I can hardly contain my joy at being in the U.S. for a college football season for the first time in eight years. It's a little irritating to be on the East Coast as the Pac-10 games start as late as 10pm if they are aired at all, but I'm not going to complain. Not too loudly.
The Hubs, on the other hand, is gutted. Rugby, specifically internationals and Six Nations, is not on TV at all and it's blocked online; we're assuming because of licensing fees. We're hoping that might change now that rugby is in the 2016 Olympics and the U.S. will have to improve their team as god forbid there's an event we don't compete in.
Alas, it's not a perfect world. Though it will be a little more perfect when UO are at the Rose Bowl this year.
GO DUCKS!
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Yes, Virginia
There is a Santa Claus. And he and all his jolly lookalikes are worried about H1N1 in NYC, where they are petitioning to be added to the vaccine priority list.
Was Clement Clarke Moore a prophet of doom? Read the excerpt below, and tell me if you don't think Mr. Moore knew a worldwide pandemic was nigh!
His eyes, how they twinkled (glossy and red).
His dimples, how merry (obviously delirious).
His cheeks were like roses (fever gone to his head).
His nose like a cherry (full up with mucus).
Happy Still November But The Media Already Grasping At Holiday Straws.
Was Clement Clarke Moore a prophet of doom? Read the excerpt below, and tell me if you don't think Mr. Moore knew a worldwide pandemic was nigh!
His eyes, how they twinkled (glossy and red).
His dimples, how merry (obviously delirious).
His cheeks were like roses (fever gone to his head).
His nose like a cherry (full up with mucus).
Happy Still November But The Media Already Grasping At Holiday Straws.
Get Lost
No one has ever wondered what I miss about my single life, but I'm-a-gonna tell you anyway. Don't get too excited, it's so the opposite of racy it'll only prove what a bore I am these days. What I miss the most is being totally lost. Off the grid, no phone, no one knows where you are, and you can spend as much time doing whatever it is you want to do as you'd like.
There are two examples that bring fond memories.
1) The University of Oregon library. Far side, desk at the window overlooking the garden. I didn't do it often, but often enough. And one of those times did afford me the chance to have a long chat with Library Lady, the 50-year-old gal who lives on the front steps. She was freshening up in the ladies' room and swore she knew me -- from someplace other than the library. Eventually, her family arranged for her to shower and workout at the UO gym. Good ol' UO. They sure do take care of their Campus Characters, as I like to call them.
And not that she doesn't count, but she doesn't count as someone knowing where I was, as she quickly was carrying on both sides of the conversation and didn't notice me leaving.
2) My first day in Madrid. No one, and I mean no one knew where I was. Sure, people knew I was in the greater Iberian peninsula area, but that could have included Portugal or Andorra. It was a beautiful day and I roamed the streets for hours. Several days' worth of hours, actually, but the first was the best. I couldn't quite figure out how a girl who was raised in a barn in Turner, Oregon wound up working in Spain and searching for Goya in the Prado.
That was at least ten and eight years ago. Now, I get a little giddy when I go to the grocery store by myself. When The Hubs says, "take your time, The Kid is still napping."
There are two examples that bring fond memories.
1) The University of Oregon library. Far side, desk at the window overlooking the garden. I didn't do it often, but often enough. And one of those times did afford me the chance to have a long chat with Library Lady, the 50-year-old gal who lives on the front steps. She was freshening up in the ladies' room and swore she knew me -- from someplace other than the library. Eventually, her family arranged for her to shower and workout at the UO gym. Good ol' UO. They sure do take care of their Campus Characters, as I like to call them.
And not that she doesn't count, but she doesn't count as someone knowing where I was, as she quickly was carrying on both sides of the conversation and didn't notice me leaving.
2) My first day in Madrid. No one, and I mean no one knew where I was. Sure, people knew I was in the greater Iberian peninsula area, but that could have included Portugal or Andorra. It was a beautiful day and I roamed the streets for hours. Several days' worth of hours, actually, but the first was the best. I couldn't quite figure out how a girl who was raised in a barn in Turner, Oregon wound up working in Spain and searching for Goya in the Prado.
That was at least ten and eight years ago. Now, I get a little giddy when I go to the grocery store by myself. When The Hubs says, "take your time, The Kid is still napping."
Friday, October 23, 2009
MSG
Monosodium glutamate, why do you taste so good?
In college, a friend's grandfather died and several of this friend's group moved into the grandfather's house. The only thing stranger than finding a shaker jar of MSG among the spices, was that the grandfather was buried about a half a block away and made frequent visits home.
In college, a friend's grandfather died and several of this friend's group moved into the grandfather's house. The only thing stranger than finding a shaker jar of MSG among the spices, was that the grandfather was buried about a half a block away and made frequent visits home.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Where am I?
I was a little worried after two weeks in Oregon that Cam and I would wake up when we got home and not be sure where we were. However, the abundance of alarms and sirens throughout the night was evidently Jersey City's way of saying, "welcome home, we've missed you."
On the up side, yet another false alarm in our building meant Cam got to see his favorite firemen from Ladder 9 this morning. They're ever so nice about letting him walk around the truck, and switching on the lights and sirens for him.
On the up side, yet another false alarm in our building meant Cam got to see his favorite firemen from Ladder 9 this morning. They're ever so nice about letting him walk around the truck, and switching on the lights and sirens for him.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Junk
Once upon a time, in a barn far, far away, two small children longed for sugar. One child dug deep, deep into the cupboards and thought he'd hit pay dirt. In his euphoria he read "chocolate" on the label and took a big bite of the bar. Even if he had read the word "baker's" before it, he would not have known what it meant in time to stop him from a mouthful of horror. The second child climbed atop the fridge every day to get to her stash: a gigantic jar of quarter-sized chewable vitamin C. She grew healthy and tall -- after a brief period of portliness prior to excessive growth.
When you live 30 minutes from civilization and your parents are on a freak-'70s, nuts-and-twigs diet, you don't get a lot of normal childhood treats lying around. Apparently, in this phase of deprivation, even my parents became desperate.
If necessity is the mother of all inventions, my mother was the inventor of all things necessary. Rummaging around, she found the heretofore secret ingredients for Junk. Asking for measurements would be insulting. And futile, as there aren't any.
In this order melt together in small frying pan: butter, marshmallows, some form of chocolate (chips, powder, Nestle Quik in dire cases), peanut butter and a crunchy item (cereal, chow mein noodles). In true tradition, Junk must be eaten from the pan, on the couch, kitchen towel used to keep lap from burning. Junk must be eaten so hot that you burn your mouth on the first bite and can't really taste anything after that, with a glass of milk. Top tip: don't use metal or wood utensils as Junk sticks to them.
As you can guess, I just made some.
Let me know how it goes!
When you live 30 minutes from civilization and your parents are on a freak-'70s, nuts-and-twigs diet, you don't get a lot of normal childhood treats lying around. Apparently, in this phase of deprivation, even my parents became desperate.
If necessity is the mother of all inventions, my mother was the inventor of all things necessary. Rummaging around, she found the heretofore secret ingredients for Junk. Asking for measurements would be insulting. And futile, as there aren't any.
In this order melt together in small frying pan: butter, marshmallows, some form of chocolate (chips, powder, Nestle Quik in dire cases), peanut butter and a crunchy item (cereal, chow mein noodles). In true tradition, Junk must be eaten from the pan, on the couch, kitchen towel used to keep lap from burning. Junk must be eaten so hot that you burn your mouth on the first bite and can't really taste anything after that, with a glass of milk. Top tip: don't use metal or wood utensils as Junk sticks to them.
As you can guess, I just made some.
Let me know how it goes!
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Open House!
I cannot explain why the big cemetery we drive by all the time has two massive signs attached to the iron gate that say: Open House, Sunday: 9am-4pm.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
My money bank!!
The other day I gathered all Cam's change, grabbed his bank details, and marched Cam down to the car for a big, educational trip to the bank. Cam's bank has a coin counter, and it's also in the same parking lot as our grocery store, both of which were meant to be all shades of convenient. And then I realized it was Sunday. Bah!
But alas, I still had to get food. I pulled into the lot, mentally preparing myself for what awaited me -- wrestling Cam into the cart, ready for the fits of "ICE CEAM, ICE CEAM" and other general mayhem like pretending to parent properly in front of strangers when what I really want to do is a) leave him in the car or b) squeeze him a little harder than child services allows to stop whatever behavior -- and lo and behold, there was life in his bank.
America really is the best country on Earth. Bank hours on a Sunday. Eleven to four. And the place was packed.
The convenience of America never ceases to amaze me. Probably because while living in Germany my work hours were the same as grocery-store hours, things closed around noon on a Saturday --when I woke up -- until 10am on Monday, when I went to work. It was pretty dire, but man I was thin. I regularly ate cucumber for dinner. Or eggplant, or stale crackers, or whatever single item that one would leave to the very end in a fridge. That could then be covered in balsamic vinegar. I balanced out the starvation with beer for calories.
Back to beautiful Sunday bank hours, not only did we win a prize for guessing within $1.99 of what we put in the coin counter, but Cam is obsessed with the bank now. He didn't say a word until later that night, when he pipes up with, "Money! Money bank! My money bank! Where'd go? My money? Go, go bank!" for nearly an hour, and several times this week. Awesome.
But alas, I still had to get food. I pulled into the lot, mentally preparing myself for what awaited me -- wrestling Cam into the cart, ready for the fits of "ICE CEAM, ICE CEAM" and other general mayhem like pretending to parent properly in front of strangers when what I really want to do is a) leave him in the car or b) squeeze him a little harder than child services allows to stop whatever behavior -- and lo and behold, there was life in his bank.
America really is the best country on Earth. Bank hours on a Sunday. Eleven to four. And the place was packed.
The convenience of America never ceases to amaze me. Probably because while living in Germany my work hours were the same as grocery-store hours, things closed around noon on a Saturday --when I woke up -- until 10am on Monday, when I went to work. It was pretty dire, but man I was thin. I regularly ate cucumber for dinner. Or eggplant, or stale crackers, or whatever single item that one would leave to the very end in a fridge. That could then be covered in balsamic vinegar. I balanced out the starvation with beer for calories.
Back to beautiful Sunday bank hours, not only did we win a prize for guessing within $1.99 of what we put in the coin counter, but Cam is obsessed with the bank now. He didn't say a word until later that night, when he pipes up with, "Money! Money bank! My money bank! Where'd go? My money? Go, go bank!" for nearly an hour, and several times this week. Awesome.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
The Classics
I was chatting away on the train the other day with two moms and their teen daughters. They were headed to the big city from New Jersey to see a Broadway show, which they did several times a year, and yet they were totally lost. Keep in mind they did this trip often, and it's a three-track system that has twelve total stops. Mass transitly speaking, not complicated.
They were going to see The Little Mermaid before it went the way of a lot of shows these days -- bust.
The last show we saw was Mary Poppins. Totally brilliant, think it's the best show we've ever seen, and that was before we met one of the Marys who lives in our building. Catherine, she's adorable.
One of the teens says she's never seen Mary Poppins the movie and never will, as it's, like, five hours long. The mom assures her it's about an hour and a half. The girl says, no, on TV it's like five hours. We assure her that's because of the commercials.
