Are We There Yet?

July 13, 2011

We made it to Pluto North Carolina.  I say that with no disrespect to this beautiful place or its people — I just mean that it felt like the longest trip in the history of mankind, as I feared.

No, worse than I feared.  I’ll tell you why.  Because I tend to overshare.

Everything started out just fine.  The engineer husband, as usual, packed with impeccable precision.  Our trunk looked like an advanced level game of Jenga.

We were ready for the open road.  For our adventure.  Bring it.

And then our momentum was kind of deflated at a traffic standstill just 30 miles from home.  Which was discouraging.  The kids got restless.  I started to stare at the (un)moving blue GPS dot on my map and tried to will it to go faster.  Maybe it was broken, I thought. My kids must get the unpatient gene from me.  Just a guess.

Turns out that slow-going was to be the least of our issues.  My two year-old, as you may have read in the past, really is consistent and hates to miss an opportunity to vomit for any major holiday, getaway or other important occasion.  So of course she didn’t disappoint somewhere near the DC Beltway.  I thought it was a political statement at first but then she repeated the episode in Virginia.  Two more times. 

So when we rolled in to the Richmond area at the end of the first leg, she was on her fourth outfit and I was kind of beside myself. 

357 miles.  Four stops.  Three pukes.  Eight and a half hours. 

No wine.

Well, at least we got her out of the car for the night.  I figured that now we knew we had a car sick-prone kid in the family.

Except she wasn’t car sick after all.  As evidenced by the land-bound vomiting in the hotel room that next morning. 

There’s really nothing like 1) having someone get sick in a hotel room that starts to feel like prison after a few such episodes and 2) knowing you have to put a kid with a virus in the car for another four hours. Unless you want to live in the Fairfield Inn.

So, once she seemed a bit better, we threw ourselves at the mercy of the Road and Vomit Gods and set off for the second leg.  Not without some dread. 

That blue dot wasn’t moving quite fast enough for my taste.

Speaking of legs, let me not steal all the pity.  The whole trip was down to a last-minute “go or no go call” Friday night when my 13 year-old niece broke her leg and almost needed surgery.  But she avoided going under the knife, and her parents + three siblings packed her in the car with a hip-to-toe cast to make the trip.  How’s that for adventurous? 

Anyway, I’m happy to report that Day Two to Pluto went much better.  Because we fucking earned it after Day One.  The kids slept more than half the drive, nobody got sick and I even got my husband to turn off his heinous Sirius stations for a bit. 

We were told the drive would all be worth it.

And it totally was. 

It’s so beautiful here.  The house we rented is amazing.  The beach is glorious.  I don’t see any hurricanes in the forecast.  And I’m glad to report that, apart from the ride, my list of concerns has not produced any other issue. 

So there’s just one question remaining:  Who’s going to airlift us home at the end of the week?

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Filed Under: Family, Holidays, Places Near and Far 17 Comments

Pre-Vacation Stress: A Top 10 List

July 6, 2011

I’m one of those annoying people who gets stressed out before vacations. At least when my kids are involved.  Which is usually the case, since there’s no Maria Von Trapp in sight to watch them and make clothing out of curtains while we whisk ourselves away.

In just a few days, we’re getting in the car and driving to The Outer Banks. That’s at least ten hours by car.

Ten hours. Without traffic. Each way.

I realize that many people do the long-drive-with-kids-thing all the time.  This will be our first attempt.  And I’m skeptical.  Because, I don’t know about you guys, but my kids are not what I’d call road warriors. In fact, they often make me a little crazy just driving within a five mile radius of our home. But in a moment of either insanity or drunkenness, I overlooked this detail.

And now departure time is drawing near.  So here are the Top 10 Points of Concern (not necessarily in order):  

1.  The drive. As I mentioned. And no, we don’t have a DVD player in the car. But my engineer husband has assured me that he has fashioned some sort of homemade contraption to keep our iPad in place for optimal kids’ viewing. I am picturing some balsa wood and a bungee cord.

2.  The packing. I hate packing. And I since I like to have options, I tend to overpack — which results in a lot of stuff.

