assigned the calendar and weather job, which he loved and dutifully performed — further reinforcing my belief that he will grow up with the same affinity for tracking storm fronts as other people in my family (you know who you are).

Then it was craft time.

Can I just make a side confession?  We’re not craft people in Fordeville.  None of us.  Books?  Check.  Toys?  Of course.  Outdoor play?  We’re there.  But you’ll never find me spreading out an assortment of sticks, pine cones, glue and glitter for a rainy day project.  Maybe if my kids showed interest, I would — and maybe, someday, that will be the case.  But now, they don’t even like the sight of a crayon — never mind cutting, drawing or gluing.  This could be my genetic contribution.  Craft stores freak me out.  The whole scrapbooking phenomenon leaves me confused.  Jewelry making sounds dizzying.

But there we were, The Uncrafty Three, trying to make a simple cut out project.  My husband and I feigned interest for the sake of the group activity at hand, but my son was having none of it.  Let’s be clear:  If there is not a train, other vehicle or some type of novice engineering (paternal genetics at hand there) involved, no dice for him.  So he snuck off to the side with his dad to take on serious high-rise construction matters while I completed the craft trauma.

If my hands hadn’t been covered in glue, I would have taken a photo of our ridiculous family craft end product for your entertainment.  It could easily double as an All Points Bulletin to permanently keep me from ever leading any scouting troop in America.

I always find it fascinating to see how pre school teachers operate — and I love the women who teach at my son’s school.  They are doing God’s work with a room full of three year-olds and, in truth, getting my son to fall in line.  He has a pretty serious stubborn streak and they are great with him.  This picture cracks me up because my son (in the red shirt) is in his class line-up but he’s all, “Hey, let’s cause some trouble” with his accomplice in the rugby shirt — and that kid is all, “I can take a meeting next week to discuss this further.”

I loved seeing him in his element at school — he’s himself, both the good and the, uh, less obedient, but he’s also a little different — feeling out how to socialize, where his niche is — and, largely, how to avoid arts and crafts.  It was great.

The second big to-do for him this week was our invitation to the third birthday party of my dear friend’s son in the city this morning.  We were excited to see them and celebrate — and also ride in on the train.  This journey on NJ Transit was like a Disney World vacation for my son.  He was utterly mesmerized.

Even if the noise got to him a little.

He was glued to the window, talking of tracks, hopper cars, quarries, smelters (don’t ask me — I’m still learning about this stuff).  Also, Jersey Haters, here’s some visual fodder for any stereotypes of the state that you have embraced.  Admittedly, this route is not our best foot forward.

The party was held at a DIY pottery place — which was so great — though it forced the Anti-Crafter to emerge for the second time this week. So he left me to paint his plaster stegosaurus, while the extent of his crafting was assessing the color composition of the M&Ms bowl.  But no matter, he loved the opportunity to torture everyone with his tales from the rails.

In all of our fun at the party, we ended up missing our train home, which meant having to kill an hour in Penn Station — not really Manhattan’s finest attraction.  On cold days, and particularly on weekends, all brands of Special Crazy come out of the woodwork there.  As far as I can tell, it’s where Giuliani exported all of the shadiness that he purged from Times Square.  And he sent the city’s collective smell of urine to reside there as well.  Good times.  In my head, I had just one prayer:  Please, God, please — Do not let this child tell me that he has to use the bathroom while we’re here.  I beg you.  I don’t have a HazMat suit in my bag.

But I’m not afraid to coat my kid in Purel from head to toe if I have to.

Thankfully, it didn’t come to that.  I distracted my son and his bladder with a cheesy NYC souvenirs store in the station to pass the time.  I told him he could choose one vehicle to take home, which he carefully considered for about six minutes.

It was a big decision.

He was in Transportation Heaven, while I tried to block out the distinct scent of pee.

But that’s OK.  I had two great events this week with my beloved genetic Anti-Crafting partner.

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Filed Under: Family, Places Near and Far 5 Comments

My Brush with Crime at Pre-School

January 15, 2011

{Photo: www.elcivics.com}

I stole a car from the pre-school parking lot yesterday.  Almost.  And accidentally. Luckily, my downward spiral into a life of crime was thwarted by my three year-old.  It all happened so fast.

Things were crazy at the end of this week and I just wasn’t in top form.  I took the baby with me to pick up my son from pre-school.  Usually I’m at work — but because my nanny was caring for her ill mother, I stayed home and was happy to get the chance to go to pick-up.  All of this is to say that I don’t really know the parents of my son’s classmates because I’m that mom they never see.  Anyway. 