The other teen says, I want to buy, like, all the Disney movies on DVD. The other teen says, yeah, like, the classics: Lion King, Aladdin.
Were I the type of person who enjoys pages of literary masterfulness, I'd make some tidy metaphor about the train, its track, my "train" of thought of what the classics are and things screeching, derailing and what not. But I skip those bits when reading and go directly to the dialogue mainly because I've read too many books and no longer care. In fact, the last book that actually made me read the descriptive bits was The God of Small Things. Feel free to judge.
But if you think about it, how do you define a classic movie? Off the top of my head, it would be something award-winning, seen by millions, instantly recognizable either by character, actor, song...made before you were born.
Lion King won two Oscars and 22 other awards. Two words: Hakuna Matada. It's a wildly successful show. It was made in 1994. These girls were born between then and 1996, I'd guess.
Dear god.
I felt really old. Old like their mothers, who were in their mid-40s, when in my mind, I see myself as being closer in age to, like, the teens. A great lady in her 60s I used to know said the best 10 minutes of her day was between waking up and looking in the mirror. In bed she saw herself in her prime. Twenty, thirty. And in the 10 steps to the mirror she aged forty years. Now if that's not incentive to stay in bed.
I've started reminiscing about my classic self. The one that not only entered but won dance offs and volleyball tournaments. Instantly recognized and remembered by many by Pink's song Get The Party Started. One word: Mafibicka. More words: what country am I in?
The thing with classics though, is that while we think fondly of them, years on you take a closer look and the special effects aren't that great (think Star Wars). The jokes and dialogue don't seem as funny as you remembered (think Coming to America). The scenes seem a bit choppy and the Definition isn’t so High.
Don't get me wrong, I'd watch The Princess Bride several hundred more times, but in the end I'm more interested in the coming attractions than something I’ve seen before.
They were going to see The Little Mermaid before it went the way of a lot of shows these days -- bust.
The last show we saw was Mary Poppins. Totally brilliant, think it's the best show we've ever seen, and that was before we met one of the Marys who lives in our building. Catherine, she's adorable.
One of the teens says she's never seen Mary Poppins the movie and never will, as it's, like, five hours long. The mom assures her it's about an hour and a half. The girl says, no, on TV it's like five hours. We assure her that's because of the commercials.
The other teen says, I want to buy, like, all the Disney movies on DVD. The other teen says, yeah, like, the classics: Lion King, Aladdin.
Were I the type of person who enjoys pages of literary masterfulness, I'd make some tidy metaphor about the train, its track, my "train" of thought of what the classics are and things screeching, derailing and what not. But I skip those bits when reading and go directly to the dialogue mainly because I've read too many books and no longer care. In fact, the last book that actually made me read the descriptive bits was The God of Small Things. Feel free to judge.
But if you think about it, how do you define a classic movie? Off the top of my head, it would be something award-winning, seen by millions, instantly recognizable either by character, actor, song...made before you were born.
Lion King won two Oscars and 22 other awards. Two words: Hakuna Matada. It's a wildly successful show. It was made in 1994. These girls were born between then and 1996, I'd guess.
Dear god.
I felt really old. Old like their mothers, who were in their mid-40s, when in my mind, I see myself as being closer in age to, like, the teens. A great lady in her 60s I used to know said the best 10 minutes of her day was between waking up and looking in the mirror. In bed she saw herself in her prime. Twenty, thirty. And in the 10 steps to the mirror she aged forty years. Now if that's not incentive to stay in bed.
I've started reminiscing about my classic self. The one that not only entered but won dance offs and volleyball tournaments. Instantly recognized and remembered by many by Pink's song Get The Party Started. One word: Mafibicka. More words: what country am I in?
The thing with classics though, is that while we think fondly of them, years on you take a closer look and the special effects aren't that great (think Star Wars). The jokes and dialogue don't seem as funny as you remembered (think Coming to America). The scenes seem a bit choppy and the Definition isn’t so High.
Don't get me wrong, I'd watch The Princess Bride several hundred more times, but in the end I'm more interested in the coming attractions than something I’ve seen before.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Four-Alarm Fire
I'm so jaded by our neighborhood that I didn't even get off the couch when I heard loads of sirens seemingly just outside my window. As it turns out, they were putting out the fire at the building next to ours...8 firetrucks, 2 ambulances, several cop cars. One would think that would at least get me to the window, but no.
Got there eventually, via taking something to the kitchen. It was the building I always watch, and slightly curse, as there is always a ruckus going on in the general area: heard a fight the other night but couldn't see it, kids playing dice in the street who don't even move for the cop cars policing the neighborhood, dozens of kids milling about late, late at night.
Needless to say, I'm curious how it started.
Got there eventually, via taking something to the kitchen. It was the building I always watch, and slightly curse, as there is always a ruckus going on in the general area: heard a fight the other night but couldn't see it, kids playing dice in the street who don't even move for the cop cars policing the neighborhood, dozens of kids milling about late, late at night.
Needless to say, I'm curious how it started.
This Just In
Does anyone else find anything odd about the following CNN Update (info bar at the bottom of the screen)?
"Alleged virginity tests for Indian brides under probe."
"Alleged virginity tests for Indian brides under probe."
Friday, July 3, 2009
If you don't like the weather, wait five minutes
Our weather has been really shit-tastic. Weirdest summer on record in New York for yonks. We've had more thunderstorms and torrential downpours than you can shake a broken umbrella at.
Yes, at.
Even with all the rain, daily temperatures are still pretty high. Think 75 to 80 degrees with pretty good humidity, by which I mean it's humid, but you don't have a hard time breathing or need a shower 10 times a day.
In the midst of this, Mitch and I saw an Indian couple crossing the road. I didn't mean to set that up as a joke, but here's the punchline: she was wearing a traditional saree, he was wearing a sweatshirt and ear muffs.
Yes, at.
Even with all the rain, daily temperatures are still pretty high. Think 75 to 80 degrees with pretty good humidity, by which I mean it's humid, but you don't have a hard time breathing or need a shower 10 times a day.
In the midst of this, Mitch and I saw an Indian couple crossing the road. I didn't mean to set that up as a joke, but here's the punchline: she was wearing a traditional saree, he was wearing a sweatshirt and ear muffs.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Oh, Jersey City.
My favorite part of the Fourth of July in our neighborhood is instead of knowing it's gunshots I'm hearing, I can try to convince myself it's firecrackers.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Submit Your Answer Now!!
Mitch read in BA news that airlines across the board are cancelling several flights a day for a five month period.
Take a wild, wild stab at how many flights you think that is. Total, globally, all airlines, five months.
I was thinking one million, but said 500,000 for fear of looking stupid.
One of Mitch's co-workers said 40,000.
What's your guess? Let me know what you really thought by leaving a comment.
Now leave your comment guess before you read the following. I'm going to tell you what the number really is, based on a British Airways estimate. Would you ever have guessed in a million years that the answer is fourteen million flights? In only five months? Yeah, me neither. Environmentalists everywhere must be ecstatic.
I was happy and slightly concerned I was a lot closer than one of Mitch's co-workers.
Take a wild, wild stab at how many flights you think that is. Total, globally, all airlines, five months.
I was thinking one million, but said 500,000 for fear of looking stupid.
One of Mitch's co-workers said 40,000.
What's your guess? Let me know what you really thought by leaving a comment.
Now leave your comment guess before you read the following. I'm going to tell you what the number really is, based on a British Airways estimate. Would you ever have guessed in a million years that the answer is fourteen million flights? In only five months? Yeah, me neither. Environmentalists everywhere must be ecstatic.
I was happy and slightly concerned I was a lot closer than one of Mitch's co-workers.
Put your fist in the air and shake it wildly at The Man!
I was waiting to pick up a package in our mail room when I saw our building’s vacation policy taped to the wall. There was the answer to a lot of the questions I got while living in Europe about why Americans are the way they are. Namely, why we don’t have passports or leave the country. Why, for the most part, we don’t learn a second language or take the time to be informed about world events.
After working in our building for an entire year, you get one week of vacation. That’s five days, not seven. Up to that point, 365 days, you get no vacation. Zero. After FIVE YEARS, you get two weeks, or 10 days off. After 10 years, 15 days.
To be fare, our building’s policy is standard for hourly employees in the US. If you are salaried or in a higher-level position, you usually start out with two weeks’ holiday, though generally to show your dedication, you wouldn’t dream of taking more than a day or two of that within the first year while working 50 hours a week or more.
Compare this with Europe, where day one of your job – any job at any level – you are entitled to 20-25 days of leave on average. And you take it, all of it, guilt free.
I started my job in Germany in July, and a few months later some friends invited me on a week-long trip. I was telling my co-workers how much fun it sounded, and it was shame I couldn’t go.
“Why not?” they asked.
“Well, I just started working here, I can’t go on vacation yet.”
“Why not?” they asked.
“I’d feel guilty.”
Oh, Lindsay, dear, dear Lindsay, they said, and proceeded to describe this employment paradise where vacation days are all but mandatory. No one can work 35-40 hours a week without a break, they said. Your employer gives you those days so you are a better, happier employee, they said. Besides, if you don’t take it throughout the year, you’ll be forced to take it at the end of the year.
Hold on, forced to take vacation?
Which leads me to another type of US employee: someone in a salaried management position with over 20 days’ vacation. This is the case with one of my nearest and dearest. I just assumed he didn’t visit me in Spain, Germany or the UK because he only had a week or two and understandably wanted to spend that time with his young family. But no. His employer had “suggested,” for they’d be sued if it were policy, that management strongly discourage employees taking any holiday and they should lead by example. W.T.F.
I’m regularly in the building’s foyer when the shuttle dumps off the NYC commuters. Eight, nine, 10pm and hoards of people are unloading after an 8am start. Who’s going to learn French with that kind of schedule? And then have enough money to take a trip to France for five days?
So you see, I believe within myself all Americans aren’t ignorant homebodies, we’re just seriously overworked and under-vacationed in a system that works us blind. Which is why I'm boycotting work altogether.
I put my fist in the air and shake it wildly at The Man!
After working in our building for an entire year, you get one week of vacation. That’s five days, not seven. Up to that point, 365 days, you get no vacation. Zero. After FIVE YEARS, you get two weeks, or 10 days off. After 10 years, 15 days.
To be fare, our building’s policy is standard for hourly employees in the US. If you are salaried or in a higher-level position, you usually start out with two weeks’ holiday, though generally to show your dedication, you wouldn’t dream of taking more than a day or two of that within the first year while working 50 hours a week or more.
Compare this with Europe, where day one of your job – any job at any level – you are entitled to 20-25 days of leave on average. And you take it, all of it, guilt free.
I started my job in Germany in July, and a few months later some friends invited me on a week-long trip. I was telling my co-workers how much fun it sounded, and it was shame I couldn’t go.
“Why not?” they asked.
“Well, I just started working here, I can’t go on vacation yet.”
“Why not?” they asked.
“I’d feel guilty.”
Oh, Lindsay, dear, dear Lindsay, they said, and proceeded to describe this employment paradise where vacation days are all but mandatory. No one can work 35-40 hours a week without a break, they said. Your employer gives you those days so you are a better, happier employee, they said. Besides, if you don’t take it throughout the year, you’ll be forced to take it at the end of the year.
