My ob/gyn has been urging me to get a "baseline" mammogram since I turned thirty-five. Not because she was particularly concerned about anything (she wasn't) or because I have a family history of breast cancer (I don't), but because she likes to err on the side of caution and wanted something to compare future films to.
It has been on the bottom of my "To Do" list for the past two years. Every time I crossed out completed items and rewrote the list, I would write "Get Mammogram" at the bottom, right after "Family Portrait" (another one of my recurring tasks). I was not afraid of the mammogram, I just didn't want to take my clothes off and put my boobs in a vice.
Anyway, I finally went on Tuesday and it wasn't so bad. Awkward, but not intolerable. And the technician explained that they often have to do callbacks, especially for younger women, because our breast tissue is denser and more fibrous, sometimes causing perfectly benign things to show up that still need to be re-examined. She told me not to be concerned if I get a callback, but I was too busy composing a blog post in my head in which I planned to make fun of the name of the imaging machine (the MAMMOMAT) and compare my ta-ta to a Panini sandwich.
I walked out of that imaging center and forgot I'd ever been there until the next day, when I got a phone call that there was something on my left girl which the radiologist wasn't seeing on my right girl. They wanted to take some more pictures of the girls. When could I come back? Immediately my heart dropped into my stomach cavity. I was going to die.
As much as the P-Dawg reassured me this kind of thing happens all the time - it's a screening test, after all - and that it's better to err on the side of caution, you know I was Googling "breast cancer at age 36 with no family history chances of dying from" all evening long. I had a fitful slumber and when I arrived at the imaging center the next day, the MAMMOMAT suddenly looked very sinister.
The technician said, "We're just going to get a few more images, this time with more compression" And I was like, "How long do I have? Four? Six months?"
But I obediently put my ta-ta on the shelf and a few moments later I discovered that "more compression" means "let's make a pancake." Then I sat down in the darkened room with my blue front-opening gown and a copy of People magazine and waited.
Finally, the tech returned and said, "The radiologist would like just a few more images. I'll be right back, but in the meantime, here's a pen and paper for you to start composing your Last Will and Testament." Did she really say that? I can't be sure.
More images followed. Then more waiting. My life flashed before my eyes. I remembered being three and handing my binky over to the garbage men, being attacked by Pooki the poodle at age four, and the time in fifth grade when I stole Jeannie Hojniki's Hello Kitty eraser.
The technician returned and said, "Doctor D. would like to go ahead and do an ultrasound" and that's all it took to convince me that I was not long for this world. So, still in my blue gown and holding my unread People magazine, I shuffled over to the ultrasound waiting area, where I sat alone for an hour, sweating bullets. By the time they called me into the ultrasound room, I had already written my own obituary and composed farewell letters to my children in my head.
The ultrasound was totally clear. The radiologist came in and told me that there had been a spot on one of my films which he suspected was just some dense tissue overlapping, but he wanted to be safe and rule out something more ominous, which he did. And that is very, very good. I do wish he had come in and told me all that before I had a chance to convince myself that I was mortally ill.
Tonight I am very thankful. And I thought I'd share my experience so that if anyone else out there ends up in the same situation, they might be spared a day of needless worry. I can't decide if I never want to get another mammogram again, or if I want to go back every week, just to be on the safe side.
And . . . I wish I could, for once, see the glass as half full instead of half empty, that I wasn't the kind of person who can go from sunshine and rainbows to the depths of despair in the space of thirty minutes.
Showing posts with label thirtysomethings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label thirtysomethings. Show all posts
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Friday, November 20, 2009
Gold Star
The violin lessons are going much better. I'm still just working on rhythm exercises and improving my bowing technique, but progress has definitely been made. Today my teacher said something along the lines of, "That was actually not too bad," but stopped short of giving me a sticker. And I know she has them.
It gives me immense pleasure to know that I am a full page ahead of a third grader who started around the same time as me in the Suzuki Level One violin book. The two of us are now in fierce competition, although he doesn't know I exist.
I can feel OK about my progress as long as I'm one step ahead of the eight-year-old, but the problem is that he gets away with a lot more than me by virtue of being cute and little. My teacher is always telling stories about the endearing mistakes little Peter Protégé is making, but something tells me that she isn't regaling her other students with tales of "the soccer mom who always forgets her checkbook."
It kind of sucks being the eager non-traditional student, like the middle aged lady in your college French class who always sat up front and asked tedious questions in her bad accent. You know, the one who was always forming a study group and wondering aloud if there was a homework assignment just as the bell rang and everyone else was hightailing it out of there?
That's me as a violin student: I am nothing if not earnest. I pore over YouTube clips of violin masters, practice diligently, work ahead in my book, ask a million questions, and marvel aloud at the awesome beauty of a single perfect note.
I would have hated myself as a twenty-year-old.
It gives me immense pleasure to know that I am a full page ahead of a third grader who started around the same time as me in the Suzuki Level One violin book. The two of us are now in fierce competition, although he doesn't know I exist.
I can feel OK about my progress as long as I'm one step ahead of the eight-year-old, but the problem is that he gets away with a lot more than me by virtue of being cute and little. My teacher is always telling stories about the endearing mistakes little Peter Protégé is making, but something tells me that she isn't regaling her other students with tales of "the soccer mom who always forgets her checkbook."
It kind of sucks being the eager non-traditional student, like the middle aged lady in your college French class who always sat up front and asked tedious questions in her bad accent. You know, the one who was always forming a study group and wondering aloud if there was a homework assignment just as the bell rang and everyone else was hightailing it out of there?
That's me as a violin student: I am nothing if not earnest. I pore over YouTube clips of violin masters, practice diligently, work ahead in my book, ask a million questions, and marvel aloud at the awesome beauty of a single perfect note.
I would have hated myself as a twenty-year-old.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Fiddling Around
So far, the best part about taking violin lessons is waltzing around town carrying a violin case and looking vaguely musical. The actual "learning how to play" bit is proving to be quite a challenge.
Did I listen when the first potential teacher I called, chuckling slightly under her breath, suggested I try cello or piano instead? Was I paying attention when she confided that playing violin is actually hard physical work? That proper form must be mastered before any real music making can begin? Did I pay heed when she explained that the hands of children who start playing at a very young age actually grow differently to accommodate the various string positions? That few adults have the time and stamina to take on the commitment that is violin?
I did not. I arched my brow and did the Z-snap. "Bring it, sistah!"
And that's how I ended up on a tree-lined street with ivy clad Tudor style houses last Friday, knocking on her door for my first ever lesson, a flimsy invisible fence separating me from the two pissed off attack dogs who were obviously trained to scare the crap out of housewives turned wanna be violinists.
The first thing I learned is that the violin is a high maintenance kind of gal - there' s a lot of rosin polishing, string tightening, and chin rest adjusting before one can even begin to think about making music. And when your instrument is finally ready (*snort*), it's time to get in play position.
But don't think you can hold the bow any which way and drag it across the stings willy-nilly, readers. The violin is a demanding luv-ah, and there's a special place in hell for players who don't practice good bow hold. Of course, once your gnarled thirty-six year old digits are finally in position, you must go directly to the nearest fire station to make sure you've installed yourself correctly. Then and only then can you begin to play. One note - the "A."
But you mustn't flap your arms all over tarnation like some kind of freak show carnival fiddler. Instead, move your forearm back and forth, as though opening a door - your elbow should remain almost stationery. There! Just like that. Now make sure the horsehair hits the string at an angle, like so, otherwise it sounds like you're skinning a cat. Pretty f*cking hard, eh? Try to do all this with a "light touch," even though you're concentrating so hard that your knuckles are turning bone white and it's everything you can do to hold in that fart. Now you're ready to play.
Despite not being especially supportive of my non-traditional student status, I think my teacher is pretty cool. She drinks tea, has a dry sense of humor and a little zen rock garden in her music room. She also makes you do yoga stretches before each lesson, which seems to run counter to the attack dogs, but who am I to question the mysterious violin subculture?
My only assignment for the next week is to practice holding the bow and striking the "A" string using proper form. If I get really good at playing the "A," I'm allowed to try another note, but I must not go nuts with it. My lesson was only a few days ago, and already I'm having trouble re-enacting the bow hold and arm movements my teacher showed me. Despite watching countless instructional clips on Utube and poring over the diagrams in my Level One Suzuki book, I feel like I'm just now getting acquainted with my opposable thumb.
Readers, it looks as though I've met my match. She's fifteen inches tall and weighs about a pound.
Did I listen when the first potential teacher I called, chuckling slightly under her breath, suggested I try cello or piano instead? Was I paying attention when she confided that playing violin is actually hard physical work? That proper form must be mastered before any real music making can begin? Did I pay heed when she explained that the hands of children who start playing at a very young age actually grow differently to accommodate the various string positions? That few adults have the time and stamina to take on the commitment that is violin?
I did not. I arched my brow and did the Z-snap. "Bring it, sistah!"
And that's how I ended up on a tree-lined street with ivy clad Tudor style houses last Friday, knocking on her door for my first ever lesson, a flimsy invisible fence separating me from the two pissed off attack dogs who were obviously trained to scare the crap out of housewives turned wanna be violinists.
The first thing I learned is that the violin is a high maintenance kind of gal - there' s a lot of rosin polishing, string tightening, and chin rest adjusting before one can even begin to think about making music. And when your instrument is finally ready (*snort*), it's time to get in play position.
But don't think you can hold the bow any which way and drag it across the stings willy-nilly, readers. The violin is a demanding luv-ah, and there's a special place in hell for players who don't practice good bow hold. Of course, once your gnarled thirty-six year old digits are finally in position, you must go directly to the nearest fire station to make sure you've installed yourself correctly. Then and only then can you begin to play. One note - the "A."
But you mustn't flap your arms all over tarnation like some kind of freak show carnival fiddler. Instead, move your forearm back and forth, as though opening a door - your elbow should remain almost stationery. There! Just like that. Now make sure the horsehair hits the string at an angle, like so, otherwise it sounds like you're skinning a cat. Pretty f*cking hard, eh? Try to do all this with a "light touch," even though you're concentrating so hard that your knuckles are turning bone white and it's everything you can do to hold in that fart. Now you're ready to play.