3.  The mountain of laundry that, despite all my staring and willfulness, just won’t wash and fold itself.  Don’t the shiny new front loaders have that feature?  I need to get some of those.

4.  The fact that there is a birthday in this family to be celebrated between now and then. A birthday belonging to a certain youngest child.  And that means I need to get on the stick and ensure that merriment ensues.

5.  The dread of my husband’s horrible Sirius radio stations never going out of range on the drive.

6.  Did I mention the drive?

7.  The more-than-casual curiosity about the availability of wi-fi. You know, because I start to twitch if there’s no signal. Yes, I know it’s America and all. But you just can’t be sure.  It would be reckless of me to prematurely rule out the need to tweet using carrier pigeons.

8.  Bringing the translucent-white, pasty skin of my whole family ten hours closer to the equator. (See also: Where is the closest natively grown aloe plant?  Or ER?)

9.  Can the blender at the rental property handle the amount of alcoholic concoctions I plan to prepare and consume, or will a back-up generator of sorts be necessary?

10.  How many baby gates defines crazy? My daughter is still a stair risk, and this house — as far as I can tell from the photos — has about 367 steps encompassing multiple levels.

Here’s the thing.  It’s all going to be great.  We are sharing the house with my brother-in-law, sister-in-law and their four kids.  This fact has not been revealed to my children because they will spontaneously combust with excitement.  And they will also pepper the ten-plus hour drive with questions about the color of their cousins’ bathing suits, who will get first pass at the Teddy Grahams and who is bunking together. 

So the aunt/uncle/cousins component will be in the “pleasant surprise upon arrival” category.  Right after we exhaust the “Why the hell are we still in the car and where are we going?” category.

The point is that, despite my preparation anxiety, everyone gets along famously and we’re going to have a fabulous week. 

Once the laundry is all done.  Once the birthday girl blows out her candles.  Once the balsa wood/bungee  contraption is built.  Once I figure out how to block the 80s British Pop station from Sirius. 

And once I pack the industrial-sized blender.  Just in case.

 

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

Spaghetti Western

April 19, 2011

I called my father last night for his birthday.  He’s not a big phone talker, so we had our usual 5-7 minute catch-up.  As we were wrapping up, I asked him about making plans for his annual visit to our house.  We both agreed that we’d aim for late August, and then he qualified it with this casual, throwaway detail:

“That should work, but I have to check and see when I might be helping my buddy do some digging for gold.”

Right. 

Of course. 

Because, why wouldn’t you have to check your gold digging schedule?

Here’s the thing.  My dad is a transplanted cowboy.  Without a lasso or a horse.  He’ s a guy from Brooklyn and New Jersey who, in his 30s, began a love affair with the State of Montana. It started with fly fishing trips.  Then hunting and skiing.  It was him and some other mid-life-crisis pals (remember the movie City Slickers?).  Then he brought my mom a few times (not really her thing).  After a few years, he knew the lay of the land well enough that it was just him and the locals on his return trips.  He sort of became an honorary citizen — Fake Cowboy in one part of his life, New York City General Contractor in another. 

This went on for the better part of two decades, with increasing frequency.  He made it clear that he’d retire there.  And, true to his word, off he went about eight years ago.  Now, he fishes some of the most beautiful and revered rivers whenever he wants.  He’s a licensed river guide, which means he’s now the local who brings the visiting City Slickers fly fishing.  He has come full circle. 

The last time I was there was about six years ago with P, and my father took us on a day trip out on the Madison River.  In my mind, a river is, well, a narrow little body of water.  But this — this — was majestic.  I’m no nature gal — I prefer sidewalks and cities — but it was abundantly clear why they call it Big Sky Country. 

He knew exactly where to spot the wildlife.  He knew all the best spots to catch the fish — depending on the direction of the wind.   He tried to teach us.  Let me tell you, fly fishing is incredibly difficult — and he made it look effortless.  I was watching him, standing alone, waist-high in the river, weaving that fishing line like a gorgeous ribbon in the air.  And I thought about how these were the same hands that parallel parked a truck in Manhattan every day. The same hands that pointedly made deal after deal to run a business that stayed in his family for many years. 

These hands had moved on to fishing.  And pointing at mountain lions.  And to driving open, gravel roads.