Hold on, forced to take vacation?
Which leads me to another type of US employee: someone in a salaried management position with over 20 days’ vacation. This is the case with one of my nearest and dearest. I just assumed he didn’t visit me in Spain, Germany or the UK because he only had a week or two and understandably wanted to spend that time with his young family. But no. His employer had “suggested,” for they’d be sued if it were policy, that management strongly discourage employees taking any holiday and they should lead by example. W.T.F.
I’m regularly in the building’s foyer when the shuttle dumps off the NYC commuters. Eight, nine, 10pm and hoards of people are unloading after an 8am start. Who’s going to learn French with that kind of schedule? And then have enough money to take a trip to France for five days?
So you see, I believe within myself all Americans aren’t ignorant homebodies, we’re just seriously overworked and under-vacationed in a system that works us blind. Which is why I'm boycotting work altogether.
I put my fist in the air and shake it wildly at The Man!
Monday, June 29, 2009
Seriously
Why is it that initially I had to force Cam to eat strawberries, yet he'll quite happily eat an entire stick of deodorant?
Friday, June 26, 2009
My Review of Baby Jogger City Classic Single Stroller - Brown/Stone
The City Classic is a stylish multi-purpose stroller with all-terrain capabilities. The City Classic's standard features include patented Quick-Fold Technology, lockable swivel front wheel for all-terrain strolling, lightweight quick-release wheels and a padded seat with a 5-point padded safet...
Baby Jogger City Classic Single Stroller - Brown/Stone
Great for tall parents!!
Vertically Enhanced Mom Jersey City, NJ 6/26/2009 5
Pros: Durable, Adjustable, Easy To Maneuver, Comfortable
Cons: Poor/No Cupholders
Best Uses: Toddlers
Describe Yourself: First Time Parent
I had one of those high-priced, flashy strollers and had no end of hassle with it breaking all the time, so we started looking for a light-weight umbrella stroller. We were limited to something with adjustable handles because we are both so tall (6'0" and 6'3"). The Baby Jogger was recommended to us, and at first we said no because it was a jogger. But after looking at the various options, we are thrilled with the Baby Jogger Classic. The City Mini handles were still too short and we kicked the frame, btw. The brown/tan is really nice (and usually I buy everything in black). The one-hand fold is slick (and you can still leave some things in the pockets and close it, unlike a lot of the umbrella strollers), though you need two hands to extend it. Steering is super easy, baby seems really comfortable, perfect for big toddlers but I'd use it for an infant, too. Brake location is good and easy to use. Build quality seems really good (so says my husband who is an engineer). The Baby Jogger video for this shows vents by the baby's head in the recline position, but this model doesn't have that unfortunately.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Stroll On!
Strollers. Every mom has one. My sister-in-law has a garage cemetery of them. A few of my friends earn money by giving workout classes using them. But I am yet to find someone who is 100% happy with hers. We researched like crazy, and by we I mean Mitch, who found this and a few other purchases to be his first way of connecting with Cam while I was pregnant.
We were limited to strollers with extendable handles because we’re both over 6’0” tall, which ruled out anything under a million dollars. Like looking for a home, a car, etc., all I wanted was a nice, mid-range item with some design appeal and value for money.
But there we were, splashing out considerable funds on a Quinny Buzz 3, thinking it would last through the two kids we planned for. We loved it initially, but the front wheel started to stick. The handle cable broke. And suddenly we’re wondering how it would last through one kid, let alone two, when the steering was stiff and terrible.
Toys R Us were brill, they fixed it and gave us a floor-model umbrella stroller to get us through the two weeks while they fixed it.
And then the front wheel started to stick again. Then the mechanism that locked the stroller in an upright position popped in and out of place. We were frustrated, and Quinny customer service wouldn’t fix it.
So based on further online and in-store research, here are a few I’d recommend for tall parents. Had I a cheap option, I’d own one myself, so apologies in advance that nothing comes under about $300.
Chicco Cortina: Not going to win design awards, but not bad for the price and the handle height is really high. Really high. Watch out for weight limit, as I think it’s only about 40lbs and you might find yourself buying another stroller with a higher weight limit in a year or two.
Bugaboo: Expensive, prices going up July 1, but I don’t think I’ve heard any complaints from parents who own any of the models. Also got high marks in boutique stroller shop. Lots of (equally expensive) accessories, but you can’t swing a cat in the greater New York area without hitting a mom (usually nanny) pushing one. Though I understand the UPPAbaby Vista line is taking considerable market share. I can see why: I’m tired of seeing the Bugaboo. Weird status symbol but good product, so…what to do.
Maclaren XT: Best umbrella stroller, but it’s still pricey. A bit of a booger in that you can’t have anything in the storage compartments when you fold it, but handle height is good, and it’s light(er)weight than a lot of the “systems.”
Baby Jogger – Classic or Elite (City Mini handle is still too short): Highly recommended by boutique staff member who had tested every stroller (including expensive Stokke/Maclaren/etc brands) on her three kids. She owns the City Mini, but she was short. OK for light jogging, handmade, more lines available, crazy high handle and crazy easy folding. Mine’s on order, I’ll update when it gets here! We were looking for an umbrella stroller to replace the Quinny, so turned up our noses at a jogger-style at first. Time will tell! But the joggers typically have taller handles, and this one has a child weight limit of 75lbs and good for tall babies, accessories to convert it to a double stroller and an infant system. Baby Jogger seems to be the “it” double/triple stroller as well.
UPPAbaby: Handle height on the Vista range was pretty good, but their umbrella strollers boasting high handle heights and high frames were not high enough. The Vista was reminiscent of the Quinny, which is why we shied away from it, not for any other reason.
Quinny Buzz: Starts off great. Not cheap, but not the most expensive. Fab design. At first the steering was awesome. The one-finger, gas-spring unfold was impressive. Diaper bag attached to frame was convenient. The design and ease-of-use, especially with the Maxi-Cosi carseat, was great. However, the steering going stiff and the handle cable snapping are common problems, as we knew and as we heard talking to vendors. Also, the stroller attachment is very short, so at 30lbs our son is too tall for it. The straps were too short for him to wear a jacket and I think the buckle pinched his crotch.
Maxi-Cosi and Quinny are the same brand, so while a Maxi-Cosi line has come out, we didn’t bother.
Stokke and Orbit: Far too expensive to even try. Cool looking, but at price points well over $1,000 (heard $1,800 to fully kit out the Orbit), all I can say is, you’re buying a stroller, not a rocket ship.
Top Stroller Buying Tips:
Go someplace you can test in person. Take full strides because you will kick the frame unless the handles are tall enough, and that’ll drive you bonkers in the real world.
If you’re tall, your kid probably will be, too. Look for higher weight limits, or at least a large-looking chair (wide and tall) to accommodate her. Think about stroller weight, but not too much, as if you’re tall you can lift a bigger stroller.
Then there are smaller things: how much do accessories cost on top of stroller cost? Do you have to empty all the baskets to fold it? Will the stroller tip backward if you have a heavy diaper bag hanging off the back? Do you own a car or are you on and off buses?
Don’t always buy the best deal. Toys R Us has an excellent return policy (keep that receipt forever!), though staff don’t tend to be super knowledgeable and the stores don’t always stock the more expensive brands to test. Boutique staff are very knowledgeable but the strollers tend to be more expensive. Buying online is cheaper, but if you need a fix…duh-doh. Ask about repeat offenders on repairs.
Largely, I think, where do stroller makers get off charging what they do? I'd take a $20 umbrella stroller if the handles were high enough.
We were limited to strollers with extendable handles because we’re both over 6’0” tall, which ruled out anything under a million dollars. Like looking for a home, a car, etc., all I wanted was a nice, mid-range item with some design appeal and value for money.
But there we were, splashing out considerable funds on a Quinny Buzz 3, thinking it would last through the two kids we planned for. We loved it initially, but the front wheel started to stick. The handle cable broke. And suddenly we’re wondering how it would last through one kid, let alone two, when the steering was stiff and terrible.
Toys R Us were brill, they fixed it and gave us a floor-model umbrella stroller to get us through the two weeks while they fixed it.
And then the front wheel started to stick again. Then the mechanism that locked the stroller in an upright position popped in and out of place. We were frustrated, and Quinny customer service wouldn’t fix it.
So based on further online and in-store research, here are a few I’d recommend for tall parents. Had I a cheap option, I’d own one myself, so apologies in advance that nothing comes under about $300.
Chicco Cortina: Not going to win design awards, but not bad for the price and the handle height is really high. Really high. Watch out for weight limit, as I think it’s only about 40lbs and you might find yourself buying another stroller with a higher weight limit in a year or two.
Bugaboo: Expensive, prices going up July 1, but I don’t think I’ve heard any complaints from parents who own any of the models. Also got high marks in boutique stroller shop. Lots of (equally expensive) accessories, but you can’t swing a cat in the greater New York area without hitting a mom (usually nanny) pushing one. Though I understand the UPPAbaby Vista line is taking considerable market share. I can see why: I’m tired of seeing the Bugaboo. Weird status symbol but good product, so…what to do.
Maclaren XT: Best umbrella stroller, but it’s still pricey. A bit of a booger in that you can’t have anything in the storage compartments when you fold it, but handle height is good, and it’s light(er)weight than a lot of the “systems.”
Baby Jogger – Classic or Elite (City Mini handle is still too short): Highly recommended by boutique staff member who had tested every stroller (including expensive Stokke/Maclaren/etc brands) on her three kids. She owns the City Mini, but she was short. OK for light jogging, handmade, more lines available, crazy high handle and crazy easy folding. Mine’s on order, I’ll update when it gets here! We were looking for an umbrella stroller to replace the Quinny, so turned up our noses at a jogger-style at first. Time will tell! But the joggers typically have taller handles, and this one has a child weight limit of 75lbs and good for tall babies, accessories to convert it to a double stroller and an infant system. Baby Jogger seems to be the “it” double/triple stroller as well.
UPPAbaby: Handle height on the Vista range was pretty good, but their umbrella strollers boasting high handle heights and high frames were not high enough. The Vista was reminiscent of the Quinny, which is why we shied away from it, not for any other reason.
Quinny Buzz: Starts off great. Not cheap, but not the most expensive. Fab design. At first the steering was awesome. The one-finger, gas-spring unfold was impressive. Diaper bag attached to frame was convenient. The design and ease-of-use, especially with the Maxi-Cosi carseat, was great. However, the steering going stiff and the handle cable snapping are common problems, as we knew and as we heard talking to vendors. Also, the stroller attachment is very short, so at 30lbs our son is too tall for it. The straps were too short for him to wear a jacket and I think the buckle pinched his crotch.
Maxi-Cosi and Quinny are the same brand, so while a Maxi-Cosi line has come out, we didn’t bother.
Stokke and Orbit: Far too expensive to even try. Cool looking, but at price points well over $1,000 (heard $1,800 to fully kit out the Orbit), all I can say is, you’re buying a stroller, not a rocket ship.
Top Stroller Buying Tips:
Go someplace you can test in person. Take full strides because you will kick the frame unless the handles are tall enough, and that’ll drive you bonkers in the real world.