Despite not being especially supportive of my non-traditional student status, I think my teacher is pretty cool. She drinks tea, has a dry sense of humor and a little zen rock garden in her music room. She also makes you do yoga stretches before each lesson, which seems to run counter to the attack dogs, but who am I to question the mysterious violin subculture?
My only assignment for the next week is to practice holding the bow and striking the "A" string using proper form. If I get really good at playing the "A," I'm allowed to try another note, but I must not go nuts with it. My lesson was only a few days ago, and already I'm having trouble re-enacting the bow hold and arm movements my teacher showed me. Despite watching countless instructional clips on Utube and poring over the diagrams in my Level One Suzuki book, I feel like I'm just now getting acquainted with my opposable thumb.
Readers, it looks as though I've met my match. She's fifteen inches tall and weighs about a pound.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Yo-Yo (Ra)ma*
I'm thirty-six years old, and there are a lot of things I still want to do in life. Last weekend, after hearing the Cleveland Orchestra play Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, I decided I would learn to play the violin.
I took piano lessons as a kid, but the thing that got me in the end (besides laziness and inadequate wingspan) was that pesky bass clef. It's a very busy instrument, the piano, and my left hand never fully cooperated the way it was supposed to. I always pounded out the melody, fudged the harmony, and pumped the pedals with a leaden foot.
The violin, however, is a simple, unassuming instrument with a pittance of strings. So rudimentary is the violin, that you could probably play it with your hands tied behind your back. I was fairly certain it was the perfect instrument for me, and, lo! I had an opportunity to try it when I took the V-meister to see a school friend make her debut with the childrens' orchestra.
The concert was part of the family music series, and the kids in attendance were given the chance to try different instruments before the performance began. V-meister didn't want anything to do with any of it, but I couldn't stay away from the violin table. After circling it for several minutes, I finally asked one of the orchestra volunteers if I could give it a go, and she said, "Why not? You look about twelve" (Not really, but it was implied.)
Just between you and me, I half expected that violin to play itself. And so I was rather taken aback at how awkward it felt, how cumbersome . . . how . . . how . . . downright difficult it actually was. I couldn't even figure out how to hold the bow without the docent's assistance, much less guide my paws into position on the strings. And the sound it made when I finally managed to put it all together was absolutely pitiful. I handed the violin back and ran away.
But don't think for a minute that my musical dream has been dashed. The violin is all the more enticing because of the challenge it poses. And really, I just want tolearn how to hold the damn thing without poking myself in the eye with it play for my own pleasure and perhaps the P-Dawg's, who I plan to serenade by firelight (when I'm not busy hobnobbing with Franz Welser-Möst at Severance Hall, that is.)
* Cello, schmello
I took piano lessons as a kid, but the thing that got me in the end (besides laziness and inadequate wingspan) was that pesky bass clef. It's a very busy instrument, the piano, and my left hand never fully cooperated the way it was supposed to. I always pounded out the melody, fudged the harmony, and pumped the pedals with a leaden foot.
The violin, however, is a simple, unassuming instrument with a pittance of strings. So rudimentary is the violin, that you could probably play it with your hands tied behind your back. I was fairly certain it was the perfect instrument for me, and, lo! I had an opportunity to try it when I took the V-meister to see a school friend make her debut with the childrens' orchestra.
The concert was part of the family music series, and the kids in attendance were given the chance to try different instruments before the performance began. V-meister didn't want anything to do with any of it, but I couldn't stay away from the violin table. After circling it for several minutes, I finally asked one of the orchestra volunteers if I could give it a go, and she said, "Why not? You look about twelve" (Not really, but it was implied.)
Just between you and me, I half expected that violin to play itself. And so I was rather taken aback at how awkward it felt, how cumbersome . . . how . . . how . . . downright difficult it actually was. I couldn't even figure out how to hold the bow without the docent's assistance, much less guide my paws into position on the strings. And the sound it made when I finally managed to put it all together was absolutely pitiful. I handed the violin back and ran away.
But don't think for a minute that my musical dream has been dashed. The violin is all the more enticing because of the challenge it poses. And really, I just want to
* Cello, schmello
Tuesday, September 08, 2009
Whistleblower
We were all in the car yesterday heading to a Labor Day picnic and the V-meister was chattering about What She Wants to Be When She Grows Up. She's enamored of the P-Dawg lately and alternates between wanting to be a doctor or a veterinarian.
She could not have been more impressed on the handful of occasions when he's taken her to the office or the hospital, where the V-meister was allowed to color in the physician's lounge and granted unlimited access to cookies and PBSkids.org at the nurses' station while her father finished up rounds. (I was home eating bonbons and watching The View, of course)
***************************************************************************
V-meister: "When I grow up, I'm going to be a veterinarian and I will take my children with me to work."
Me: "That sounds excellent!"
(pause)
V-meister: "Mama, I really want YOU to be something when you grow up, too!"
(!)
also:
(Crap!)
P-Dawg: "Mama is something. But she's taking a little break from it now to help you and your brother grow up."
V-Meister: "Well . . . what is she?"
Me: "I'm sitting right here, you guys."
P-Dawg: "She's . . . a writer!"
V-Meister, skeptical: "Does she still know how to write?"
Me: "YES! YES, I DO!" (Probably. Maybe.)
V-Meister, unconvinced: "Well. That's good."
*****************************************************************************
Ouch.
You know what? I wasn't really stung by the fact that my daughter does not yet (will she ever?) recognize mothering as valuable work, but rather because dammit! I still want to BE SOMETHING when I grow up.
"This is total bull$hit."
She could not have been more impressed on the handful of occasions when he's taken her to the office or the hospital, where the V-meister was allowed to color in the physician's lounge and granted unlimited access to cookies and PBSkids.org at the nurses' station while her father finished up rounds. (I was home eating bonbons and watching The View, of course)
***************************************************************************
V-meister: "When I grow up, I'm going to be a veterinarian and I will take my children with me to work."
Me: "That sounds excellent!"
(pause)
V-meister: "Mama, I really want YOU to be something when you grow up, too!"
(!)
also:
(Crap!)
P-Dawg: "Mama is something. But she's taking a little break from it now to help you and your brother grow up."
V-Meister: "Well . . . what is she?"
Me: "I'm sitting right here, you guys."
P-Dawg: "She's . . . a writer!"
V-Meister, skeptical: "Does she still know how to write?"
Me: "YES! YES, I DO!" (Probably. Maybe.)
V-Meister, unconvinced: "Well. That's good."
*****************************************************************************
Ouch.
You know what? I wasn't really stung by the fact that my daughter does not yet (will she ever?) recognize mothering as valuable work, but rather because dammit! I still want to BE SOMETHING when I grow up.
"This is total bull$hit."
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Girl, You Know It's True
The P-Dawg once told me that doctors know we lie to them. There is even a formula of sorts for gleaning the truth out of answers to questions such as, "How many drinks do you typically have per week?" ("one or two" = "three or four") and "Are you using birth control?" ("Yes" = "No")
Shocking.
I had my annual ladyparts checkup a few weeks ago. Just as my physician was preparing to exit after our three minute encounter, I pulled out a scroll with a bulleted list of discussion items for the two of us to review at leisure. One thing I wanted to interrogate her on was the potential for a new medication I'm taking to cause weight gain. (It has already dissed my blog and killed off my houseplants.)
Rimarama: "Just a few questions before you go! The internet told me that I could totally blimp out on this drug, even though the manufacturer's label says otherwise. Have you seen this happen with your other patients and if so, please comment."
Doctor D: "Are you getting regular exercise?"
In my head, I tallied up the number of times I'd walked out to the mailbox during the last month, and then I said, "Uh . . . yeah! Totally!"
Then, in her head, the good doctor plugged my answer into the formula and said, ""If you don't watch it, you have the potential to gain forty pounds and NEVER TAKE IT OFF AGAIN. But keep up the diet and exercise! And go get that baseline mammogram I recommended last year."
Thus I began a strict exercise regimen which includes arigorous cardio workout nine three days per week and the contortion of my body into gravity defying Pilates poses on the days in between. I've been doing this for about a month now and I've actually gained two pounds. On the other hand, if you tried to punch me in the stomach, your fist would crumple like a tin can.
(And if you were to ask me how often I'm exercising, I'd tell you, "Every waking hour of the day, are you calling me a liar?")
Shocking.
I had my annual ladyparts checkup a few weeks ago. Just as my physician was preparing to exit after our three minute encounter, I pulled out a scroll with a bulleted list of discussion items for the two of us to review at leisure. One thing I wanted to interrogate her on was the potential for a new medication I'm taking to cause weight gain. (It has already dissed my blog and killed off my houseplants.)
Rimarama: "Just a few questions before you go! The internet told me that I could totally blimp out on this drug, even though the manufacturer's label says otherwise. Have you seen this happen with your other patients and if so, please comment."
Doctor D: "Are you getting regular exercise?"
In my head, I tallied up the number of times I'd walked out to the mailbox during the last month, and then I said, "Uh . . . yeah! Totally!"
Then, in her head, the good doctor plugged my answer into the formula and said, ""If you don't watch it, you have the potential to gain forty pounds and NEVER TAKE IT OFF AGAIN. But keep up the diet and exercise! And go get that baseline mammogram I recommended last year."
Thus I began a strict exercise regimen which includes a
(And if you were to ask me how often I'm exercising, I'd tell you, "Every waking hour of the day, are you calling me a liar?")
Thursday, July 23, 2009
I Took a Vacation
I've been on vacation, my peeps. As you may have surmised, I went AWOL on the blog, but I also took a couple of trips, including one with family and a group of good friends on Lake Michigan:
The blue house is where we stayed.
V-meister on the beach where we played.
J-dog reveling in the feeling of wet sand between his toes.
Rima and P-Dawg Jolie-Pitt-Rama
Rima "Baywatch" Rama.