The pre-school parking lot is an SUV flash mob — it’s almost comical.  Suburbia Central Casting.  You’d be hard-pressed to find a mid-sized vehicle without a third row.  

So I walk over to our car, which looks like every other car in the lot, and I open the back door (I left it unlocked).  It looks dirtier than usual to me and somehow just a bit off.  I couldn’t put my finger on it.  But my nanny drives it during the week, so the reality is that I’m not the best person to ask how it looks Monday through Friday.  So I didn’t think much of it.

I begin to load the  baby into the car seat and the straps aren’t fitting her.  And I start to have this moment of slow realization that something isn’t quite right, but my brain isn’t really catching up.  It’s cold and I’m getting pissed about adjusting the straps, and then I take a good look at the car seat — and something about it is different.  Really different.

It has flowers on it.  Our car seat doesn’t have…

“Mommy, this isn’t our car,” says the three year-old.

Oh my God.  It’s not our car.

{Oh my God.  Someone has a messier car than we do.  This is great news.}

And as I take my child out of the car seat that does not belong to us from the vehicle that is not registered to me, the whole silly episode would  have been done.  Except, as I closed the door, standing right there is the rightful owner of the car, waiting to place his daughter into her flowered car seat with the straps configured to her height and weight, not my daughter’s.  Oh, and it’s one of the parents from my son’s class — one who probably already thinks I’m a Phantom Absentee Parent.  And now also a novice car thief.  Perfect.

The look on his face was somewhere between disturbed and confused.  I have no idea what look was on my face but I can assure you it was no photo opportunity.

I apologize profusely and nervously stammer something about not being able to get far without the keys.  I then point to my own car, two spots over, which, in my defense, is the same model and color — just so he knows I’m not certifiable, or criminal.

My son’s friend then pipes up with:  “Why is your mommy trying to take our car?”

I wonder if this is a good time to ask about the next PTA meeting.  Probably not.  I decide against it and enter our legally owned vehicle, where the non-flowered car seat straps fit just fine.

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Filed Under: Family, New to Town, Places Near and Far 18 Comments

The Social Climber

January 8, 2011

 

Unlike many folks, I did not resolve to go to the gym this year. I don’t have to. You know why? It’s not that I don’t need the cardio and toning — it’s that I can get it right here at home on a program called Chase the Climbing 18 Month-Old.

People have said to me, “Oh, yes, my Johnny climbed up some things at that age. I remember.” OK, that’s nice, but — with all due respect to Johnny — that’s not what I’m talking about. My first child was like Johnny. That’s just normal — and sanity-preserving. My daughter, on the other hand, has taken the climbing to a whole new level.  I’m not saying she’s particularly gifted; I’m just saying that if you’ve ever had A Climber, you know what I mean.  And you’re probably ready to loan me a helmet or full-room padding right now.  (Thank you, I’ll take both.)

We live in a house where anything that is considered stackable now has to be monitored at all times because my daughter, much like a mini-MacGyver, can fashion a few sturdy toys, a pile of diapers and simple pantry goods (like boxes of pasta or rice) into teetering, precarious climbing rigs. 

Don’t they have that same lust for danger in their eyes?  And not dissimilar haircuts. 

Skeptical of my second born’s climbing abilities?  It’s true, I have no action photos to demonstrate my point.  I’m too busy trying to intercept her falls and am not talented enough to get a good picture at the same time.  I could invite you over to see for yourself, but you’ll have nowhere to sit — because I am on the verge of removing all chairs from my home.  She stands on the chairs, lets go and looks me in the eye — while swaying — as if to say “Quick, catch me before I hit the ground.  I trust you.”  Sprinting, lunges and sweat ensue on my end.  See?  No gym necessary for me.

And what she has gained in climbing she has not lost in ground speed.  One moment, she’s standing next to me and, the next, sitting up on the kitchen table.  Last week, she attempted to scale the innards of the dishwasher, using the racks as her footholds.  And, for added effect, she grabbed a steak knife on the way up — just for laughs (which she promptly got out of my three year-old).

Me:  Sprinting, lunging, sweating, heart racing.  It’s like circuit training (I hear).  If I just put on a pair of those crazy Shape Up shoes, my workout will be complete.  I will be bikini-ready in no time, all accomplished within the comfort of my home.