If you’re tall, your kid probably will be, too. Look for higher weight limits, or at least a large-looking chair (wide and tall) to accommodate her. Think about stroller weight, but not too much, as if you’re tall you can lift a bigger stroller.
Then there are smaller things: how much do accessories cost on top of stroller cost? Do you have to empty all the baskets to fold it? Will the stroller tip backward if you have a heavy diaper bag hanging off the back? Do you own a car or are you on and off buses?
Don’t always buy the best deal. Toys R Us has an excellent return policy (keep that receipt forever!), though staff don’t tend to be super knowledgeable and the stores don’t always stock the more expensive brands to test. Boutique staff are very knowledgeable but the strollers tend to be more expensive. Buying online is cheaper, but if you need a fix…duh-doh. Ask about repeat offenders on repairs.
Largely, I think, where do stroller makers get off charging what they do? I'd take a $20 umbrella stroller if the handles were high enough.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Darling Hell Misery
I can’t exactly take credit for coming up with how to describe what Cam can be these days. Describing her son as vacillating “between the most charming, darling child on earth and hell misery why are you so upset frustrated tantrums,” my friend gave me inspiration.
I’m just going to go ahead and bundle that all up and coin “Darling Hell Misery.”
Darling:
Cam’s cousins helped him get started on speaking (and a lot of other awesome things like naked trampoline-ing) during our recent visit. Our crowd pleaser is, “Have a nice day!” which comes out, “mun-a-ma-AY!!!!” very enthusiastically. Juice, cracker, apple, banana, up, pee-pee, rock, please (peez) and a form of thank you…and some other stuff. We can figure it out about 50% of the time. Largely, he just points and says, “this. This! THIS!” while we grab everything in view and try to give it to him.
Hell Misery:
After going swimming, jogging him to and from the park and playing there for hours, miraculously finding him meals he will actually eat and not throw on the floor – all after an hour nap in lieu of his regular two hours – he has the nerve not to let me eat my dinner and insist I get “up, up!”
I lovingly got up, many, many times, to be led to many, many corners of our apartment for no apparent purpose, only to go sit back down again to be screamed at, hit and bitten. And, while it’s cute he wants me to “play, play,” and grabs my hand and pulls, flipping his lid when I don’t go the two feet to the toy he then throws at my head isn’t.
I’m like: MOMMY IS TIRED. IF YOU VALUE YOUR LIFE, QUICKLY LEARN TO ENTERTAIN YOURSELF.
At least during dinner. After a day – I feel – I was a really good mom.
I’m just going to go ahead and bundle that all up and coin “Darling Hell Misery.”
Darling:
Cam’s cousins helped him get started on speaking (and a lot of other awesome things like naked trampoline-ing) during our recent visit. Our crowd pleaser is, “Have a nice day!” which comes out, “mun-a-ma-AY!!!!” very enthusiastically. Juice, cracker, apple, banana, up, pee-pee, rock, please (peez) and a form of thank you…and some other stuff. We can figure it out about 50% of the time. Largely, he just points and says, “this. This! THIS!” while we grab everything in view and try to give it to him.
Hell Misery:
After going swimming, jogging him to and from the park and playing there for hours, miraculously finding him meals he will actually eat and not throw on the floor – all after an hour nap in lieu of his regular two hours – he has the nerve not to let me eat my dinner and insist I get “up, up!”
I lovingly got up, many, many times, to be led to many, many corners of our apartment for no apparent purpose, only to go sit back down again to be screamed at, hit and bitten. And, while it’s cute he wants me to “play, play,” and grabs my hand and pulls, flipping his lid when I don’t go the two feet to the toy he then throws at my head isn’t.
I’m like: MOMMY IS TIRED. IF YOU VALUE YOUR LIFE, QUICKLY LEARN TO ENTERTAIN YOURSELF.
At least during dinner. After a day – I feel – I was a really good mom.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
The Highly Underrated Sternum
I have decided recently that my sternum is my favorite part of my body. It’s by far the skinniest part of me. It hasn’t sagged. It’s lightly tanned, yet the skin doesn’t have that damaged, creepy, wrinkled look old sun-damaged ladies get. Yet. Necklaces always fit. My sternum never says, “My, our boobs are small,” it just houses them quietly and enjoys their light-hearted comedy.
Yup, me and my sternum. Will eagerly await hit R&B or rap song with accompanying dance and/or catchy phrase praising it.
Yup, me and my sternum. Will eagerly await hit R&B or rap song with accompanying dance and/or catchy phrase praising it.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
This And That
Cam is officially in a normal bed now.
New Yorkers, while not in cars, are very nice people, especially to women with babies on the train.
What happened to swine flu?
I miss playing golf and volleyball. Sometimes basketball and softball. But I'm enjoying my yoga, just wish I could do it two or three times a week.
Broccoli 1. Chocolate cookies 5.
Had my first go at Guitar Hero -- but on the drums -- and I can hold my own at medium level. Rocked Eye of the Tiger. Nirvana kicked my ass in the final verse. Twice.
Is it wrong that I enjoyed Mother's Day morning because I didn't spend it with Cam? Got to sleep in, go to yoga, be by myself for about 1/2 hour before the boys took me to breakfast. Brilliant! Yet still so very weird I'm included in this holiday.
Why is it impossible to spend less than $200 each trip to Costco?
My friend just had her baby on Sunday in three hours start to finish. Didn't realize that was an option. Please sign me up for that next time.
New Yorkers, while not in cars, are very nice people, especially to women with babies on the train.
What happened to swine flu?
I miss playing golf and volleyball. Sometimes basketball and softball. But I'm enjoying my yoga, just wish I could do it two or three times a week.
Broccoli 1. Chocolate cookies 5.
Had my first go at Guitar Hero -- but on the drums -- and I can hold my own at medium level. Rocked Eye of the Tiger. Nirvana kicked my ass in the final verse. Twice.
Is it wrong that I enjoyed Mother's Day morning because I didn't spend it with Cam? Got to sleep in, go to yoga, be by myself for about 1/2 hour before the boys took me to breakfast. Brilliant! Yet still so very weird I'm included in this holiday.
Why is it impossible to spend less than $200 each trip to Costco?
My friend just had her baby on Sunday in three hours start to finish. Didn't realize that was an option. Please sign me up for that next time.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
In the Battle of Big Person vs. Little Person, Big Person Wins Every Time
I've been debating about privacy and this blog, and just what I was willing to share about myself and others. It's KILLING me right now, as I have one personal tid-bit to share that's slightly embarrassing, and one bit of news about someone who I hate. HATE. that would be so gratifying to share as it's the truth icing on the toxic bitch cake that has nail files in it in an attempt to (off-)spring from jail a waste of a life or two. I have never wanted to be as teeny, tiny, infinitesimal a person about publicizing this news as I do now, but damn it. Morals. Bastard morals. As always, I have to be the bigger person.
What is one to do? If you know me, you know there really isn't much I won't share (sorry about that). But it occurs to me -- as a self-proclaimed and, dare I say it, rather accomplished cyberstalker -- that setting up a blog open to the masses sets oneself up for the possibility of being stalked, uh, oneself.
It's not stranger-weirdos trying to track me down that bothers me. It's the people I know who I don't care for indulging in their own stalkiness that irks. I can only think of a handful of people who would take the time, or who I would find it particularly grating that they were having a snoop and hitting stalking gold. See above about person I HATE.
To the questions. Where do you draw the line on privacy online? Also, when gossiping can go very public so easily, what is there to stop you from doing it? Sub-question: if it's already in the newspaper and on the news, wouldn't one just be disseminating already public information thus providing a public service? Discuss.
What is one to do? If you know me, you know there really isn't much I won't share (sorry about that). But it occurs to me -- as a self-proclaimed and, dare I say it, rather accomplished cyberstalker -- that setting up a blog open to the masses sets oneself up for the possibility of being stalked, uh, oneself.
It's not stranger-weirdos trying to track me down that bothers me. It's the people I know who I don't care for indulging in their own stalkiness that irks. I can only think of a handful of people who would take the time, or who I would find it particularly grating that they were having a snoop and hitting stalking gold. See above about person I HATE.
To the questions. Where do you draw the line on privacy online? Also, when gossiping can go very public so easily, what is there to stop you from doing it? Sub-question: if it's already in the newspaper and on the news, wouldn't one just be disseminating already public information thus providing a public service? Discuss.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Where's Sally Jesse When I Need Her?
Not until after I had Cameron did I understand how women went on talk shows for make overs and said they hadn't looked in a mirror for years. But suddenly, I could relate.
I was going to write something about maintaining a certain level of hygiene (washing, brushing) after having Cam, but now that I think about it, that would be a big, fat lie. Clothes were filthy, either too big or too small, covered in god-knows. As close to a mirror as I got was to vaguely glance to see if I had food in my teeth or mascara under my eyes. Hair was in a perma-pony, or I'd put on a hat instead of makeup.
That phase lasted a long, long time.
Not enough pounds lighter but regularly bathed and maintained, I've returned to fashion (well, returned to effort, success is questionable) but not to one of the mirrors I never used to shy away from: the camera.
I just signed up for something that asked for a recent photo of me -- with no one else in it -- and I couldn't find one. Not one. After quite a search, I found one from September 2006 that I thought was an accurate representation of how I think of myself looking. I look about 12 and 150lbs. Sent that picture faster than you can say DREAM ON.
Alas, sometimes I feel every bit the geriatric mother Welsh hospitals categorize us mothers over 30 as. Seriously? Geriatric?
Kick. Us. While. We're. Down. And fat and swollen and hormonal. Anyway.
My point is, I get why Glamour Shots has stayed in business so long, and I back soft focus portrait techniques! Though I don't see the need for feather boas. That's just more seduction than any middle-aged housewife can handle.
I was going to write something about maintaining a certain level of hygiene (washing, brushing) after having Cam, but now that I think about it, that would be a big, fat lie. Clothes were filthy, either too big or too small, covered in god-knows. As close to a mirror as I got was to vaguely glance to see if I had food in my teeth or mascara under my eyes. Hair was in a perma-pony, or I'd put on a hat instead of makeup.
That phase lasted a long, long time.
Not enough pounds lighter but regularly bathed and maintained, I've returned to fashion (well, returned to effort, success is questionable) but not to one of the mirrors I never used to shy away from: the camera.
I just signed up for something that asked for a recent photo of me -- with no one else in it -- and I couldn't find one. Not one. After quite a search, I found one from September 2006 that I thought was an accurate representation of how I think of myself looking. I look about 12 and 150lbs. Sent that picture faster than you can say DREAM ON.
Alas, sometimes I feel every bit the geriatric mother Welsh hospitals categorize us mothers over 30 as. Seriously? Geriatric?
Kick. Us. While. We're. Down. And fat and swollen and hormonal. Anyway.
My point is, I get why Glamour Shots has stayed in business so long, and I back soft focus portrait techniques! Though I don't see the need for feather boas. That's just more seduction than any middle-aged housewife can handle.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Loathing in The Time of Launderia
Substitute title: Ring Around the Collar-a?
Don't know why appliances are high on my list to write about. It's not like I do housework. But here we are, may I be hounded by environmentalists everywhere: I can't escape energy-efficient washing machines. I love the idea of them, of course (who doesn't want to save the planet one wash at a time?), but I hate the reality of them.