My friend Vida at the dinner table, eagerly anticipating the evening's repas of wagyu steaks, lemon chive smashed potatoes and fresh greens. Her husband, Chef V, cooked our fabulous dinners. While the men gathered 'round the kitchen island to keep him company, we ladies sipped adult beverages out on the deck:
"We don't cook, but we do chill."
One day we went cherry picking, and V baked this pie:
It was the best pie I ever put in my pie hole.
Evenings, we'd sing by the fire pit while Derek played guitar:
We made wreaths out of wildflowers.
And danced ancient Lithuanian folk dances by twilight.
It was the kind of vacation I've wanted to take ever since V-meister and J-dog were born: a large house, a beach, good friends, good food, good drink, and sunkissed children scampering about. Bliss!
In short, I've simply been enjoying myself and seeing to it that my kids have the lazy, unregimented kind of summer I remember from my own childhood - full of slow as molasses mornings, picnics, sprinklers, sandboxes, sidewalk chalk, afternoons at the pool, ice cream, and morning cartoons.
It's been good. But I've been thinking . . .
"Perhaps I should dust off the old blog."
Some photos in this post were unabashedly pilfered from the Facebook pages of my friends.
The blue house is where we stayed.
V-meister on the beach where we played.
J-dog reveling in the feeling of wet sand between his toes.
Rima and P-Dawg Jolie-Pitt-Rama
Rima "Baywatch" Rama.
My friend Vida at the dinner table, eagerly anticipating the evening's repas of wagyu steaks, lemon chive smashed potatoes and fresh greens. Her husband, Chef V, cooked our fabulous dinners. While the men gathered 'round the kitchen island to keep him company, we ladies sipped adult beverages out on the deck:
"We don't cook, but we do chill."
One day we went cherry picking, and V baked this pie:
It was the best pie I ever put in my pie hole.
Evenings, we'd sing by the fire pit while Derek played guitar:
We made wreaths out of wildflowers.
And danced ancient Lithuanian folk dances by twilight.
It was the kind of vacation I've wanted to take ever since V-meister and J-dog were born: a large house, a beach, good friends, good food, good drink, and sunkissed children scampering about. Bliss!
In short, I've simply been enjoying myself and seeing to it that my kids have the lazy, unregimented kind of summer I remember from my own childhood - full of slow as molasses mornings, picnics, sprinklers, sandboxes, sidewalk chalk, afternoons at the pool, ice cream, and morning cartoons.
It's been good. But I've been thinking . . .
"Perhaps I should dust off the old blog."
Some photos in this post were unabashedly pilfered from the Facebook pages of my friends.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
I'll Take That as a Complement
I always wore glasses as a kid. And I'm fairly certain that my gargantuan, chablis-tinted plastic frames, coupled with a short, cross-gender haircut - which I liked to wear feathered and parted straight down the middle (not pictured) - were my main obstacles to social superstardom.Ninth grade saw salvation and gradual peer acceptance in the form of contact lenses, the kind that would routinely pop out as I went about my daily business. Still, rooting around the bathroom floor searching for your contacts beat the hell out of getting stuffed into your locker by Frank Snodgrass.
Alas, my glasses reprieve was short lived. They served me well through high school and college, then all of a sudden*, I just couldn't wear them comfortably anymore. I haven't worn them regularly for over ten years now, and it really chaps my hide. Because even though I have a decent pair of virtually weightless Swiss specs that are the least obvious pair of glasses I've ever owned, they still give me a bit of a complex. Whatever! Things could be worse.
Every once in awhile, I'll put in my daily wear disposable contacts on the off chance that my dessicated, renegade eyeballs decide to cooperate, but it's usually only a matter of hours before I peel them off and flush them down the toilet in disgust. I had them in today, and as I was going through the supermarket checkout line, the cashier says to me:
"You have such a pretty face!"
Me (blushing): "Oh! Thanks!"
Cashier (recognizing me as a regular customer): "You usually wear glasses, don't you?"
Me: "Um, yeah. I have my contacts in today."
Cashier: "It makes a huge difference in your appearance."
Me: "Uh, thanks."
Cashier: "Just lovely."
Me: "Yeah, I'd wear them more often if they weren't so uncomfortable, you know what I mean?"
Cashier: "Such a pretty face . . . Hey, Carl! (to bagger) Take a look at this young lady, don't you think the contacts really make a difference?"
Carl: "Oh, yes! Very nice!"
Cashier: "She usually wears glasses."
Carl (contorting face in disapproval): "I see."
Cashier (shaking head): "You should wear your contacts more often. It's a shame."
Me: "Thank you."
Cashier: "No, really, I mean it."
Me: "Okay, thanks."
Cashier: "Have a nice day."
Then me and my beautiful visage hightailed it outta there before the stroke of noon, when I was scheduled to morph back into a bespectacled hag.
* Following a recurring, untreated case of conjunctivitis that may or may not have been triggered by poor contact lens hygiene habits.
"Beauty"
"Beast"
Monday, April 06, 2009
Refined, with a Hint of Ridiculous
We had some friends over for pizza and wine last weekend. In preparation for his former med school buddy and fellow wine enthusiast's visit, the P-Dawg purchased a host of gadgetry, including something called a "wine aerator" with a "de-sedimenting sleeve."
While we mothers buzzed around, breaking up toddler scuffles and cutting pizza into bite-sized pieces, the two men stood around our kitchen island sniffing, swirling, and sampling vintages. They marveled at the supreme filtration capacity of Dan's french pewter aerating and decanting funnel, and every once in awhile, one of them would gaze out the window and say in all seriousness, "This is nicely structured, though lightly acidic." Or, "This is compact, yet surprisingly supple." And, "I'm picking up some lavender with a hint of candy corn."
There was a large wine encyclopedia open on the counter, and the P-Dawg and his buddy would periodically access it for detailed information about the bouquet, maturation, and characteristics of the vintage being imbibed. A different type of glass was used for each selection sampled, and in between flights, the P-Dawg and his friend rinsed their empty goblets with palate cleansing sparkling water.
The two of them almost keeled over dead when I filled a glass that had previously contained zinfandel to the brim with pinot noir and gulped it down between brownie bites. "Yeah, this is pretty good!"
"Hey, how come you guys aren't having any dessert?" I demanded of the P-Dawg. "Betty Crocker an insult to your discriminating palate?"
"Maybe."
"Wine snob!"
The P-Dawg sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. "If I were a wine snob, Rimarama, I would have done a blind tasting and de-salinated the goblets."
(Duh.)
While we mothers buzzed around, breaking up toddler scuffles and cutting pizza into bite-sized pieces, the two men stood around our kitchen island sniffing, swirling, and sampling vintages. They marveled at the supreme filtration capacity of Dan's french pewter aerating and decanting funnel, and every once in awhile, one of them would gaze out the window and say in all seriousness, "This is nicely structured, though lightly acidic." Or, "This is compact, yet surprisingly supple." And, "I'm picking up some lavender with a hint of candy corn."
There was a large wine encyclopedia open on the counter, and the P-Dawg and his buddy would periodically access it for detailed information about the bouquet, maturation, and characteristics of the vintage being imbibed. A different type of glass was used for each selection sampled, and in between flights, the P-Dawg and his friend rinsed their empty goblets with palate cleansing sparkling water.
The two of them almost keeled over dead when I filled a glass that had previously contained zinfandel to the brim with pinot noir and gulped it down between brownie bites. "Yeah, this is pretty good!"
"Hey, how come you guys aren't having any dessert?" I demanded of the P-Dawg. "Betty Crocker an insult to your discriminating palate?"
"Maybe."
"Wine snob!"
The P-Dawg sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. "If I were a wine snob, Rimarama, I would have done a blind tasting and de-salinated the goblets."
(Duh.)
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Mission
It was on the day the space shuttle Columbia disintegrated that I took the pregnancy test.
We had decided just a few weeks before that the time was as ripe as it ever would be for babymaking and I, with a green light from my psyche, the P-Dawg, and the ob/gyn, made it my personal mission to beat the estimated odds of conceiving in “six months to one year.”
P-Dawg’s input and DNA would be required, naturally, for implementation, but I took greedy ownership of the planning and strategy phases with the same singularity of purpose I had once dedicated to making the Dean’s List, getting the scholarship, scoring the interview, landing the job.
To this end, babymaking books were purchased and studied religiously. Google searches employing phrases like, “How to get pregnant super fast” were performed, and morning temperatures were charted. I was tuned into my body’s every twitch and secretion in the way that only a woman meticulously planning conception can be.
One afternoon just days after our first scheduled attempt, I was driving home from work when I noticed how uncomfortable the tug of the seat belt across my chest had become. My ta-tas, as it happened, were sore in a whole new way, and they heralded a light bulb moment the likes of which I hadn't experienced to date.
I began groping myself right there in the driver's seat of my blue Saturn sedan, cautiously at first, then with no holds barred. Does it hurt when I press here? Yes! What about here? Yes! If I mash them together? By, God, it does! And if I press myself full tilt into the steering wheel? I just might be pregnant.
It was too early to take a test, yet impossible, from that point on, to ignore the goings on: continued soreness, strange, cramplike twitches in the nether regions, and a sharp, stabbing pain that woke me up in the middle of one night to be followed by unmistakably rosier than usual cheeks the very next morning.
I endured the requisite number of days before an early pregnancy test could be taken. On the morning of that day, with the P-Dawg still on his overnight call shift at the hospital, I planned a deliberate trip to the drugstore. As I prepared to leave, the cable channels were playing and replaying the same few clips of space shuttle Columbia breaking up in blue skies over Texas.
And in the car on the way to the pharmacy, listening to a DJ announce news of the tragedy with thinly veiled excitement, before the pregnancy test had even been purchased or peed on, I knew with certainty that a catastrophic space mission would always be entwined in my memory with the day I learned that my first baby would come to be.
The test, of course, was positive: my dear little V-meister in her earliest iteration, as evidenced by a blurry pink line. Yet I was surprised at how closely my initial joy was followed by a pang of fear and the very first inkling of the buzzing, baseline anxiety that comes part and parcel with the act of bringing a child into this world.