Bookcases?  Perfect for scaling walls.  Dressers with the drawers pulled out?  She’s going right up.  It’s like living with Spiderman, and, I fear, quickly becoming as dangerous as the current Broadway production.

The next question is why she has not yet tried to climb out of her crib.  I don’t know.  Maybe she is having some mercy on her old mother (at times like this it’s obvious that becoming a parent in my early 20s would have been advantageous).  Anyway, it’s clearly just a matter of time, and I am stretching and warming up to prepare.

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Filed Under: Family 11 Comments

Off to a Good Start

January 1, 2011

For the first Fordeville breakfast of 2011, we done good.  Two words: Monkey Bread. 

(For foodie blogs and multi-course New Year’s Day brunch ideas, see Google.) 

Anyway, this is Year Two in what I am determined to make an ongoing and gooey New Year’s Day tradition (you know, for the kids…).  I don’t normally bake up a diabetic trigger cake for breakfast, so we’ll put this under the special and rare occasion category.  It’s also not bad for a hangover. I don’t happen to have one this year but, you know, it’s always good to be prepared for such a predicament on New Year’s Day.

Monkey bread is super easy. And super good for you (I’m absolutely lying). If you’ve never participated in the corruption of crescent rolls like this, you’re missing out (no lie).

Even if it does look kind of like a human brain. 

And, yeah, that’s a rubber wine stopper left over from last night in the back of the photo.  And an Elmo book.  Add in the monkey bread and we’ve got the trifecta of domesticated bliss.

So, if you haven’t gone on a diet for 2011, here’s the recipe.

  • Pre-heat oven to 350.
  • Spray a bundt pan with Pam (Am I the only one who has that Big Fat Greek Wedding moment whenever a bundt pan is introduced into conversation?).
  • Mix in a large ziploc bag:  1 cup sugar, 1 teaspoon cinnamon.
  • In a small saucepan, stir together over low flame:  1 stick butter (told you it was good for you),  1 cup brown sugar, 1 teaspoon vanilla.
  • Cut in quarters:  Four cans of refrigerated biscuits.
  • Place the cut biscuit pieces in the ziploc bag and shake with sugar and cinnamon until fully blended.  This is the part the kids love.  Just make sure that bag is sealed.  (Aside: I’m told that raisins or nuts can be added to the bag but it’s not my thing.  I try to sneak in semi-sweet chocolate chips sometimes for that extra non-healthy punch, but P protests.  Just saying, worth thinking about.)
  • Arrange cut biscuits in the bundt pan.
  • Heat butter, sugar and vanilla until just bubbling.  Pour over biscuits.  Bake 30 minutes.  When done invert immediately onto raised sided dish.
  • Go jogging.  Far and fast.
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Filed Under: Family, Food & Drink, Holidays 4 Comments

Auld Lang Syne

December 30, 2010

“What does this song mean? My whole life, I don’t know what this song means. I mean, ‘Should old acquaintance be forgot?’ Does that mean that we should forget old acquaintances, or does it mean if we happened to forget them, we should remember them, which is not possible because we already forgot?” — When Harry Met Sally

2010, I don’t want to part with you.  You were good to me, and I am so grateful.  With you, I saw all of this happen:

  • We moved out of the city and became suburbanites.  Although P claims I left claw marks at the Lincoln Tunnel when leaving my city life, I couldn’t be happier in our house.  This also meant my return to driving a car — fellow motorists of NJ, sorry about that.
  • Our daughter went from sweet little infant to crazy, climbing, mind-of-her-own toddler who is (in a genetically inexplicable turn of events) obsessed with shoes and bags.  And cute as hell every step of the way.
  • Our son rolled with the change of moving homes and two new schools.  His imagination exploded and I love to hear his stories unfold every day.  He also mastered potty training (OK, so it took almost all of 2010 and cut years from my life, but in the end, we got there).  And, in a trend that I expect I’ll continue to report in upcoming years, he continues to be obsessed with trains.
  • Fordeville came to life in this very space.  A very big development for me, even if only four or so people read it (thanks, Mom, and three random car buffs who came here accidentally after googling “De Ville” and promptly left).
  • And, most importantly, our loved ones are healthy, our friends are dear to us, we are both employed and life is good.

Did bad things happen?  Sure.  Dramas, change and general chaos reared their ugly heads a fair amount but I can’t complain.  Really, I can’t.  And although my grandmother passed away this year, we were grateful for the long and healthy life she had.  Grateful for getting to see her that last day.  And grateful that she did not suffer.