My understanding is they work on less water and use less energy by taking longer per load. But here's the rub: how is it energy efficient when you can only half-fill the damned things thus requiring double the loads, and nothing comes out clean so you have to wash them twice?
Am I high or is that more energy, less efficiency?
They're ever so popular in Europe, where they are rarely accompanied by tumble dryers and located in the kitchen. A kitchen usually located in an apartment, located in a building without access to an outdoor clothes line. What you are left with is airing your (still dirty) laundry from every surface of the house, usually the radiators – which sometimes you have to turn on especially to dry the clothes. Even if you do have access to the outside with a line, what’s the point if you live in a place where it rains, like the UK, 360 days a year?
Now, being Americans with tumble dryers, you might not know that if your laundry is left to dry of its own devices, it can take days, and as time passes, your clothes develop a mildewy smell and you have to start the process all over again. It’s a nightmare.
Doing laundry is the one chore I don’t loathe, but give me an energy-sucking, high-speed, meter-spinning, stain-removing, truly convenient, lovely jubbly machine that finishes a wash in under two hours and I may just be able to focus some time on putting away the clean clothes instead of piling them up on the dresser.
Don't know why appliances are high on my list to write about. It's not like I do housework. But here we are, may I be hounded by environmentalists everywhere: I can't escape energy-efficient washing machines. I love the idea of them, of course (who doesn't want to save the planet one wash at a time?), but I hate the reality of them.
My understanding is they work on less water and use less energy by taking longer per load. But here's the rub: how is it energy efficient when you can only half-fill the damned things thus requiring double the loads, and nothing comes out clean so you have to wash them twice?
Am I high or is that more energy, less efficiency?
They're ever so popular in Europe, where they are rarely accompanied by tumble dryers and located in the kitchen. A kitchen usually located in an apartment, located in a building without access to an outdoor clothes line. What you are left with is airing your (still dirty) laundry from every surface of the house, usually the radiators – which sometimes you have to turn on especially to dry the clothes. Even if you do have access to the outside with a line, what’s the point if you live in a place where it rains, like the UK, 360 days a year?
Now, being Americans with tumble dryers, you might not know that if your laundry is left to dry of its own devices, it can take days, and as time passes, your clothes develop a mildewy smell and you have to start the process all over again. It’s a nightmare.
Doing laundry is the one chore I don’t loathe, but give me an energy-sucking, high-speed, meter-spinning, stain-removing, truly convenient, lovely jubbly machine that finishes a wash in under two hours and I may just be able to focus some time on putting away the clean clothes instead of piling them up on the dresser.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
One Small Leap for Cameron...
One giant leap for everyone around the pool.
Cam took me swimming today, nearly in all my clothes. He marched right through the door, broke free of my hand, and ran and jumped into the pool. Managed to grab him mid-air by his shirt collar, leaving him with two bleeding claw marks down the back of his neck and a red necklace-looking mark around the front. Was he phased? No. Was I? No. Did everyone else -- including the lifeguard who usually spends eight hours a day staring at an empty pool wondering how his life had come to this -- crap themselves? Yes.
Cam took me swimming today, nearly in all my clothes. He marched right through the door, broke free of my hand, and ran and jumped into the pool. Managed to grab him mid-air by his shirt collar, leaving him with two bleeding claw marks down the back of his neck and a red necklace-looking mark around the front. Was he phased? No. Was I? No. Did everyone else -- including the lifeguard who usually spends eight hours a day staring at an empty pool wondering how his life had come to this -- crap themselves? Yes.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Foiled!
Day by day, I'm foiling my own plan. Which was to ruin Cameron for any other woman, have him live with us well into his forties, whilst supporting us from our basement via some Internet money-making endeavor.
Yet I continue to give him the tools he will need to leave me. Take tonight, for instance. After pooping on his potty (it is once again en vogue) and rubbing some amount of soap on himself in the shower, he indicated he wanted to sleep in his bed, not his crib. And there he stayed.
All this independence at 19 months doesn't suit me. At the park today, we met this little boy the exact same age, down to the day. While he sat playing quietly by his mom, Cam sprinted away repeatedly. After the ball, the bird, the dog, down the stairs, for no reason. Bah!
If this is now, what happens at 19 years? I ask you. If you could let me know, that'd be cool. Because apparently I'm also going to need to find an alternate source of income in my twilight years.
Yet I continue to give him the tools he will need to leave me. Take tonight, for instance. After pooping on his potty (it is once again en vogue) and rubbing some amount of soap on himself in the shower, he indicated he wanted to sleep in his bed, not his crib. And there he stayed.
All this independence at 19 months doesn't suit me. At the park today, we met this little boy the exact same age, down to the day. While he sat playing quietly by his mom, Cam sprinted away repeatedly. After the ball, the bird, the dog, down the stairs, for no reason. Bah!
If this is now, what happens at 19 years? I ask you. If you could let me know, that'd be cool. Because apparently I'm also going to need to find an alternate source of income in my twilight years.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Air Force One Giant PR Snafu
Our building was buzzed by Air Force One with fighter-jet chaperone three times Monday. There are varying reports as to why this was, but if they were looking for a PR disaster to take the focus off swine flu for a few minutes they succeeded.
The media reports of people panicking in our post-9/11 world are not over-hyped for once, as it really was disconcerting. The planes were loud and close, and seeing a huge plane with F-16 escort near NYC just makes you think, oh God.
There are pros and cons to living with someone in the airline industry. Plane-related things can be easily explained, but sometimes you don't want to hear the answer. Mitch knew there was something weird before he saw the F-16. Apparently, pilots in 747s don't turn at such severe angles, especially near airports and cities. All I saw was a huge plane with a Top Gun plane following, flying at building level around New York and didn't think that boded well for anyone.
I asked if we should leave our building -- we're on the 14th floor. Mitch said no. The second time around they were so close Mitch could see the Presidential seal, flag, colors and said it was Air Force One. I didn't buy it, even as he was saying there was no chance Obama was on board given how the pilot was flying. By the third pass I believed him and relaxed.
For me, it was scary, bizarre then cool. For NYers, it was just scary. I'm not one to think people should necessarily be fired when there's a publicized mistake made, but for once I hope the mastermind behind this gets a big pink slip for adding plane panic on top of swine panic on top of economic panic on top of existing and enduring terrorist panic around here.
The media reports of people panicking in our post-9/11 world are not over-hyped for once, as it really was disconcerting. The planes were loud and close, and seeing a huge plane with F-16 escort near NYC just makes you think, oh God.
There are pros and cons to living with someone in the airline industry. Plane-related things can be easily explained, but sometimes you don't want to hear the answer. Mitch knew there was something weird before he saw the F-16. Apparently, pilots in 747s don't turn at such severe angles, especially near airports and cities. All I saw was a huge plane with a Top Gun plane following, flying at building level around New York and didn't think that boded well for anyone.
I asked if we should leave our building -- we're on the 14th floor. Mitch said no. The second time around they were so close Mitch could see the Presidential seal, flag, colors and said it was Air Force One. I didn't buy it, even as he was saying there was no chance Obama was on board given how the pilot was flying. By the third pass I believed him and relaxed.
For me, it was scary, bizarre then cool. For NYers, it was just scary. I'm not one to think people should necessarily be fired when there's a publicized mistake made, but for once I hope the mastermind behind this gets a big pink slip for adding plane panic on top of swine panic on top of economic panic on top of existing and enduring terrorist panic around here.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
The Best Show On TV Today
I was writing this a few days ago but hadn't finished it yet to post, and sadly, Bea Arthur died yesterday. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beatrice_Arthur
Will finish it today, but honestly? A little sad about the whole thing.
From Friday:
The best show on TV today? Any guesses?
The Golden Girls. Hands down. It's not syndicated enough in my opinion, and it's offered 2-4 hours a day on different networks around here.
How old do you think the characters (not the actresses) were on The GG? When you're nine, which I was when the show originally aired in 1985, anyone older than about 26 was really old. Which could explain why I always thought the characters were in their mid-70s. Didn't you? But I was watching the other day, and it turns out they were meant to be in their 50s!
There are a lot of surprises about that. First, my mom's around that age -- plus or minus. Well, plus -- and dang, she looks good! Way younger than any of them. Second, what was with the blue-rinse, poodle-perm set hair? Third, how is it the image of a fifty year old could change so drastically in a matter of a few years?
Watching as an adult, I'm more clued in on the jokes, and there lies another surprise: how'd they get away with that content two decades ago? Suppose that's what makes it still relevant in 2009.
I also wonder where that kind of talent is today. What comediennes of my generation will have careers spanning 7 decades, winning Tonys, Emmys, and stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame? All singing, all dancing real talents? TV, movies, Broadway. Seriously, name one. I do love the old-timey movies for that reason. Pure talent. Give me a Betty White any day over...god, I can't even think of anyone current. OK, I'll give you Tina Fey.
From Today:
I was watching today, as most days, and I realized just how relatable Bea's character was, especially to me. In this episode, she was meant to remarry Stan, so Sophia -- in an attempt to change her mind -- brings home their shoe-repair guy. Sophia says something about the guy knowing Dorothy's shoe size and is willing to date her anyway. Reminded me of my mom when I was learning how to scuba dive in Australia. Told me to point my feet toward the shark should I be attacked as I could stand to lose a few inches in that region. Moms. Love-hate relationships, eh?
So here are a few classic Dorothy lines as stolen from imdb.com:
-- "You'll have to excuse my mother. She suffered a slight stroke a few years ago which rendered her totally annoying."
-- "Good night, Rose. Go to sleep, honey. Pray for brains."
-- "I got the feeling I was the man's first date that wasn't inflatable."
-- "Remind me when I feel better to kick the crap out of her."
Alas.
Will finish it today, but honestly? A little sad about the whole thing.
From Friday:
The best show on TV today? Any guesses?
The Golden Girls. Hands down. It's not syndicated enough in my opinion, and it's offered 2-4 hours a day on different networks around here.
How old do you think the characters (not the actresses) were on The GG? When you're nine, which I was when the show originally aired in 1985, anyone older than about 26 was really old. Which could explain why I always thought the characters were in their mid-70s. Didn't you? But I was watching the other day, and it turns out they were meant to be in their 50s!
There are a lot of surprises about that. First, my mom's around that age -- plus or minus. Well, plus -- and dang, she looks good! Way younger than any of them. Second, what was with the blue-rinse, poodle-perm set hair? Third, how is it the image of a fifty year old could change so drastically in a matter of a few years?
Watching as an adult, I'm more clued in on the jokes, and there lies another surprise: how'd they get away with that content two decades ago? Suppose that's what makes it still relevant in 2009.
I also wonder where that kind of talent is today. What comediennes of my generation will have careers spanning 7 decades, winning Tonys, Emmys, and stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame? All singing, all dancing real talents? TV, movies, Broadway. Seriously, name one. I do love the old-timey movies for that reason. Pure talent. Give me a Betty White any day over...god, I can't even think of anyone current. OK, I'll give you Tina Fey.