And I've been living with the uneasy knowledge that ecstasy and despair are never more than a heartbeat away, one from the other, ever since that day when my fervent hope was confirmed as inky smoke trails, obvious evidence of human frailty and ultimate demise, arched across a Texas sky.
We had decided just a few weeks before that the time was as ripe as it ever would be for babymaking and I, with a green light from my psyche, the P-Dawg, and the ob/gyn, made it my personal mission to beat the estimated odds of conceiving in “six months to one year.”
P-Dawg’s input and DNA would be required, naturally, for implementation, but I took greedy ownership of the planning and strategy phases with the same singularity of purpose I had once dedicated to making the Dean’s List, getting the scholarship, scoring the interview, landing the job.
To this end, babymaking books were purchased and studied religiously. Google searches employing phrases like, “How to get pregnant super fast” were performed, and morning temperatures were charted. I was tuned into my body’s every twitch and secretion in the way that only a woman meticulously planning conception can be.
One afternoon just days after our first scheduled attempt, I was driving home from work when I noticed how uncomfortable the tug of the seat belt across my chest had become. My ta-tas, as it happened, were sore in a whole new way, and they heralded a light bulb moment the likes of which I hadn't experienced to date.
I began groping myself right there in the driver's seat of my blue Saturn sedan, cautiously at first, then with no holds barred. Does it hurt when I press here? Yes! What about here? Yes! If I mash them together? By, God, it does! And if I press myself full tilt into the steering wheel? I just might be pregnant.
It was too early to take a test, yet impossible, from that point on, to ignore the goings on: continued soreness, strange, cramplike twitches in the nether regions, and a sharp, stabbing pain that woke me up in the middle of one night to be followed by unmistakably rosier than usual cheeks the very next morning.
I endured the requisite number of days before an early pregnancy test could be taken. On the morning of that day, with the P-Dawg still on his overnight call shift at the hospital, I planned a deliberate trip to the drugstore. As I prepared to leave, the cable channels were playing and replaying the same few clips of space shuttle Columbia breaking up in blue skies over Texas.
And in the car on the way to the pharmacy, listening to a DJ announce news of the tragedy with thinly veiled excitement, before the pregnancy test had even been purchased or peed on, I knew with certainty that a catastrophic space mission would always be entwined in my memory with the day I learned that my first baby would come to be.
The test, of course, was positive: my dear little V-meister in her earliest iteration, as evidenced by a blurry pink line. Yet I was surprised at how closely my initial joy was followed by a pang of fear and the very first inkling of the buzzing, baseline anxiety that comes part and parcel with the act of bringing a child into this world.
And I've been living with the uneasy knowledge that ecstasy and despair are never more than a heartbeat away, one from the other, ever since that day when my fervent hope was confirmed as inky smoke trails, obvious evidence of human frailty and ultimate demise, arched across a Texas sky.
Thursday, January 08, 2009
Swimming In the Deep End
Turns out, I like yapping about adventure, but when push comes to shove, it's all I can do to tear myself away from my comfort zone and the soul-deadening daily routine.
Take, for example, last night.
I didn't want to go to that French gig I was telling you about. I had a headache, it was snowing out. I'd have to put together an "outfit," schlep across town during rush hour, and converse in a foreign language with a group of strangers.
Why, I asked myself, would a person put herself in such a position when she could just as easily don pants with an elastic waistband, take a Ty1eno1, and stretch out on her couch for a night of Internet and TV?
Well . . . because I fear that changing things up every now and again is the only thing that stands between me and a house dress, rollers, and plastic furniture slipcovers at some point down the line.
Because it's time to start chipping away at the shell I've spent the last decade or so building around myself, afraid and unwilling to forge new, true, and honest friendships. Because I want to invite more beauty and nuance into my life, and because I've read one too many new age self help books.
Just as my repressed inner optimist suspected, breaking out was a good thing. At the very least, it didn't kill me, and I got an opportunity to crank up neural synapses that hadn't seen action in years.
I met my friend in the museum lobby, where the francophiles had already begun gathering. Sure, there were a few impeccably knotted Hermes scarves and imperial Gallic profiles, but no one was putting a gun to my head, demanding a certain death conjugation showdown.
Alas, starting up a French conversation with a person you are accustomed to speaking with only in English is both awkward and terrifying, like diving into the deep end wearing a bikini that's one size too big. There's no way around it except to pinch your nose, jump, and hope your thong stays put.
We dove in. The water wasn't nearly as cold as I'd expected, and I immediately remembered how to tread. Once I realized that my friend's french skills were as rudimentary as my own, well, I daresay I began straight up doggy paddling.
There were, of course, a lot of frenzied hand gestures, elaborate commentary about the weather, and the odd English word with a French ending tacked on mid-sentence, but we made do. The important thing was that we understood each other and no native speakers approached us.
The group received a private tour of the special exhibit featuring turn-of-the-century decadence in the House of Faberge, Tiffany, and Lalique. Before you knew it, I was flipping around like a veritable Shamu and offering total strangers my opinion of Princess Kelly's never-before-seen Faberge egg: "C'est cool, ca."
One thing I didn't do was try to purposefully strike up actual conversation with other attendees. I may be looking for adventure, but I don't have a death wish. During the dinner portion of the evening, my companion and I sat with a chap whose language skills were very much on par with our own. The three of us concluded that it was snowing out, poulet frites are pleasing to us, and there's a train station nearby.
Also, I might have offered him a job at my friend's restaurant, to which I'm pretty sure he replied "I, too, enjoy skiiing."
Anyway, it's a start. I am going to try to attend next month's event if I can, maybe even work up the courage to bust out some freestyle moves.
Welcome to my year of swimming in the deep end.
Take, for example, last night.
I didn't want to go to that French gig I was telling you about. I had a headache, it was snowing out. I'd have to put together an "outfit," schlep across town during rush hour, and converse in a foreign language with a group of strangers.
Why, I asked myself, would a person put herself in such a position when she could just as easily don pants with an elastic waistband, take a Ty1eno1, and stretch out on her couch for a night of Internet and TV?
Well . . . because I fear that changing things up every now and again is the only thing that stands between me and a house dress, rollers, and plastic furniture slipcovers at some point down the line.
Because it's time to start chipping away at the shell I've spent the last decade or so building around myself, afraid and unwilling to forge new, true, and honest friendships. Because I want to invite more beauty and nuance into my life, and because I've read one too many new age self help books.
Just as my repressed inner optimist suspected, breaking out was a good thing. At the very least, it didn't kill me, and I got an opportunity to crank up neural synapses that hadn't seen action in years.
I met my friend in the museum lobby, where the francophiles had already begun gathering. Sure, there were a few impeccably knotted Hermes scarves and imperial Gallic profiles, but no one was putting a gun to my head, demanding a certain death conjugation showdown.
Alas, starting up a French conversation with a person you are accustomed to speaking with only in English is both awkward and terrifying, like diving into the deep end wearing a bikini that's one size too big. There's no way around it except to pinch your nose, jump, and hope your thong stays put.
We dove in. The water wasn't nearly as cold as I'd expected, and I immediately remembered how to tread. Once I realized that my friend's french skills were as rudimentary as my own, well, I daresay I began straight up doggy paddling.
There were, of course, a lot of frenzied hand gestures, elaborate commentary about the weather, and the odd English word with a French ending tacked on mid-sentence, but we made do. The important thing was that we understood each other and no native speakers approached us.
The group received a private tour of the special exhibit featuring turn-of-the-century decadence in the House of Faberge, Tiffany, and Lalique. Before you knew it, I was flipping around like a veritable Shamu and offering total strangers my opinion of Princess Kelly's never-before-seen Faberge egg: "C'est cool, ca."
One thing I didn't do was try to purposefully strike up actual conversation with other attendees. I may be looking for adventure, but I don't have a death wish. During the dinner portion of the evening, my companion and I sat with a chap whose language skills were very much on par with our own. The three of us concluded that it was snowing out, poulet frites are pleasing to us, and there's a train station nearby.
Also, I might have offered him a job at my friend's restaurant, to which I'm pretty sure he replied "I, too, enjoy skiiing."
Anyway, it's a start. I am going to try to attend next month's event if I can, maybe even work up the courage to bust out some freestyle moves.
Welcome to my year of swimming in the deep end.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
And it Doubles as a Bottle Opener
Before getting engaged, the P-Dawg and I didn't shop around for rings. In fact, I didn't see the proposal coming until he got down on one knee and offered up the diamond that had been burning a hole in his pocket all evening long.
Instead, on the day after he completed Part One of his medical boards, the P-Dawg simply went down to the "old neighborhood," where a family friend who owned a jewelry store/pawn shop sandwiched between a state license bureau and an ALDI supermarket set him up with some kwality gems.
After narrowing the selection down to a few engagement ring/wedding band combo sets, my husband-to-be took them to the license bureau next door, where various employees of the state of Ohio ooooeh, aaahhed, and graciously modeled each one in turn until a decision was finally reached.
To this day, the image of my beloved P-Dawg, weighing the pros and cons of each potential ring choice surrounded by the clucking ladies of the DMV warms the very cockles of my stony heart.
But . . . it's not quite enough to make up for the fact that, though I admire my engagement ring daily, I've never been able to warm up to its companion wedding band. In true ungrateful wench fashion, I feel that I was somehow gypped out of the Hallmark memory in which the P-Dawg and I shop for wedding bands together, skipping, hand-in-hand.
Also, when worn alone, it kind of resembles the tab top on a can of soda:
I know I could have bigger problems.
When the P-Dawg finally learned of my discontent, he offered to buy me a new wedding band at some point in the distant future, when financial circumstances allowed. Our fifth wedding anniversary (which has come and gone) was bandied about as a potential occasion for the big band switcheroo. But eight years later, I'm still wearing the original.
Yesterday morning I was enjoying my second cup of joe when the doorbell rang and I found myself the lucky, albeit accidental recipient of a Thanksgiving bouquet and $250 (TWO-FITTY!) gift card from a local jewelry store.