As I was thinking about this, out in the middle of the river, two guys float by on another boat, see my dad, and address him by name.  As if they expected just to see him there, ribbon and all.  We were a good 40 miles from his house.  The man is a fixture on the river. 

When he took us to Yellowstone, he knew every bend in the road, every fire-swept part of the park, every body of water — all of them had a story from his many visits there over the years. 

When he needed six arteries bypassed urgently about four years ago, he opted to do it in Montana.  I couldn’t understand, could not fathom, why he wouldn’t go to Denver or Seattle — somewhere close enough to travel safely and yet slightly more renowned for such a complex surgery.  Thinking back on it, I think he wanted to face any potential mortality issues right there, near the place he now calls home (he’s fine now, don’t worry). 

His life back here in New York and New Jersey is all but unrecognizable at this point — apart from his family, he no longer relates to it.  Yes, he misses The New York Post, the good Chinese food and having something other than Wal Mart open 24 hours.  But the pace, the lifestyle, the attitude and possibly the house pet (who may or may not be a now-domesticated bobcat of sorts) — he’s all Montana now.  Even if he looks more than a little like an Italian gangster out of central casting.

He golfs.  He takes part-time delivery jobs.  He tells you that the traffic on the Madison River moves faster than that on Madison Avenue.  And, apparently, he digs for gold. 

It’s funny.  I’ve never had a place like that in my soul — a place I visited and knew I had to live in at some point, had to make part of me.  I’ve lived my entire life in the Northeast, and most of it in the NYC vicinity.  I’ve traveled far and wide, and I’ve had places speak to me and loudly beg me to return.  But not to return permanently. 

I envy him in this respect — taking action to re-invent himself and lay new roots.  I swear, it has added years — if not decades — to  his life.  And, while I wish he lived closer and I wish my kids knew him better, I admire the loyalty he’s had to a place that has become so much a part of who he is.  It’s easy not to do what he did — we’re all busy getting through each day.  But for those people like him, who step back and say “I want to live my life somewhere else,” I tip my (non-cowboy) hat.

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Filed Under: Family, Places Near and Far, To-Do Lists Extraordinaire 21 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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Filed Under: Family, Food & Drink, Places Near and Far 16 Comments

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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Filed Under: Entertainment, Food & Drink, Places Near and Far 8 Comments

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.

———————–

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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Trippin’

March 7, 2011

Welcome to Friends of Fordeville Week.  Also known as Project Sunny & Slightly Tipsy Vacation.  Is it snowing in New Jersey while I’m gone?  That would make me a little happy.  And a little evil.

I promised you some fabulous guest bloggers while I take the week off.  I’m a woman of my word.  And to prove it, I’m kicking the festivities off with my favorite new blogger, The 21st Century Mrs — I’m so happy that has agreed to post for me.  If you aren’t reading her blog already, you are completely missing out.  Next you’ll tell me you haven’t eaten any chocolate today.  Get with the program, people.

Why should you love The Mrs?  Simply put, she’s funny as hell.  That’s not enough, you say?  OK, fine.  Check out her wacky, borderline-disturbing (in a good way) illustrations that prove her kick-ass wit beyond the shadow of a doubt. 

When she’s not confessing her fear of pregnant women or plotting her revenge against Jake Ryan, she’s tweeting — take note and follow her @21stcenturymrs.

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When I think about all of the things I learned when I was a kid, I feel like some critical details were unfortunately omitted, bits of advice I could have made good use of in the future. Things like: No one will ever care if you can’t write in cursive or don’t ever let your college roommate cut your hair. 

And here’s a big one: Being a kid on vacation is the sweetest experience you will ever have in your life. 

Think about it for a second.  When you were a kid and your parents took you on vacation, all you did was show up and have the best time of your life.

When you were a kid on vacation, there was no threat of school or homework, and all you did was play outside. In my case, most of this playtime took place on a beach somewhere, so my biggest worry as a kid on vacation was getting a sunburn. But I wasn’t even that concerned with a little red skin, because I didn’t even know what cancer was yet.

The thrill of traveling to a new place for relaxation or adventure is so intoxicating that, after years of vacationing with my parents, I have become addicted to vacations. 