From Today:
I was watching today, as most days, and I realized just how relatable Bea's character was, especially to me. In this episode, she was meant to remarry Stan, so Sophia -- in an attempt to change her mind -- brings home their shoe-repair guy. Sophia says something about the guy knowing Dorothy's shoe size and is willing to date her anyway. Reminded me of my mom when I was learning how to scuba dive in Australia. Told me to point my feet toward the shark should I be attacked as I could stand to lose a few inches in that region. Moms. Love-hate relationships, eh?
So here are a few classic Dorothy lines as stolen from imdb.com:
-- "You'll have to excuse my mother. She suffered a slight stroke a few years ago which rendered her totally annoying."
-- "Good night, Rose. Go to sleep, honey. Pray for brains."
-- "I got the feeling I was the man's first date that wasn't inflatable."
-- "Remind me when I feel better to kick the crap out of her."
Alas.
Friday, April 24, 2009
"Riff"-Off Bursturds
I was lying in bed, listening to classical music to go to sleep (as the young kids do these days), and on comes this symphony I knew. This was a bit odd because even though I am 80-year-old lady enough to listen to the classical station and am familiar with the names of most and works of a few of these composers, I'm not as sad as knowing them off by heart and humming the tune before it's played. But there I was, la-dee-dah-ing right along with. It was so strange!
Halfway through, it hit me. Brahms, the cheeky git, stole the melody for his 3rd symphony, 3rd movement, from none other than Santana and Dave Matthews' song Love of My Life. Or possibly it was the other way around.
It appears I can't add YouTube clips to the individual posts, so here are the links. I like the quote from Dave, "The song that Carlos started was an idea he had...". To apparently rip off melodies from dead guys who won't know the difference. I'm guessing this happens a lot, so if any of you wacky funsters out there have other examples, drop me a message because I find it really interesting. I won't judge you or your eclectic music taste.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BA266naCH_0
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1trE3ms3AGo
PS Dave, if you are reading this, I in no way think less of your musical talents and will wholly blame this on Carlos because surely he duped you, and I will certainly follow you on tour if you ask me.
Halfway through, it hit me. Brahms, the cheeky git, stole the melody for his 3rd symphony, 3rd movement, from none other than Santana and Dave Matthews' song Love of My Life. Or possibly it was the other way around.
It appears I can't add YouTube clips to the individual posts, so here are the links. I like the quote from Dave, "The song that Carlos started was an idea he had...". To apparently rip off melodies from dead guys who won't know the difference. I'm guessing this happens a lot, so if any of you wacky funsters out there have other examples, drop me a message because I find it really interesting. I won't judge you or your eclectic music taste.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BA266naCH_0
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1trE3ms3AGo
PS Dave, if you are reading this, I in no way think less of your musical talents and will wholly blame this on Carlos because surely he duped you, and I will certainly follow you on tour if you ask me.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Susan Boyle
If you don't tear up while watching the YouTube clip of Susan Boyle, then I'm pretty convinced you are a cold fish with no heart and are probably cruel to animals.
The YouTube clips are plentiful.
The YouTube clips are plentiful.
America's Birthday (not the 4th of July one)
Considering I'm from Aumsville, Oregon, it's surprising how many brushes with fame I've had.
My neighbors in Australia were rag-mag-worthy TV personalities. I helped them move in and they invited me to a party as thanks, where people couldn't figure out who I was and how I knew them. It went something like this:
How do you know them?
I helped them move in today.
No, seriously.
Seriously. I'm their neighbor.
Do you know who they are?
Nope.
They're famous.
So people keep telling me.
We got on fine for that reason. They knew I wasn't after anything, and I made good friends who regularly forced champagne at me at 8am. There was a slight hiccup when I mocked his singing voice and asked when his CD was coming out. And it already had. Thought the room full of people were going to simultaneously pass out.
The prince of Spain was one seat behind me on a chairlift in Baqueira-Beret, Spain. I was riding with his body guards and was *this close* to a party invite. Catherine Tate (if you don't know her, YouTube her -- I've done this for you -- and love her) was filming on our street in Cardiff and I was so surprised to see her -- and all of five feet away -- all I could uber-cool tell her was, "Catherine Tate! I love you!" She was very polite and said hello back, though no proclamations of enduring affection. Stevie Wonder's group tried to kick me off business class once, but I stayed on and sat next to his brother. Colin Farrel, Kristin Davis and Cynthia Nixon all walked by us at JFK.
Never in a million, however, did I ever expect to be on the guest list for America Ferrera's 25th birthday party. Libby, my bff from day-one of college, moved to NY to work in film and TV and by-golly she's only gone and done it. She's worked on the Ugly Betty set off and on during the last few months and scored the invite, plus one!
Needless to say, whatever I was supposed to wear to the party was neither in my closet nor in my budget, but I waded through the mom-fabric and found something that didn't scream old-fart, mother of 18 month old, needing to put down the cake. I spent a stupid amount of time getting ready and think it turned out OK.
It turns out, I needn't have worried. Though Pat Fields (stylist from Sex and the City) was there along with a range of high-end label people, there were also those wearing things I'm pretty sure they'd had on all day. And, shocker, no one was really looking at me.
Except, oddly, America and one of her friends. We were dancing and I looked over to find both of them staring at me. It could have been the foot height difference between us. It could indeed have been what I was wearing. Thinking back, it may have even been the large screen showing photos behind me...but it was my chance to wish her a happy birthday with a European hello kiss on the cheek. Eh, why not, right? I mean, I did contemplate whether one should bring a card to this kind of thing, and you can't really go and ignore the guest of honor especially if she's doing what looks like staring at you and talking about you.
Now, I am and am not impressed with fame. It's exciting to see someone, but I've never asked for a photo or autograph. The "they're just people" mentality in equal parts makes me leave them alone, and also not shy away if the opportunity presents itself.
However, as you can probably tell from the content of this post, I do love me some name dropping. You could hardly swing a cat without hitting someone you knew -- or thought you should know. Pretty much the entire cast of Ugly Betty was there, as well as America's co-stars in The Traveling Pants (though they had to be pointed out to me). We chatted half the night with Pat's Greek house guests and exchanged email addresses. Vanessa Williams was cutting a rug with us (and man, her scissors were fierce!). My only, very deep regret is that I did not muster the courage to say hi to the Karate Kid himself, Ralph Macchio. Though we did make eye contact on several occasions and the opportunity very nearly presented itself, it slipped through my fingers. I mean, come on. Who doesn't want to know where he's been since My Cousin Vinny?
At midnight, the club opened the doors to the general riff-raff and we left full of memories and bragging rights. I escorted Libby to her train stop, then I was escorted to mine by what I can only guess was an Ecuadorian gigolo or green-card seeker trying to convince me that at some point in my life -- sometime soon apparently -- the unbridled desire and curiosity to be with a short man would compel me to seek out someone of his description and break my happily married bonds.
Which pretty much brought me back to my normal reality of brushes with sick-o perverts that usually involve indecent exposure.
http://www.startracksphoto.com/site/Gallery/Gallery.aspx?ev=35263C1F31&ps=0&ix=0&ct=&tm=3
My neighbors in Australia were rag-mag-worthy TV personalities. I helped them move in and they invited me to a party as thanks, where people couldn't figure out who I was and how I knew them. It went something like this:
How do you know them?
I helped them move in today.
No, seriously.
Seriously. I'm their neighbor.
Do you know who they are?
Nope.
They're famous.
So people keep telling me.
We got on fine for that reason. They knew I wasn't after anything, and I made good friends who regularly forced champagne at me at 8am. There was a slight hiccup when I mocked his singing voice and asked when his CD was coming out. And it already had. Thought the room full of people were going to simultaneously pass out.
The prince of Spain was one seat behind me on a chairlift in Baqueira-Beret, Spain. I was riding with his body guards and was *this close* to a party invite. Catherine Tate (if you don't know her, YouTube her -- I've done this for you -- and love her) was filming on our street in Cardiff and I was so surprised to see her -- and all of five feet away -- all I could uber-cool tell her was, "Catherine Tate! I love you!" She was very polite and said hello back, though no proclamations of enduring affection. Stevie Wonder's group tried to kick me off business class once, but I stayed on and sat next to his brother. Colin Farrel, Kristin Davis and Cynthia Nixon all walked by us at JFK.
Never in a million, however, did I ever expect to be on the guest list for America Ferrera's 25th birthday party. Libby, my bff from day-one of college, moved to NY to work in film and TV and by-golly she's only gone and done it. She's worked on the Ugly Betty set off and on during the last few months and scored the invite, plus one!
Needless to say, whatever I was supposed to wear to the party was neither in my closet nor in my budget, but I waded through the mom-fabric and found something that didn't scream old-fart, mother of 18 month old, needing to put down the cake. I spent a stupid amount of time getting ready and think it turned out OK.
It turns out, I needn't have worried. Though Pat Fields (stylist from Sex and the City) was there along with a range of high-end label people, there were also those wearing things I'm pretty sure they'd had on all day. And, shocker, no one was really looking at me.
Except, oddly, America and one of her friends. We were dancing and I looked over to find both of them staring at me. It could have been the foot height difference between us. It could indeed have been what I was wearing. Thinking back, it may have even been the large screen showing photos behind me...but it was my chance to wish her a happy birthday with a European hello kiss on the cheek. Eh, why not, right? I mean, I did contemplate whether one should bring a card to this kind of thing, and you can't really go and ignore the guest of honor especially if she's doing what looks like staring at you and talking about you.
Now, I am and am not impressed with fame. It's exciting to see someone, but I've never asked for a photo or autograph. The "they're just people" mentality in equal parts makes me leave them alone, and also not shy away if the opportunity presents itself.
However, as you can probably tell from the content of this post, I do love me some name dropping. You could hardly swing a cat without hitting someone you knew -- or thought you should know. Pretty much the entire cast of Ugly Betty was there, as well as America's co-stars in The Traveling Pants (though they had to be pointed out to me). We chatted half the night with Pat's Greek house guests and exchanged email addresses. Vanessa Williams was cutting a rug with us (and man, her scissors were fierce!). My only, very deep regret is that I did not muster the courage to say hi to the Karate Kid himself, Ralph Macchio. Though we did make eye contact on several occasions and the opportunity very nearly presented itself, it slipped through my fingers. I mean, come on. Who doesn't want to know where he's been since My Cousin Vinny?
At midnight, the club opened the doors to the general riff-raff and we left full of memories and bragging rights. I escorted Libby to her train stop, then I was escorted to mine by what I can only guess was an Ecuadorian gigolo or green-card seeker trying to convince me that at some point in my life -- sometime soon apparently -- the unbridled desire and curiosity to be with a short man would compel me to seek out someone of his description and break my happily married bonds.
Which pretty much brought me back to my normal reality of brushes with sick-o perverts that usually involve indecent exposure.
http://www.startracksphoto.com/site/Gallery/Gallery.aspx?ev=35263C1F31&ps=0&ix=0&ct=&tm=3
Adventures in Potty Training: Volume 2
Obviously, Cam is a baby genius. From when I last wrote, we have gone from him pooping up the wall to saying (sometimes yelling), "poopie!" and him actually producing said item, as well as pee, in the toilet. Mitch discovered that he hates the potty we bought -- another product in a long line of bad baby investments -- and will only sit still on the actual toilet. He'd totally fall in if we didn't hold onto him, but he loves looking between his legs to see how well he's progressing.