It wasn't a surprise gift from the P-Dawg. I think it was intended for the previous owners of our home, who moved out of state with no forwarding address. Apparently, they were valued patrons of a fine, non pawn shop type of jewelry establishment - we get a mailboxload full of high end catalogs for them every day.
After briefly debating the ethical issues inherent in keeping the "gift," I showed it to the P-Dawg, who only half jokingly asked me what I wanted to buy with it.
And you know what? After all this time, it may not be a new wedding band, after all.
It turns out I've kind of warmed up to the old tab top ring. This modest little band was infused with a mighty lot of hopes and dreams on that long ago day at the DMV, and I'm not sure I want to trade those in.
Would you?
Instead, on the day after he completed Part One of his medical boards, the P-Dawg simply went down to the "old neighborhood," where a family friend who owned a jewelry store/pawn shop sandwiched between a state license bureau and an ALDI supermarket set him up with some kwality gems.
After narrowing the selection down to a few engagement ring/wedding band combo sets, my husband-to-be took them to the license bureau next door, where various employees of the state of Ohio ooooeh, aaahhed, and graciously modeled each one in turn until a decision was finally reached.
To this day, the image of my beloved P-Dawg, weighing the pros and cons of each potential ring choice surrounded by the clucking ladies of the DMV warms the very cockles of my stony heart.
But . . . it's not quite enough to make up for the fact that, though I admire my engagement ring daily, I've never been able to warm up to its companion wedding band. In true ungrateful wench fashion, I feel that I was somehow gypped out of the Hallmark memory in which the P-Dawg and I shop for wedding bands together, skipping, hand-in-hand.
Also, when worn alone, it kind of resembles the tab top on a can of soda:
I know I could have bigger problems.
When the P-Dawg finally learned of my discontent, he offered to buy me a new wedding band at some point in the distant future, when financial circumstances allowed. Our fifth wedding anniversary (which has come and gone) was bandied about as a potential occasion for the big band switcheroo. But eight years later, I'm still wearing the original.
Yesterday morning I was enjoying my second cup of joe when the doorbell rang and I found myself the lucky, albeit accidental recipient of a Thanksgiving bouquet and $250 (TWO-FITTY!) gift card from a local jewelry store.It wasn't a surprise gift from the P-Dawg. I think it was intended for the previous owners of our home, who moved out of state with no forwarding address. Apparently, they were valued patrons of a fine, non pawn shop type of jewelry establishment - we get a mailboxload full of high end catalogs for them every day.
After briefly debating the ethical issues inherent in keeping the "gift," I showed it to the P-Dawg, who only half jokingly asked me what I wanted to buy with it.
And you know what? After all this time, it may not be a new wedding band, after all.
It turns out I've kind of warmed up to the old tab top ring. This modest little band was infused with a mighty lot of hopes and dreams on that long ago day at the DMV, and I'm not sure I want to trade those in.
Would you?
Thursday, October 30, 2008
My Babylust is Fun Size
Do you know how cute a shoeless two-year old attempting a headstand looks?
Cute enough to cause a shriveled up 35 year-old mother of two who has sworn off having more children almost seriously reconsider her decision in a fit of babylust, that's what.
I've had minor ovarian twitches in the past, upon oogling other people's newborns and such, but never to the point where I was doing actual math in my head, like today during the little J-dog's Gymboree class. (July is a top-notch month, though, don't you think?)
Apparently, twenty adorable and exceptionally well-behaved two year olds toddling around barefoot and losing their shit for pure joy over a roomful of mechanically generated bubbles can totally do that to a person who may or may not be in the middle of her moon cycle, if you're picking up what I'm laying down.
But as strong as the urge was today, I know it is not a good idea for me to have more children. And I probably won't. Even though I'm pretty sure I could. I mean, I know how to do it, is what I'm saying.
I'm wondering, though: is there anyone out there reading who thought her family was complete and then decided to have a third child? Anyone, say, who had a VERY difficult time of it when her kids were babies and couldn't wait for the day when she finally had two hands free? And when that day was finally on the horizon, maybe found herself thinking that two hands aren't really all that and a bag of chips? Anyone out there who regrets a decision to have only two children? Found that the third time was the absolute charm? I await your wisdom.
Really, what I need is a mother of two teenagers, preferably one boy and one girl, to talk me off the ledge.
Rimarama, this is your Head Voice speaking. I can talk you off the ledge. How about: You're a b1tch on wheels when pregnant! And you're really not that good with teensie-weensie bobbly-headed wittle babies. You are prone to post-partum depression. And you have renegade boobies that routinely malfunction when called upon to act as vessels of infant nourishment. You should go back to work when the J-Dog starts school. Otherwise, I'm pretty sure you'll have a mid-life crisis and you totally suck at scrapbooking. Was there anything else?
Rimarama: Well, there is the almost ten pounds of baby weight I finally wrested off.
Head Voice: Word.
So then I came home with an enormous hankering for smoked oysters. Which I ate for lunch, atop two slices of gag-a-licious weight watchers bread (not recommended). Afterwards, I absolutely had to have a Fun Size Snicker's bar, but found that there was not much "fun" about it until I chased it up with three or four more, at which point it became a veritable Festival of Fun. For about ten seconds, and then it turned into a Guilt Garden.
But, it helped get my mind off babies.
This pikchur was taken when I was eight months along with the V-Meister:
"Are You Freakin' Kidding Me, Rimarama?"
P.S. Don't anybody go reading anything into this post. I am absolutely, unequivocally, hands-down, NOT pregnant.
Cute enough to cause a shriveled up 35 year-old mother of two who has sworn off having more children almost seriously reconsider her decision in a fit of babylust, that's what.
I've had minor ovarian twitches in the past, upon oogling other people's newborns and such, but never to the point where I was doing actual math in my head, like today during the little J-dog's Gymboree class. (July is a top-notch month, though, don't you think?)
Apparently, twenty adorable and exceptionally well-behaved two year olds toddling around barefoot and losing their shit for pure joy over a roomful of mechanically generated bubbles can totally do that to a person who may or may not be in the middle of her moon cycle, if you're picking up what I'm laying down.
But as strong as the urge was today, I know it is not a good idea for me to have more children. And I probably won't. Even though I'm pretty sure I could. I mean, I know how to do it, is what I'm saying.
I'm wondering, though: is there anyone out there reading who thought her family was complete and then decided to have a third child? Anyone, say, who had a VERY difficult time of it when her kids were babies and couldn't wait for the day when she finally had two hands free? And when that day was finally on the horizon, maybe found herself thinking that two hands aren't really all that and a bag of chips? Anyone out there who regrets a decision to have only two children? Found that the third time was the absolute charm? I await your wisdom.
Really, what I need is a mother of two teenagers, preferably one boy and one girl, to talk me off the ledge.
Rimarama, this is your Head Voice speaking. I can talk you off the ledge. How about: You're a b1tch on wheels when pregnant! And you're really not that good with teensie-weensie bobbly-headed wittle babies. You are prone to post-partum depression. And you have renegade boobies that routinely malfunction when called upon to act as vessels of infant nourishment. You should go back to work when the J-Dog starts school. Otherwise, I'm pretty sure you'll have a mid-life crisis and you totally suck at scrapbooking. Was there anything else?
Rimarama: Well, there is the almost ten pounds of baby weight I finally wrested off.
Head Voice: Word.
So then I came home with an enormous hankering for smoked oysters. Which I ate for lunch, atop two slices of gag-a-licious weight watchers bread (not recommended). Afterwards, I absolutely had to have a Fun Size Snicker's bar, but found that there was not much "fun" about it until I chased it up with three or four more, at which point it became a veritable Festival of Fun. For about ten seconds, and then it turned into a Guilt Garden.
But, it helped get my mind off babies.
This pikchur was taken when I was eight months along with the V-Meister:
"Are You Freakin' Kidding Me, Rimarama?"
P.S. Don't anybody go reading anything into this post. I am absolutely, unequivocally, hands-down, NOT pregnant.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Let Her Eat Stroganoff
Today I'm talking about food and how much I love to eat it.
The first thing I'd like to comment on is how unfair it is that, as a petite woman of a certain age, I can only eat about two calories a day without developing the figure of a Russian nesting doll.
I was playing with those weight loss calculation websites this morning, trying to figure out how many calories I can consume per day. Bad news, my peeps: no matter how you dice it, I'm allowed the daily caloric intake of a fruit fly.
Whenever I complain about this, everyone's all, "Oh, but you're little! You're not as hungry as the rest of us!" And then I lean over and bite their head off because Like hellz I'm not hungry, betches!
When the P-Dawg was a kid, his mom would occasionally buy him and his older brothers an Arby's "Five for Five" special for dinner. The problem was that there were only five roast beef sandwiches to split between three growing boys.
To hear my husband tell it, the Arby's bag would be placed on the table and then he and his brothers would basically have at it like a pack of starving wolves. The faster you were able to scarf down your sandwich, the better your chances of getting seconds and growing to adulthood.
P-Dawg cites this "every man for himself" upbringing as the reason why he continues to eat his meals as though someone is pointing a gun to his head.
Same goes for leftovers. Let's say I'm saving a piece of cake in the fridge and come to find, when I'm finally ready to partake, that the P-Dawg has eaten it.
He'll say, "It was sitting in there for three days! I didn't think you were ever going to eat it."
"I WAS TOTALLY GOING TO EAT IT TONIGHT, P-DAWG!!!"
Then I'll sulk for the rest of the evening, hijack the TV remote, and watch E! True Hollywood Story while blogging because that'll show him.
The same thing happens when we go to dinner at his mom's house and P-Dawg's brothers are there. Say my mother-in-law has made a bowl of tasty beef stroganoff. If, like me, you have the additional self-imposed responsibility of keeping the dinner conversation going and are therefore not quick to inhale your portion, well you can just forget about seconds, missy.
This used to happen to me over there all the time. I'd help myself to a dinky little lady's portion with a meat to noodles ratio of 1:4 and by the time I was ready for seconds, the brothers-in-Dawg would be sprawled all over the living room couches, digesting what was left of the meal.