So, 2011, I see you peering around the corner.  And I won’t lie to you — I am hesitant.  I don’t like change.  And, in a freakish but entirely true admission, I don’t like odd-numbered years and am especially afraid of prime numbers.  I prefer my numbers even — from passcodes to roulette picks, you’ll rarely find an odd, and certainly not a prime, number from me.  I can’t explain it but please know that 12 months of 2011 is freaking me out a bit. 

Anyway, filed under “things I cannot change,” I will have to embrace 2011 soon enough, or at least cordially shake its hand until we get to know each other a bit better and see what’s in store.  I resolve not to list any formal resolutions but here are a few things I’m thinking about tackling to make 2011 a good year.

  • Be greener.  I can’t promise any homegrown compost or swear to a minimalist lifestyle but I will say goodbye to plastic bags forever, be more conscious of consumption and think about other easy and meaningful ways to stop being an eco-terrorist (yes, that means the end of my beloved 1.5 liter Poland Springs bottle habit).
  • More tech stuff, please.  This was the year of the Facebook, the FourSquare and the Fordeville for me (the tweet was 2009), as well as the loss of my Apple virginity via iPhone and, now, iPad.  Pretty good progress.  But let’s see what’s next (Tumblr, I’m looking at you) or how to make these things work together better.  Or how to wed my gadgets into better “make life easier” co-existence.  Because this seems stupid.  
  • Be less digital  — sometimes.  Whatchoo talkin about Willis?  You just said to amp it up next year.  Yes, but I’ve got to step away from the online life when I’m with my kids.  That whole balance thing — never was my strong suit.  Being more present for them is something I can’t imagine regretting someday, even if I do miss your awesome tweet, email or Facebook post in the meantime.
  • On a related note, I will slow the fuck down (also, see “clean up my language” under past failed resolutions).  This year was 500 mph.  Every day.  The breathing room was little to none.  And though I’ve always thought that I thrive this way, maybe I don’t.  Because the sad truth is that I am missing things that are right under my nose.  And not just paying a bill on time because I can’t find it (again).  I mean the real stuff that life is made of.  Note to self in 2011:  Stop missing it.
  • A return to current movies, books and music — ones that don’t revolve around toddlers. Enough said.
  • Cook more.  By “cook,” I mean the use of the big appliance on the bottom, not the one with all the buttons and the rotating dish on the top.  I know how, trust me — I just, well, went 500 mph too often. 
  • Oh yeah, and get in better shape.  I’m not out to lose a bunch of weight but just be a more fit person.  Make the time for it regularly instead of that ad hoc run. (Running for the train in heels doesn’t count anymore.)

So, 2011, that’s what I’m thinking.  I hope you have good plans for me too. Let’s try to get along for the next year because, prime number fear or not, we’re stuck with each other for a bit. 

How about you guys?  Anything you want to unofficially resolve to do?  Don’t worry, I won’t hold you to it.

Happy New Year to you and yours.

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Filed Under: Family, Friends, Holidays, Tech Bits, To-Do Lists Extraordinaire 15 Comments

Transitions and Distractions

December 27, 2010

I have always found it difficult to transition out of big events. Or even just weekends.  I get the Sunday night blues pretty easily and find that first day back to the office after Labor Day to be such a sad marker to end the summer.  So you can imagine what the end of Christmas does to me.  Yes, even after all the craziness, planning and exhaustion, I do love the season and it’s hard for me to let it go. Well, this year I had two sizeable distractions to redirect my mind from boxing, gift receipts and clean up. 

First was the Great Fordeville Vomitfest of Dec 26. I’ll spare you the gruesome details — I think you get it (but remember the pie-eating contest scene in “Stand By Me”?) — and suffice it to say that my husband and son were hit hard and fast.  There was much laundry and Lysol involved.  I ‘m not yet ready to declare victory that the baby and I were spared but here’s to hoping. I felt like a Death Row inmate waiting for my day in the chamber to come.

And then there was the blizzard, or as the Twitterati called it, Snowpocolypse. I think we have just over two feet of snow here. But I enjoy this stuff. I get all sucked into the ongoing Storm Watch news coverage and just love how peaceful and pretty it is. But, then again, I’m not at an airport, going into labor or seeking out emergency dental work. I’m just home cleaning up after the puke aftermath, decontaminating with the zeal and care of a HazMat team. My poor husband, who emerged from 20 hours in bed to find we had moved to the Polar Ice Cap, is now recovered and, I suspect, missing our days in the city when we were not responsible for any snow clearance.   Does anyone have a snowblower we can borrow?