And if I go too long without one, I start to look all bedraggled and sad.

But vacationing as an adult is just a shadow of the non-stop, fun-tacular time it was when you were a kid.

It might even be more trouble that it’s worth, but it’s better than sitting in your office or folding laundry at home—oh, and you’re probably ADDICTED to vacations, too. So you have to go or you could start to shake a little. (Because this is what the movies told me happens to addicts. And it looks pretty terrible.) 

Suddenly, you have to worry about paying for the vacation, finding a place to sleep that won’t give you bedbugs, dieting to avoid frightening others on the beach, booking and confirming rooms, and packing everything you own into small, airplane friendly luggage. I could go on with the “to dos,” but I might cry just thinking about the sharp contrast of childhood vacations to adult vacations.

The universe must know that it has robbed us of something magnificent, though, because it has created a silver lining to vacationing as an adult: cocktails.

Isn’t it strange how the virgin strawberry daiquiri you once begged your parents for as a child on vacation has become your adult-on-vacation refuge? 

My must-have vacation cocktail? Copious amounts of anything. I’m not picky. Although, I am partial to the kind of drinks that are available in fish bowls or margarita glasses the size of my head. But I really don’t care what you put in that glass, so long as it is strong. I’m trying to at once numb the memories of carefree vacations past and the knowledge of credit card bills with hotel charges to come in the future. 

As for what the lady of The Fordeville Diaries must record while she is vacationing? Originally, I was going to recommend Glee, because Gwyneth Paltrow is back for another appearance, and I love to hate Gwynnie. However, I might have to change my DVR recommendation to CNN—just record that shit all day—because given Charlie Sheen’s recent antics, it’s starting to feel like a foregone conclusion that he’ll wind up on a bell tower pretty soon. And none of us are going to want to miss that.

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Sand, Meet Toes

March 4, 2011

It’s finally here.  Vacation.

And while my kind relatives stay at our house to hang with the pug, we will be out in the sun.  Well, covered in hats, sensible sleeves and SPF 5,000 (residents of Fordeville tend to burn under a 50-watt bulb, so I take no chances — the look is sort of Beekeeper Chic). 

Anyway, the point is this:  We’re outta here, people.

I have no doubt that there will be many an entertaining nugget to share from vacationland, but I’ll do so afterwards.  Because I’m taking a week off from life.  That means from work.  From laundry and household upkeep.  From home renovation and decorating projects.  From everything but my family.  Oh, and not from cocktails.  OK, and probably not from The Twitter, because, well, I just can’t.  And it’s too much cruel fun to tweet real-time photos of my adventures (cue mass exodus of followers).  

So, where does this leave my six loyal readers?  Lest we fear the Earth will stand still on its axis without any new content (as if), I have lined up some fabulous guest bloggers to entertain you in my absence.  Friends of Fordeville, if you will.

My intention was to really span different types of writers here.  But they have two things in common:  Great writing and wit extraordinaire.  They consist of a newbie to the blogosphere, a broadcast journalist, a beer brewing aficionado and a seasoned parenting/mom blogger.  It’s a little like an updated line-up of this familiar crew. 

One of them even took me to a prom in 1989.  I won’t tell you which one — yet.  But it wasn’t the mom blogger. 

These fabulous folks have agreed to address some very critical issues in my absence.  Not Egypt.  Or malaria.  Or temporary custody of Charlie Sheen.  Or even the mastery of IKEA assembly instructions.

No, I’ve asked them to give serious thought to two questions — one meant to optimize my vacation, and the other meant to ease my transition back into real life when I come home. Because it’s all about me. Well, at least in this domain that I pay for.    

1)  What is your must-have vacation cocktail?   

2)  What show *must* I record on the DVR while I’m away?  

I told you, it’s heavy duty stuff. Because my life is, for better or worse, often reduced to a nice drink and some TV at the end of a long day. So I may as well operate in style and expand my horizons beyond a glass of Sauvignon Blanc and Keeping Up With the Kardashians PBS. 

So please welcome my bloggy friends while I’m gone. And wish me luck on the flight with The Two Toddlers Who Never Sit Still.

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