I'd go home hungry every time until one day, I decided to change up the game. As soon as we finished saying grace, I yelled, "Carpe Diem!" and dove in, helping myself to a heaping plateful of stroganoff before anyone else could have at it. There were noodles spilling over the sides of my plate, but I didn't care because I was finally going to eat my fill.
The family was obviously shocked and appalled at my balls of brass, eyeing my overflowing plate as if to say, "Who does the little runt think she is, taking a man's portion of stroganoff??? But I felt completely justified, if only a little piggish, and I'll tell you something else: I ate the whole damn thing.
******************************************************************************************
I'd also like to confirm today what everyone probably already knows, which is that Guy Kawasaki rawks. Do you know that only about five minutes after I published this post, shamelessly asking him to list my blog on Alltop, Guy took a moment out of technology empire building to leave a comment saying I'm in? (Thank you!)
And even though Rimarama is dead last on the "Moms" page, I'm cool with it because Alltop puts their banner at the bottom.
And that makes me Number One.
The first thing I'd like to comment on is how unfair it is that, as a petite woman of a certain age, I can only eat about two calories a day without developing the figure of a Russian nesting doll.
I was playing with those weight loss calculation websites this morning, trying to figure out how many calories I can consume per day. Bad news, my peeps: no matter how you dice it, I'm allowed the daily caloric intake of a fruit fly.
Whenever I complain about this, everyone's all, "Oh, but you're little! You're not as hungry as the rest of us!" And then I lean over and bite their head off because Like hellz I'm not hungry, betches!
When the P-Dawg was a kid, his mom would occasionally buy him and his older brothers an Arby's "Five for Five" special for dinner. The problem was that there were only five roast beef sandwiches to split between three growing boys.
To hear my husband tell it, the Arby's bag would be placed on the table and then he and his brothers would basically have at it like a pack of starving wolves. The faster you were able to scarf down your sandwich, the better your chances of getting seconds and growing to adulthood.
P-Dawg cites this "every man for himself" upbringing as the reason why he continues to eat his meals as though someone is pointing a gun to his head.
Same goes for leftovers. Let's say I'm saving a piece of cake in the fridge and come to find, when I'm finally ready to partake, that the P-Dawg has eaten it.
He'll say, "It was sitting in there for three days! I didn't think you were ever going to eat it."
"I WAS TOTALLY GOING TO EAT IT TONIGHT, P-DAWG!!!"
Then I'll sulk for the rest of the evening, hijack the TV remote, and watch E! True Hollywood Story while blogging because that'll show him.
The same thing happens when we go to dinner at his mom's house and P-Dawg's brothers are there. Say my mother-in-law has made a bowl of tasty beef stroganoff. If, like me, you have the additional self-imposed responsibility of keeping the dinner conversation going and are therefore not quick to inhale your portion, well you can just forget about seconds, missy.
This used to happen to me over there all the time. I'd help myself to a dinky little lady's portion with a meat to noodles ratio of 1:4 and by the time I was ready for seconds, the brothers-in-Dawg would be sprawled all over the living room couches, digesting what was left of the meal.
I'd go home hungry every time until one day, I decided to change up the game. As soon as we finished saying grace, I yelled, "Carpe Diem!" and dove in, helping myself to a heaping plateful of stroganoff before anyone else could have at it. There were noodles spilling over the sides of my plate, but I didn't care because I was finally going to eat my fill.
The family was obviously shocked and appalled at my balls of brass, eyeing my overflowing plate as if to say, "Who does the little runt think she is, taking a man's portion of stroganoff??? But I felt completely justified, if only a little piggish, and I'll tell you something else: I ate the whole damn thing.
******************************************************************************************
I'd also like to confirm today what everyone probably already knows, which is that Guy Kawasaki rawks. Do you know that only about five minutes after I published this post, shamelessly asking him to list my blog on Alltop, Guy took a moment out of technology empire building to leave a comment saying I'm in? (Thank you!)
And even though Rimarama is dead last on the "Moms" page, I'm cool with it because Alltop puts their banner at the bottom.
And that makes me Number One.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
I'm Just a Kid
Today is my birthday and I have writer's block. I feel that I should have something marginally important to say, but I don't.
There's only this: thirty-five is not nearly as old as I once thought it would be. But you knew that already.
There's only this: thirty-five is not nearly as old as I once thought it would be. But you knew that already.
When the P-Dawg got into medical school, I remember counting forward through all the years that would be "wasted" with school and residency before, as I then saw it, our lives could begin.
By my calculations, we would both be thirty-three when all was said and done - there would be no choice but to go straight from our apartment into the old folks' home. Yet here I am, squarely in my thirties and you wouldn't even know it, save for the trick knee.
Okay, and the metabolism. Plus that frumpy mom aura that keeps following me around, compelling me to put squares of toilet paper down before sitting on a public commode and say things like "Do you think I put those barrettes in your hair for my health???"
(Which I did say, just the other day, in fact, and I'll tell you something: it felt right. Although it appeared to have zero impact on the V-meister, who simply continued dragging her recently washed mane back and forth through a plate full of spaghetti.)
For most of my life to date, I've been waiting. But now that I'm at that place that was always just a speck on the horizon, I can't help but notice that I've covered some pretty quality ground. Every event or accomplishment upon which I place real value - my marriage, the birth of my children, my decision to write in this space regularly, regardless of how clumsy my words feel - has transpired during a period of time that I once dismissed as limbo.
Every year on my birthday, my mom calls in the morning. Usually she and my dad will get on the horn and sing "Happy Birthday" as soon as I pick up. No matter how many times they do it, I can't help but stand there holding my coffee mug and grinning like a fool at the image of the two of them huddled around the rotary phone, singing at the top of their lungs. It makes me feel as though I'm ten and just woke up to a Strawberry Shortcake bike with a glitter infused banana seat and sparkly handlebar streamers.
And here I am, thirty-five.
By my calculations, we would both be thirty-three when all was said and done - there would be no choice but to go straight from our apartment into the old folks' home. Yet here I am, squarely in my thirties and you wouldn't even know it, save for the trick knee.
Okay, and the metabolism. Plus that frumpy mom aura that keeps following me around, compelling me to put squares of toilet paper down before sitting on a public commode and say things like "Do you think I put those barrettes in your hair for my health???"
(Which I did say, just the other day, in fact, and I'll tell you something: it felt right. Although it appeared to have zero impact on the V-meister, who simply continued dragging her recently washed mane back and forth through a plate full of spaghetti.)
For most of my life to date, I've been waiting. But now that I'm at that place that was always just a speck on the horizon, I can't help but notice that I've covered some pretty quality ground. Every event or accomplishment upon which I place real value - my marriage, the birth of my children, my decision to write in this space regularly, regardless of how clumsy my words feel - has transpired during a period of time that I once dismissed as limbo.
Every year on my birthday, my mom calls in the morning. Usually she and my dad will get on the horn and sing "Happy Birthday" as soon as I pick up. No matter how many times they do it, I can't help but stand there holding my coffee mug and grinning like a fool at the image of the two of them huddled around the rotary phone, singing at the top of their lungs. It makes me feel as though I'm ten and just woke up to a Strawberry Shortcake bike with a glitter infused banana seat and sparkly handlebar streamers.
And here I am, thirty-five.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Le Divan de La Tristesse
My high school French teacher had a special couch in the sunny back corner of her classroom where you were allowed to lie down if you were having a bad day.
It was burnt orange and upholstered in a nubby synthetic fabric. There was a big, leafy indoor tree next to it, and a magazine bin full of French glossies which were rumored to contain ads with half naked women in them.
All you had to do was start crying in the middle of class, run a temperature, or complain of cramps, and you'd earn yourself a free ticket to the orange couch with its forty-five minute reprieve from having to answer any questions - en francais! - about the weather, your hobbies, or where the train station was located.
Oh, ma petite Rima! Vous-vous sentez mal aujourd'hui? Ma pauvre petite! Allez! Asseyez-vous sur le divan de la tristesse!
The old divan de la tristesse was never at a loss for occupants. In high school, someone was always having their period or breaking down in the middle of class.
Back in the heyday, I'd say I cried at least three, maybe four days out of any given week? I could cry at the drop of a hat, and I was an equal opportunity crier, too: blubbering it up in a bathroom stall during lunch break, sniffling quietly in front of my opened locker, or flat out weeping evenings at home in the privacy of my bedroom, face down into my lemon yellow chiffon bedspread while listening to the Cure.
There were so many things to be melancholy about: unrequited love, a failed Trigonometry test, the senseless slaughter of baby seals. Emotions were my bitch, always at the ready and bubbling effortlessly to the surface at every angsty turn.
I hardly ever cry anymore. It's probably for the best. It gives me a migraine, for one thing, and my eyeballs get bone dry.
What's more, a good cry hardly ever seems warranted, or even justifiable these days. Where once I might have had a full blown snotfest over a misunderstanding with a friend or family member, I'm now much more likely to be angry and irritated instead. Which sort of makes me wonder whether I've reached a new level of emotional maturity, or if I'm just dead inside.
I could have used a time out on the nubby orange couch and a copy of French Vogue today. I'm OK, really. But I miss Madame Rothe, sick days, and my old capacity for tears.
It was burnt orange and upholstered in a nubby synthetic fabric. There was a big, leafy indoor tree next to it, and a magazine bin full of French glossies which were rumored to contain ads with half naked women in them.
All you had to do was start crying in the middle of class, run a temperature, or complain of cramps, and you'd earn yourself a free ticket to the orange couch with its forty-five minute reprieve from having to answer any questions - en francais! - about the weather, your hobbies, or where the train station was located.
Oh, ma petite Rima! Vous-vous sentez mal aujourd'hui? Ma pauvre petite! Allez! Asseyez-vous sur le divan de la tristesse!
The old divan de la tristesse was never at a loss for occupants. In high school, someone was always having their period or breaking down in the middle of class.