So with all of the unexpected activity of the last 36 hours, I didn’t get a chance to be sad that Christmas is over, though I have sought solace in the presence of massive leftovers.  But it was a great day, and my first large-scale family dinner went pretty well overall. The top things I learned (I realize these don’t apply to everyone):

–Getting dinner on the table always takes longer than you think.  Always.
–Load ’em up on appetizers (see dinner timing warning, above).
–A lot of planning ahead goes a long way.  I sound 80 but whatever.  It really helped to have a plan.
–This falls into the camp of highly obvious and probably just my problem, but you need more than one pie server.  Why do I own only one ? It’s unclear.  I love pie. And people love to bring pie.  My bad.
–Above all, and listen carefully here: Never, ever believe someone who says that he’s not sick, but he just ate something bad. Especially if that person has you over to his house on Christmas Eve.  Because, really, that person has a highly contagious stomach virus that will ultimately take out seven of his own relatives just 24 hours later.  Yeah, I’m a little bitter.

But enough about post-holiday vomit.  Back to the merriment recap.  Here are some photos of the big day.

I wish I had a better shot of the Christmas Eve luminaries that lit our entire street.  It was gorgeous.  A long-standing tradition in the neighborhood but it was our first year here, so we were stunned by the end result.

The kids all dressed up and ready to party — or tear open gifts.  And con endless amounts of junk food out of our relatives.

I thought I could pull off “retro/sparkly” with this centerpiece idea but it ended up looking a little tacky/cheapo instead.  After a few cocktails on Christmas, I think I described it as Martha Stewart hitting the crack pipe and unloading a CVS discount aisle into vases.  Oh well, I tried.

I’m not a girly girl but I do love a fancy holiday dress on my daughter.  And this one I adored.  She was twirling around in it all night and I really had a few moments when I knew I never wanted to forget how she looked this Christmas at 17 months old and loving life.

After hours of adoring his new Thomas the Train tent, my son passed out and said goodnight to Christmas right there.  Too cute.

The puking men bounced back, ate food and began the formidable task of shoveling.  Notice the height of the snow next to my 3 year-old.

And I’ll leave you with this — because nothing says blizzard like a baby stuffed into a sumo-like snowsuit and deposited atop a large drift.

Now, back to the business of shoveling, transitioning out of 2010 — and finishing the Christmas leftovers.

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Santa’s Sandwich

December 16, 2010

{Photo courtesy NYC Food Guy}

I was thinking about Christmas traditions.  This, of course, brings my mind to cookies (it’s easy for me to bridge quickly from any given topic to baked goods). Did you all leave milk and cookies for Santa as a kid?

We didn’t.  In our house, we were raised to leave Santa an Italian hero on Christmas Eve.  Seriously.

If you’ve never had a real Italian hero, well — that’s a whole other discussion for another day (and you have my sympathy, by the way).  But my mom used to make them a lot when we were kids, mainly because my father loved them.  She piled up the meats, the cheese, some shredded lettuce, oil and vinegar.  Amazing.

So how stupid were my sisters and I not to put the pieces together?  It’s like a basic 2nd grade workbook problem:

  • Dad loves Italian heroes. 
  • Santa loves Italian heroes. 
  • Dad and Santa were under the same roof Christmas Eve. 
  • Therefore, Santa must be…
  • (Come on, girls, you can figure this out)

Nope, we were clueless.

Maybe my parents billed it that Santa couldn’t run on cookies all night and needed a real meal (or sandwich) at some point in his travels.  Maybe it was about food for the reindeer.  But, if I’m really honest with myself, I don’t think they had to sell it at all.  I think we just believed them because leaving that Italian hero on Christmas Eve was what we always did.

 And that’s what I like about tradition — you don’t question it because it’s just the way it’s done your family.  It’s not until we’re older that we compare notes with the real world and realize that our way might have been wonderfully different, a little quirky, pretty naive or — in some cases — just a bit off kilter (see Competitive Post-Thanksgiving Gaming).

But I like the story of Santa’s sandwich and, as my kids grow up, I wonder what variations we’ll bring into our own Christmas traditions — and whether I should buy some sopressata, cheese and a 6-foot roll this week.

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Filed Under: Family, Food & Drink, Holidays 9 Comments
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