We're certainly not 100% on this. A lot of the time he says poopie whilst doing poopie and we get to the toilet too late. Though it is funny to watch his dilemma about trying to say what he's doing while pushing and going red.
He's been remarkably good about doing both functions while out and about, which opens a whole new chapter in my life called "grotty public toilets." And what's really awesome about that, is how quickly Mitch developed his own response to potty training. Because when Cam says poopie at a restaurant or wherever, Mitch's response is, "Mommy, poopie. Good luck with that one." Sometimes he even follows that with, "Better go quick."
Were Mitch reading this or had any input on what I write whatsoever, he would say, "Hang on. I'm really good about changing his diapers and putting him on the toilet at home." As if this deserves a medal. But the most galling part of this, is that upon our return from Grottsville Toiletland, Mitch beams with pride and brags to whomever we're with how well Cam is doing and how we're so proud of him. Meanwhile, I'm the one who has rushed to the bathroom, wiped down all the surfaces I can manage while holding wipes and diapers in one hand, Cam in the other. Tried to keep his hands out of the water, off the seat, out of the feminine hygiene bin or away from the toilet brush. Tried to wrap the toilet seat in paper, but of course public toilets have that big gap in the front where all the gross stuff collects and that's inevitably where Cam slips into. Balanced everything -- including Cam -- on one knee so I can wipe him, and then manage to diaper him while he's standing. And then try to explain that he can't flush his poopie (a reward at home) because the germ-infested handle will only be touched by my foot. All the while missing a relaxing dinner with friends and returning to cold meals.
And Mitch takes credit for Cam's genius.
Back on the home front, today I'd just put him in his highchair for breakfast when he says poopie. So I took him out, put him on the toilet and nothing. I figure, I'll leave him without a diaper for breakfast, if he wees, he wees. And he wees. In a big puddle on the floor. He told me he was doing it, but there was no time. Put him on the toilet, nothing. Minutes later he does a big covert poo in his diaper, and after I wipe him down but before I get him in the shower, he runs to the oven -- his fave lookout point and play area as previously discussed -- opens the door and starts "cooking" on the stove. And as I'm watching him stir with a spoon in a frying pan, I see an arch of pee stream down the cracks of the oven and into the pan storage below.
In cleaning up, I've turned on the oven to burn off the pee, and as I type the whole house is filled with the aroma of hot urine.
As I said, we're not 100%. And Mitch really is good about changing his diapers and taking him to the toilet at home. And he also hopes that no one will have any qualms about coming over for dinner.
We're certainly not 100% on this. A lot of the time he says poopie whilst doing poopie and we get to the toilet too late. Though it is funny to watch his dilemma about trying to say what he's doing while pushing and going red.
He's been remarkably good about doing both functions while out and about, which opens a whole new chapter in my life called "grotty public toilets." And what's really awesome about that, is how quickly Mitch developed his own response to potty training. Because when Cam says poopie at a restaurant or wherever, Mitch's response is, "Mommy, poopie. Good luck with that one." Sometimes he even follows that with, "Better go quick."
Were Mitch reading this or had any input on what I write whatsoever, he would say, "Hang on. I'm really good about changing his diapers and putting him on the toilet at home." As if this deserves a medal. But the most galling part of this, is that upon our return from Grottsville Toiletland, Mitch beams with pride and brags to whomever we're with how well Cam is doing and how we're so proud of him. Meanwhile, I'm the one who has rushed to the bathroom, wiped down all the surfaces I can manage while holding wipes and diapers in one hand, Cam in the other. Tried to keep his hands out of the water, off the seat, out of the feminine hygiene bin or away from the toilet brush. Tried to wrap the toilet seat in paper, but of course public toilets have that big gap in the front where all the gross stuff collects and that's inevitably where Cam slips into. Balanced everything -- including Cam -- on one knee so I can wipe him, and then manage to diaper him while he's standing. And then try to explain that he can't flush his poopie (a reward at home) because the germ-infested handle will only be touched by my foot. All the while missing a relaxing dinner with friends and returning to cold meals.
And Mitch takes credit for Cam's genius.
Back on the home front, today I'd just put him in his highchair for breakfast when he says poopie. So I took him out, put him on the toilet and nothing. I figure, I'll leave him without a diaper for breakfast, if he wees, he wees. And he wees. In a big puddle on the floor. He told me he was doing it, but there was no time. Put him on the toilet, nothing. Minutes later he does a big covert poo in his diaper, and after I wipe him down but before I get him in the shower, he runs to the oven -- his fave lookout point and play area as previously discussed -- opens the door and starts "cooking" on the stove. And as I'm watching him stir with a spoon in a frying pan, I see an arch of pee stream down the cracks of the oven and into the pan storage below.
In cleaning up, I've turned on the oven to burn off the pee, and as I type the whole house is filled with the aroma of hot urine.
As I said, we're not 100%. And Mitch really is good about changing his diapers and taking him to the toilet at home. And he also hopes that no one will have any qualms about coming over for dinner.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Adventures in Potty Training: Volume I (from March 2009)
So, we're officially potty training. This, to me, means I put Cam on the pot every time I change him, and try to catch him when he's pooping.
Today starts with him peeing all over the floor before I can get him in the tub. After the bath, he's running around naked and I'm on poo watch. Think I've gone as far as I'm willing to go, so I put a nappy on him. He takes it off, sits on the red leather chair and pees. Aaaaaaaaall into the seems and places I can't reach as it's all connected.
Cam usually poos after breakfast, and we've done pretty well sitting him on the pot for the experience. He didn't go this morning, so I potted him before bed. He immediately proceeds to poo a big pile and want off. I was so proud. So we wipe, flush, say bye-bye poopy. He turns, walks out from the side of the toilet, and has continued to poo up the wall, all over the floor, has stood in it, got it all down his legs, in his shoes, all over my hands. Do you realize how fast poop dries? By the time I got him bathed, diapered and in bed, I had to scrub, scrub, but still couldn't get it all out of the tile grout.
So close, yet sooooooooooo far.
Today starts with him peeing all over the floor before I can get him in the tub. After the bath, he's running around naked and I'm on poo watch. Think I've gone as far as I'm willing to go, so I put a nappy on him. He takes it off, sits on the red leather chair and pees. Aaaaaaaaall into the seems and places I can't reach as it's all connected.
Cam usually poos after breakfast, and we've done pretty well sitting him on the pot for the experience. He didn't go this morning, so I potted him before bed. He immediately proceeds to poo a big pile and want off. I was so proud. So we wipe, flush, say bye-bye poopy. He turns, walks out from the side of the toilet, and has continued to poo up the wall, all over the floor, has stood in it, got it all down his legs, in his shoes, all over my hands. Do you realize how fast poop dries? By the time I got him bathed, diapered and in bed, I had to scrub, scrub, but still couldn't get it all out of the tile grout.
So close, yet sooooooooooo far.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Happy Easter Meets Fatal Attraction
We lived out in the country, and anyone who has lived near a farm, or near farming hunter types, knows that animals in your neighborhood don't usually have long lives. Indeed, at the passing of an animal, you rarely hear things about good lives and times to go and the like.
No, it's usually some tragic, often horrific and untimely end. Cars hit your cats, dogs eat your chickens, the slaughter truck pulls up at the cow farm across the street. Dump trucks cut the neighbor's dog in half, cats die from eating rats that have been poisoned and are then found during your birthday party, your dad accidentally backs over family goat. Parakeet kills two mates, lays an egg months later and dies - that was weird and still unexplained but a totally different kind of story. Still, all true.
Anyway, as a kid, you have to get used to the carnage. What you don't have to get used to, but what makes you popular with the other country kids, is a mom who - god knows why - freezes dead animals in the basement freezer along side the summer berries and Popsicles. On any given day you could usually find an animal from each species: a salamander, a chickadee, a snake, and/or turtle and/or cat, fish, whatever. That was the decade of the little old lady asking, "Where's the beef?" and believe you me, that's what we were asking, too.
All this leads me to my Easter story. My mom might have been a crazed Ms. Hyde in the freezer, but she was a genius Dr. Jekyll when it came to holidays and birthdays. We had themes and events and games and you name it. For some reason Easter was a particular favorite, and I know to this day, at the ages of 32 and 38 (holy crap, Josh, 38?), were we to live near my mom we would still not only get baskets, but would be sent on an egg hunt as well. So there I was, seven or thereabouts, big Easter party planned, families and kids coming over, and my parents decide to barbecue rabbit. And there I was, seven or thereabouts, and I thought nothing of it. Wouldn't most little girls have cried? Perhaps yet another cat had recently died and I was all out of tears, or maybe it was just another in a long line of dead animals, but it didn't phase me one iota. I suppose I just thought, "Bunny. It's what's for dinner."
Happy Easter, everyone. Enjoy it for it's true meaning: chocolate, candy and egg hunts.
No, it's usually some tragic, often horrific and untimely end. Cars hit your cats, dogs eat your chickens, the slaughter truck pulls up at the cow farm across the street. Dump trucks cut the neighbor's dog in half, cats die from eating rats that have been poisoned and are then found during your birthday party, your dad accidentally backs over family goat. Parakeet kills two mates, lays an egg months later and dies - that was weird and still unexplained but a totally different kind of story. Still, all true.
Anyway, as a kid, you have to get used to the carnage. What you don't have to get used to, but what makes you popular with the other country kids, is a mom who - god knows why - freezes dead animals in the basement freezer along side the summer berries and Popsicles. On any given day you could usually find an animal from each species: a salamander, a chickadee, a snake, and/or turtle and/or cat, fish, whatever. That was the decade of the little old lady asking, "Where's the beef?" and believe you me, that's what we were asking, too.
All this leads me to my Easter story. My mom might have been a crazed Ms. Hyde in the freezer, but she was a genius Dr. Jekyll when it came to holidays and birthdays. We had themes and events and games and you name it. For some reason Easter was a particular favorite, and I know to this day, at the ages of 32 and 38 (holy crap, Josh, 38?), were we to live near my mom we would still not only get baskets, but would be sent on an egg hunt as well. So there I was, seven or thereabouts, big Easter party planned, families and kids coming over, and my parents decide to barbecue rabbit. And there I was, seven or thereabouts, and I thought nothing of it. Wouldn't most little girls have cried? Perhaps yet another cat had recently died and I was all out of tears, or maybe it was just another in a long line of dead animals, but it didn't phase me one iota. I suppose I just thought, "Bunny. It's what's for dinner."
Happy Easter, everyone. Enjoy it for it's true meaning: chocolate, candy and egg hunts.
Code Cameron
Lost Cam at a store in the mall the other day. Mitch and I were taking turns watching him, he was right with us, and then he was gone. Gone about 50 feet from where we'd been standing, DOWN THE ESCALATOR. Suddenly, people, exits, riff-raff were everywhere.
Very truly, I thought I'd never see him again.
We fanned out across this store, yelling for him. Nothing, obviously, because he was downstairs. I found his sippy cup about 15 feet away. It was minutes of not being sure if I should vomit, keep looking, scream to everyone to look for him. Fortunately, a shopper saw him head down, passed him off to a shop worker, who brought him back up.