Back in the heyday, I'd say I cried at least three, maybe four days out of any given week? I could cry at the drop of a hat, and I was an equal opportunity crier, too: blubbering it up in a bathroom stall during lunch break, sniffling quietly in front of my opened locker, or flat out weeping evenings at home in the privacy of my bedroom, face down into my lemon yellow chiffon bedspread while listening to the Cure.
There were so many things to be melancholy about: unrequited love, a failed Trigonometry test, the senseless slaughter of baby seals. Emotions were my bitch, always at the ready and bubbling effortlessly to the surface at every angsty turn.
I hardly ever cry anymore. It's probably for the best. It gives me a migraine, for one thing, and my eyeballs get bone dry.
What's more, a good cry hardly ever seems warranted, or even justifiable these days. Where once I might have had a full blown snotfest over a misunderstanding with a friend or family member, I'm now much more likely to be angry and irritated instead. Which sort of makes me wonder whether I've reached a new level of emotional maturity, or if I'm just dead inside.
I could have used a time out on the nubby orange couch and a copy of French Vogue today. I'm OK, really. But I miss Madame Rothe, sick days, and my old capacity for tears.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
It's a Jungle Out There
What is it about a sidewalk sale that turns otherwise decent, law-abiding women into hormonal wilderbeasts?After spending all of Saturday afternoon diligently working on a freelance editing project at my local coffee shop, I decided to reward myself with a quick jaunt to the nearby Anthropologie clothing store.
A sidewalk sale was in progress, and womenfolk were circling the racks like tigers staking out their turf.
I approached an as yet unclaimed rack full of blouses and, as is customary among the genus thirtysomethingus suburbanus femalus, began combing through it starting at the far left end.
I was about halfway down the rack when a broad of the genus bad makeup, leathery skin, frickin' rude as-all get outus cut in front of me and began examining the garment directly to my right.
As in, the item I was about to inspect on the rack that I had staked out.
This was by no means a friendly, "I'm just going to shop here at an appropriate distance alongside of you" overture, but rather a balls-out violation of personal shopping space.
My fur began to bristle, and I may or may not have bared a solitary fang.
In a cheerful growl I said, "Oooooookaaaay, then. I guess I'll just switch places with you," and proceeded to swoop around to her right.
She released her talons and wasted no time in one-upping me with another cold-blooded queue jump, landing again directly to my right, where she began eyeing a little summer hoodie that was next in line for my nimble fingers to examine.
Friends, I had no intention of trying on a navy blue maternity type hoodie with oversized orange and yellow buttons, but I grabbed that garment off the rack faster than you could say, "b1tch."
I quickly eyeballed the label on my trophy, only to find that it was two sizes too big, but damned if I was going to put it back for my enemy to lay paws on.
There was only one more like it left on the rack (in what I suspected was the size I actually needed), and my arch nemesis snatched it up like a winning lottery ticket dancing on the wind.
We both stood there in the blazing afternoon sun, examining our loot, each of us knowing that we were holding a garment in the other's size, but neither one willing to make the concession to put it back on the rack.
What is a self-respecting shopper to do?
I walked around inside the store for a few minutes before hiding that hoodie on a full price rack, of course.
A few minutes later, I found the one in the size I needed discarded among a pile of jeans.
Next time, I think I'll just mark my territory with a circle of pee.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Young and Hip is Overrated
The P-Dawg and I went out on Saturday night, sans enfants.Four sips into my adult beverage, I was twirling a lock of hair around my index finger, talk, talk, talkin' 'bout how much I luuurve me a Moe-Hee-Toe, and poking gentle fun of the baby boomeresque ladies dining one table over. (Something about "lightweights with chardonnay" if memory, which is fuzzy, serves correctly.)
After dinner, I browsed around at Anthropologie while the P-Dawg patiently read Bartleby's Quote Book on a purple velvet couch.
(Reading material is available at this store for the discerning shopper's reluctant male companion. Merely stepping foot inside the whimsical and over-priced estrogen alley that is Anthropologie gives P-Dawg the heebie-jeebies. He simply does not understand the allure. "Why does everything in here look old and beat up?")
We ate dessert at Cold Stone Creamery, lingered at Barnes and Noble, and pulled into our driveway at 9:59 PM.
As soon as the sitter fled, I changed into pajamas and curled up on the couch with a cup of tea and my new reading materials.
"P-Dawg, I thoroughly enjoyed our date tonight, but next time, let's go for the early bird special. We'll save a buck AND be home five minutes after the kids are asleep."
"Deal."
*************************************************************************************
I think I've waited my whole life to be here, squarely in my thirties.
Back in the day, while out clubbing with friends, I often secretly wished to be in my dorm room, smoking Camels and reading Raymond Carver instead. At the time, I didn't have the self-assurance to opt out of these evenings and I didn't want to risk missing out on seeing and being seen.
I think I've always preferred board games and conversation with a small group of close friends to partying the night away (although I've been known to do both.)
I don't miss the awkward early stages of romantic relationships, getting the requisite talk of likes and dislikes, childhoods, and future aspirations out of the way.
I still care about my appearance, but I'm no longer loathe to be seen without makeup. Ironic, since now I have "laugh lines."
There are no more smokey treats around here, but the P-Dawg and I do try to keep things interesting with an occasional club concert or late night of revelry.
But coming home early to a warmly lit house, children sleeping safely in their beds, a cup of tea, a book, a soul mate, and an elastic waistband is pure, guilt-free bliss.
I do believe I'll be keeping happy company with the chardonnay drinking biddies in a few years' time.
Friday, February 01, 2008
Mrs. Dalloway Redux
Standing in line at the local tea shop (where the signage boasts "Tea is Now Fashionable"), I recognized behind me the voice of Dr. C., a former college professor of mine.
When I was a cloud hopping undergraduate English major, she was my number one teacher crush. I couldn't even utter a word aloud in her classroom without first rehearsing my thoughts in their earnest and hopeful entirety countless times inside my head. Any complements received for my occasional and tentative opinions would leave me blushing scarlet, and her comments in the margins of my essays were obsessed over with the same fervor I might have dedicated to a love note.
My roommates and I (black turtleneck wearing English majors all) had looked to her as a shining example of a woman who had it all, striking what seemed to us the perfect balance between sparkling academic career and enviable family life.
At the time we were her students, her children were about the same age as mine are now. She lived in a red brick house on a tree-lined street in a neighborhood that managed to be both bohemian and bourgeois. We imagined Dr. C and her handsome attorney husband drinking whiskey-laced tea and reciting T.S. Eliot to each other nightly before collapsing into passionate, intellectual embraces.
Oh, to be as smart, as witty, as lucky as Dr. C.
She was now casually conversing with a companion and completely unaware of the smitten former student standing a few inches away, prickles of nervous perspiration stinging my armpits.
I ached to turn around, to re-introduce myself, to show her, despite myself, pictures of my kids. I was curious to know if she still remembered me or my friends thirteen years and hundreds of students later.
But I paid for my overpriced tea and walked out.
I guess I'm not all cartwheels and karate chops when faced with the embodiment of my former hopes and dreams.
Striking up conversation would have begged the inevitable question, "What are you up to now?", and I knew I couldn't craft a reply that wouldn't belie a certain measure of shame at having opted out of academia and the creative life.
A certain measure of shame, let's face it, that I'm not gainfully employed in any way at all.
I would have doubtless stammered out my usual line about having done the corporate grind before quitting to raise a family, making sure to mention the part-time freelance work I haven't taken on in months, lest she make the mistaken assumption that I am only raising kids.
God help me, I might have even mentioned my blog.
And that, I think, is what's nagging me now. Knowing in my heart of hearts that mother work is worthy, I wish I didn't feel the need to be apologetic still.
My haste to explain to anyone who'll listen that this current life station is but temporary is a case in point. I'm torn between proudly owning this identity, even if it turns out to be the apex and culmination of my life's work, and dismissing it as a mere interval en route to other dreams.
Part of me believes, though many have fallen away, that some former aspirations are still within my reach. Another part feels, in the quiet moments of transcendent domesticity Dr. C. once alluded to during a discussion of Virginia Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway, that here and now I am my Self.
But I would never tell you that if we were talking face to face.
And it occurs to me now that, of all people, Dr. C. might be the last to expect a fumbled apology for the current tangent of my life, and not just because she had a lot less vested in me as her student than I did in her as my mentor.
I have vague memories of her rushing in late to our classroom, with just seconds to spare before the unspoken "fifteen minutes and we're out" rule was to take effect. Had she been held up by a sick child, an unscheduled daycare pick-up, the need to take a moment to cry behind closed office doors? Who knows what she went through for the sake of presenting that exalted image my friends and I greedily swallowed whole.
I wish I could say that I will begin answering the million dollar question without the slightest tinge of guilt. There may come a time when I don't need to - whether because I'm gainfully employed, or because I will have reached a point in life and personal evolution that it will no longer matter.
But even as I entertain thoughts of all that my future may still hold, I am slipping towards acceptance of the notion that my masterpieces need not be words on paper, but rather flesh and blood, and that my great opus won't be bound and published, but lived out day-to-day.
When I was a cloud hopping undergraduate English major, she was my number one teacher crush. I couldn't even utter a word aloud in her classroom without first rehearsing my thoughts in their earnest and hopeful entirety countless times inside my head. Any complements received for my occasional and tentative opinions would leave me blushing scarlet, and her comments in the margins of my essays were obsessed over with the same fervor I might have dedicated to a love note.
My roommates and I (black turtleneck wearing English majors all) had looked to her as a shining example of a woman who had it all, striking what seemed to us the perfect balance between sparkling academic career and enviable family life.
At the time we were her students, her children were about the same age as mine are now. She lived in a red brick house on a tree-lined street in a neighborhood that managed to be both bohemian and bourgeois. We imagined Dr. C and her handsome attorney husband drinking whiskey-laced tea and reciting T.S. Eliot to each other nightly before collapsing into passionate, intellectual embraces.
Oh, to be as smart, as witty, as lucky as Dr. C.
She was now casually conversing with a companion and completely unaware of the smitten former student standing a few inches away, prickles of nervous perspiration stinging my armpits.
I ached to turn around, to re-introduce myself, to show her, despite myself, pictures of my kids. I was curious to know if she still remembered me or my friends thirteen years and hundreds of students later.
But I paid for my overpriced tea and walked out.
I guess I'm not all cartwheels and karate chops when faced with the embodiment of my former hopes and dreams.
Striking up conversation would have begged the inevitable question, "What are you up to now?", and I knew I couldn't craft a reply that wouldn't belie a certain measure of shame at having opted out of academia and the creative life.
A certain measure of shame, let's face it, that I'm not gainfully employed in any way at all.
I would have doubtless stammered out my usual line about having done the corporate grind before quitting to raise a family, making sure to mention the part-time freelance work I haven't taken on in months, lest she make the mistaken assumption that I am only raising kids.
God help me, I might have even mentioned my blog.
And that, I think, is what's nagging me now. Knowing in my heart of hearts that mother work is worthy, I wish I didn't feel the need to be apologetic still.
My haste to explain to anyone who'll listen that this current life station is but temporary is a case in point. I'm torn between proudly owning this identity, even if it turns out to be the apex and culmination of my life's work, and dismissing it as a mere interval en route to other dreams.
Part of me believes, though many have fallen away, that some former aspirations are still within my reach. Another part feels, in the quiet moments of transcendent domesticity Dr. C. once alluded to during a discussion of Virginia Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway, that here and now I am my Self.
But I would never tell you that if we were talking face to face.
And it occurs to me now that, of all people, Dr. C. might be the last to expect a fumbled apology for the current tangent of my life, and not just because she had a lot less vested in me as her student than I did in her as my mentor.
I have vague memories of her rushing in late to our classroom, with just seconds to spare before the unspoken "fifteen minutes and we're out" rule was to take effect. Had she been held up by a sick child, an unscheduled daycare pick-up, the need to take a moment to cry behind closed office doors? Who knows what she went through for the sake of presenting that exalted image my friends and I greedily swallowed whole.
I wish I could say that I will begin answering the million dollar question without the slightest tinge of guilt. There may come a time when I don't need to - whether because I'm gainfully employed, or because I will have reached a point in life and personal evolution that it will no longer matter.
But even as I entertain thoughts of all that my future may still hold, I am slipping towards acceptance of the notion that my masterpieces need not be words on paper, but rather flesh and blood, and that my great opus won't be bound and published, but lived out day-to-day.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Saturday Mornings Ain't What They Used to Be
The little J-dog has been waking up at 6:00 AM.
As soon as he finds himself conscious, he lets out a little cry of indignation, then quickly sets about the work of kicking the bejeebus out of the wall next to his crib.
He goes through his repertoire:
"Mama"
"Da-DEE!"
"No"
"Mine"
"Ball"
"Obama '08"*
Meanwhile, in our bedroom, the P-Dawg and I feign sleep. Who will be first to give themselves away?
The J-dog throws Doggy, Monkey, and Blankie out of his crib.
"Buh-bye buh-bye buh-bye!"
Then starts crying, 'cause, frick! Toys are gone!
He kicks on his low-on-batteries-since 2005 Fisher-Price Aquarium.
Twinkle, twinkle little whaaa-wha-wha-wha-wha-whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.
After a few laps around the crib, he's ready to call in the troops.
MAMA!!!!! Da-DEEEEEEEEEE!!! BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
In our bedroom, the power play continues. When it sounds as though the J-dog has taken up a sledgehammer and is mere inches away from bashing a hole clear through the wall, I say:
"J-Dog's calling you."
P-Dawg: "He said "Mama."
Me: "He said Da-DEE."
(Crickets)
Me: "I would go get him, but my eyes are glued shut. "
P-Dawg: "Ooof! My back is killing me."
Then the sound of the V-meister scrabbling at the doorknob before bustin' out of her bedroom in S.W.A.T. team fashion.
Little footsteps padding into the bathroom.
The sound of tinkling.
The sound of silence.
The sound of a roll of TP being unraveled in its entirety.
Then, "Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaamaaaaaaaaaaa! I POOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOPED!!!!"
And we're up.
********************************************************************
Saturday mornings ain't what they used to be.
But they're not half bad, either.
One day, when the decades have passed like a bullet train, I will surely yearn for cartoons and coffee on the couch among a jumble of limbs in assorted sizes, cozily intertwined.
And as the P-Dawg and I absently do the crossword over a breakfast of Sanka, oatmeal and prunes, the jangle of our stirring spoons will ring too loudly in a half-empty house.
We'll likely still rise early, unable to to linger in a lazy morning haze.
Because we'll know, as we suspect already, that time is not ours to waste.
*While the J-Dog is impressed with Barack Obama, he is as of yet an undecided and wholly ineligible voter.
*********************************************************************************
But, wait! I have bling to pass on.
The lovely and ubiquitous MamaGeek (the blogger formerly known as Works for Mom) thrilled me to pieces with the "Daily Dose Award," which I've since learned is like saying "Your blog is a drug I cannot live without."
(I like to think of my blog as a Sudafed. Small, pretty, sugar-coated, it can clear your sinuses and give you a wacky little buzz, but is relatively harmless when dosing instructions are properly followed.)
And so without further ado, I would like to pass the Daily Dose award on to Slouching Mom, who has it all - a healthy dose of introspection laced with a bit 'o humor, all wrapped up in gorgeous prose.
The next piece of bling, the Sassy Mama Blog Award, is from Jennifer at Faking It. I recently discovered Jennifer's blog and am really enjoying her beautifully articulated and often humorous insights into motherhood and life in general.
I would like to pass the Sass Award on to Amy at Milkbreath and Margaritas. Just look at her profile pic - "sass" is her middle name.
Slouching Mom recently gave me this:
I KNOW!!!
I am asked to pass it on to ten bloggers, and they are:
Melanie at BeanPaste
Jennifer at Faking It
Beck at Frog and Toad Are Still Friends
Jen at Get In the Car!
Loralee at Loralee's Looney Tunes
KC at Where's My Cape?
Melissa at Domestic Irritation (who hasn't posted since November, but I'm still hoping she'll return because her blog is, indeed, excellent.)
Painted Maypole
Ruth at Ruthless In the Suburbs
and
The Shotgun Investor
As soon as he finds himself conscious, he lets out a little cry of indignation, then quickly sets about the work of kicking the bejeebus out of the wall next to his crib.
He goes through his repertoire:
"Mama"
"Da-DEE!"
"No"
"Mine"
"Ball"
"Obama '08"*
Meanwhile, in our bedroom, the P-Dawg and I feign sleep. Who will be first to give themselves away?
The J-dog throws Doggy, Monkey, and Blankie out of his crib.
"Buh-bye buh-bye buh-bye!"
Then starts crying, 'cause, frick! Toys are gone!
He kicks on his low-on-batteries-since 2005 Fisher-Price Aquarium.
Twinkle, twinkle little whaaa-wha-wha-wha-wha-whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.
After a few laps around the crib, he's ready to call in the troops.
MAMA!!!!! Da-DEEEEEEEEEE!!! BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
In our bedroom, the power play continues. When it sounds as though the J-dog has taken up a sledgehammer and is mere inches away from bashing a hole clear through the wall, I say:
"J-Dog's calling you."
P-Dawg: "He said "Mama."
Me: "He said Da-DEE."
(Crickets)
Me: "I would go get him, but my eyes are glued shut. "
P-Dawg: "Ooof! My back is killing me."
Then the sound of the V-meister scrabbling at the doorknob before bustin' out of her bedroom in S.W.A.T. team fashion.
Little footsteps padding into the bathroom.
The sound of tinkling.
The sound of silence.
The sound of a roll of TP being unraveled in its entirety.
Then, "Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaamaaaaaaaaaaa! I POOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOPED!!!!"
And we're up.
********************************************************************
Saturday mornings ain't what they used to be.
But they're not half bad, either.
One day, when the decades have passed like a bullet train, I will surely yearn for cartoons and coffee on the couch among a jumble of limbs in assorted sizes, cozily intertwined.
And as the P-Dawg and I absently do the crossword over a breakfast of Sanka, oatmeal and prunes, the jangle of our stirring spoons will ring too loudly in a half-empty house.
We'll likely still rise early, unable to to linger in a lazy morning haze.
Because we'll know, as we suspect already, that time is not ours to waste.
*While the J-Dog is impressed with Barack Obama, he is as of yet an undecided and wholly ineligible voter.
*********************************************************************************
But, wait! I have bling to pass on.
The lovely and ubiquitous MamaGeek (the blogger formerly known as Works for Mom) thrilled me to pieces with the "Daily Dose Award," which I've since learned is like saying "Your blog is a drug I cannot live without."
(I like to think of my blog as a Sudafed. Small, pretty, sugar-coated, it can clear your sinuses and give you a wacky little buzz, but is relatively harmless when dosing instructions are properly followed.)
And so without further ado, I would like to pass the Daily Dose award on to Slouching Mom, who has it all - a healthy dose of introspection laced with a bit 'o humor, all wrapped up in gorgeous prose.
The next piece of bling, the Sassy Mama Blog Award, is from Jennifer at Faking It. I recently discovered Jennifer's blog and am really enjoying her beautifully articulated and often humorous insights into motherhood and life in general.
I would like to pass the Sass Award on to Amy at Milkbreath and Margaritas. Just look at her profile pic - "sass" is her middle name.
Slouching Mom recently gave me this:
I KNOW!!!
I am asked to pass it on to ten bloggers, and they are:
Melanie at BeanPaste
Jennifer at Faking It
Beck at Frog and Toad Are Still Friends
Jen at Get In the Car!
Loralee at Loralee's Looney Tunes
KC at Where's My Cape?
Melissa at Domestic Irritation (who hasn't posted since November, but I'm still hoping she'll return because her blog is, indeed, excellent.)
Painted Maypole
Ruth at Ruthless In the Suburbs
and
The Shotgun Investor
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