I started sobbing when I saw him. It was awful. Got to the car, sobbed again. I've never been so scared in all my life. Some of the moms I have met here have been kind of envious he's so confident, but the kid is a nightmare. He just goes and doesn't look back. I've got the harness, the wrist strap, he likes to hold hands when we go places...we turned for seconds. It was a lesson learned that you can't trust the little turd for nothin'. He's in serious lockdown now, though. Any thought he had of public freedom is so history. Henry the 8th history. Magna Carta history. Neanderthal Man history.
After telling the story to a friend, she said it's hard because you want to remain calm and not be that person who freaks out. I said, I was that person. It took me about three seconds to know something was seriously wrong, and I was screaming through the store and shouting at workers. It's been about two weeks and thinking about it still upsets me.
Very truly, I thought I'd never see him again.
We fanned out across this store, yelling for him. Nothing, obviously, because he was downstairs. I found his sippy cup about 15 feet away. It was minutes of not being sure if I should vomit, keep looking, scream to everyone to look for him. Fortunately, a shopper saw him head down, passed him off to a shop worker, who brought him back up.
I started sobbing when I saw him. It was awful. Got to the car, sobbed again. I've never been so scared in all my life. Some of the moms I have met here have been kind of envious he's so confident, but the kid is a nightmare. He just goes and doesn't look back. I've got the harness, the wrist strap, he likes to hold hands when we go places...we turned for seconds. It was a lesson learned that you can't trust the little turd for nothin'. He's in serious lockdown now, though. Any thought he had of public freedom is so history. Henry the 8th history. Magna Carta history. Neanderthal Man history.
After telling the story to a friend, she said it's hard because you want to remain calm and not be that person who freaks out. I said, I was that person. It took me about three seconds to know something was seriously wrong, and I was screaming through the store and shouting at workers. It's been about two weeks and thinking about it still upsets me.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
How do you solve a problem like bad maths?
In The Sound of Music, the mom dies seven years before Maria shows up, yet Gretl, the youngest, is five.
One of my sick-but-funny friends suggested the mom was actually alive but locked in the basement, in reference to other strange Austrian families with too many kids in the news lately. (You're allowed to laugh, I did.)
In other dark humor news, when Arnold was running for governor of California, I was living in Germany. My friends there warned we should be afraid of Austrians seeking power...
One of my sick-but-funny friends suggested the mom was actually alive but locked in the basement, in reference to other strange Austrian families with too many kids in the news lately. (You're allowed to laugh, I did.)
In other dark humor news, when Arnold was running for governor of California, I was living in Germany. My friends there warned we should be afraid of Austrians seeking power...
Thursday, April 9, 2009
BEEP
All my appliances beep. Fridge, freezer, coffee machine, microwave, dishwasher, oven, washer/dryer. Why is this and how is this helpful to me? When the dishwasher takes something like 72 minutes, why do I need to know the exact second it's done? I'm not going to jump up and dash to unload it. No lives will be lost if I wait a day. Or two. Or until the dishes stack up and out of the sink. How many of us cook at a level that makes precise oven temperature neccesary? Does a fishfinger not reheat equally as well on 350 as 365, making a 375 beep a bit silly?
I want useful things to beep. Like the door, when Cam opens it and heads for the elavator. Like the toilet lid, before Cam takes a cup from the tub and starts dipping and drinking. Like the kitchen cabinet safety lock, that Cam figured out months ago, that locks away the garbage and the beer bottles in recycling he loves so much.
I want useful things to beep. Like the door, when Cam opens it and heads for the elavator. Like the toilet lid, before Cam takes a cup from the tub and starts dipping and drinking. Like the kitchen cabinet safety lock, that Cam figured out months ago, that locks away the garbage and the beer bottles in recycling he loves so much.
OogaNooga Cookie Factory
The history I'm about to give of the OogaNooga Cookie Factory is going to be very vague, as I think the place shut down in the early '80s, when I was about six. What I do know is that is was indeed a cookie shop on the Oregon coast, near Agate Beach. I think. And that about sums it up, end of history lesson.
To be honest, I don't know if I ever even physically set foot in the place, but it was somehow meaningful to my family. Perhaps they had great cookies, maybe only because of the funny name, but somehow the OogaNooga Cookie Factory created my nicknames for life. Where, one might ask, was the relation between a factory and me? I wasn't that portly a child, despite my first nickname being One-Ton Rock, my second being Two-Ton Rock. (Shocking how I wound up with neither an eating disorder nor a self-esteem problem. Thanks, mom and dad. But mostly mom.) I don't have an answer for that, other than we're a nickname kind of family and we're all a little crazy.
If memory serves, and it often doesn't, the start of the cookie factory nicknames was OogaNooga. The following are what, well, followed:
Cookie
Cookie Toots
Toots
Tootsie
Tootsie Cakes
Tootsie Kuchen (German, for cake, began circa 2002 when I was living in Germany and ma came for a visit)
Kuchen
Every email, card, or written correspondence since has involved one of those. I'm saved in my mom's phone as Tootsie. In public - and at business functions no less - mom has let any number of these fly.
The OogaNooga Cookie Factory hasn't been in operation for more than two decades, and mom has years since moved on from the original nickname, but when it came time to think of a name for blogs and ebay, this was it. No one else in their right mind would think of it, other than the cookie shop owner, and something tells me we'd get on a-OK.
To be honest, I don't know if I ever even physically set foot in the place, but it was somehow meaningful to my family. Perhaps they had great cookies, maybe only because of the funny name, but somehow the OogaNooga Cookie Factory created my nicknames for life. Where, one might ask, was the relation between a factory and me? I wasn't that portly a child, despite my first nickname being One-Ton Rock, my second being Two-Ton Rock. (Shocking how I wound up with neither an eating disorder nor a self-esteem problem. Thanks, mom and dad. But mostly mom.) I don't have an answer for that, other than we're a nickname kind of family and we're all a little crazy.
If memory serves, and it often doesn't, the start of the cookie factory nicknames was OogaNooga. The following are what, well, followed:
Cookie
Cookie Toots
Toots
Tootsie
Tootsie Cakes
Tootsie Kuchen (German, for cake, began circa 2002 when I was living in Germany and ma came for a visit)
Kuchen
Every email, card, or written correspondence since has involved one of those. I'm saved in my mom's phone as Tootsie. In public - and at business functions no less - mom has let any number of these fly.
The OogaNooga Cookie Factory hasn't been in operation for more than two decades, and mom has years since moved on from the original nickname, but when it came time to think of a name for blogs and ebay, this was it. No one else in their right mind would think of it, other than the cookie shop owner, and something tells me we'd get on a-OK.
Momicide
Murder is largely classed as unacceptable behavior, but who hasn't felt like they could just kill someone? It's not a real threat of actual intent to cease life (usually), it's just a giant indicator that one has reached a certain level of frustration with a situation that must stop at almost any cost. That's what momicide is: a verbal or emotional outpouring of complete exasperation - often aimed at husband, child, relative - whereby were we not to live in a civilized society, GBH (that would be grievous bodily harm as opposed to Great Blue Herons) would be imminent.
Oh, gasp, horror, you know what I'm talking about. You experience something similar regularly, and I suspect, were you to be honest with anyone other than yourself, you'd say it was daily. Often hourly. Most likely most of the time your child isn't asleep or your husband out of the house.
Cam and I were up and out of the house early the other day to let Mitch sleep. By noon I'd been everywhere and done everything, and came home to him still sleeping. No big deal, he'd been at work until 3am. Between then and making a special dinner at 7pm, however, so very, very much happened for me to reach potential momicide.
Maintenance came to unclog the bathroom (toilet, tub and sinks all went at once), apparently they removed something that looked like dark brown feathers (stupid man at voodoo shop - said those chickens were biodegradable), and scratched the crap out of the porcelain. We were an hour late to an appointment, Cam puked down the side of the car when we got there but still managed to try to tear apart the office (minor relief came in seeing the men's faces when he grabbed a wayward golf club). Had hurried to get dressed in the morning and grabbed the nearest clothes, which was fine until I had to take my boots off at our Korean landlord's house and exposed two holes in my black leggings, and white gym socks. I was thrilled when they brought out china tea cups and plates (breakables) with brownies (messy), orange cheese puffs (messy and stains), cocktail forks (weapons) and put everything including the boiling water (are you serious?) on the coffee table. Got home, ran a bucket downstairs to wipe off the side of the car, came back up, turned on the oven, seared the steaks, opened the oven door to bake them and...it was all on fire with flames flickering higher and higher.
I could have killed someone. That someone being Cam, who has taken to opening the oven door and either climbing in the oven or standing on top of the door to see what's cookin', both literally and figuratively. I check it all the time for his paraphernalia, but wouldn't have been alarmed had I seen him with a few whole wheat cookies in hand, or had seen them fall down the cracks in the bottom tray. Wouldn't have crossed my mind that those would go up in flame faster than Smokey the Bear could say, "only you can prevent forest fire." Mitch saved the day, but not in time to save the steaks which were edible but not enviable.
It's this kind of stuff, on a daily basis, that makes me tired. Tired means I sigh a lot. Sighing a lot means on the edge. On the edge means momicide.
Oh, gasp, horror, you know what I'm talking about. You experience something similar regularly, and I suspect, were you to be honest with anyone other than yourself, you'd say it was daily. Often hourly. Most likely most of the time your child isn't asleep or your husband out of the house.
Cam and I were up and out of the house early the other day to let Mitch sleep. By noon I'd been everywhere and done everything, and came home to him still sleeping. No big deal, he'd been at work until 3am. Between then and making a special dinner at 7pm, however, so very, very much happened for me to reach potential momicide.
Maintenance came to unclog the bathroom (toilet, tub and sinks all went at once), apparently they removed something that looked like dark brown feathers (stupid man at voodoo shop - said those chickens were biodegradable), and scratched the crap out of the porcelain. We were an hour late to an appointment, Cam puked down the side of the car when we got there but still managed to try to tear apart the office (minor relief came in seeing the men's faces when he grabbed a wayward golf club). Had hurried to get dressed in the morning and grabbed the nearest clothes, which was fine until I had to take my boots off at our Korean landlord's house and exposed two holes in my black leggings, and white gym socks. I was thrilled when they brought out china tea cups and plates (breakables) with brownies (messy), orange cheese puffs (messy and stains), cocktail forks (weapons) and put everything including the boiling water (are you serious?) on the coffee table. Got home, ran a bucket downstairs to wipe off the side of the car, came back up, turned on the oven, seared the steaks, opened the oven door to bake them and...it was all on fire with flames flickering higher and higher.
I could have killed someone. That someone being Cam, who has taken to opening the oven door and either climbing in the oven or standing on top of the door to see what's cookin', both literally and figuratively. I check it all the time for his paraphernalia, but wouldn't have been alarmed had I seen him with a few whole wheat cookies in hand, or had seen them fall down the cracks in the bottom tray. Wouldn't have crossed my mind that those would go up in flame faster than Smokey the Bear could say, "only you can prevent forest fire." Mitch saved the day, but not in time to save the steaks which were edible but not enviable.
It's this kind of stuff, on a daily basis, that makes me tired. Tired means I sigh a lot. Sighing a lot means on the edge. On the edge means momicide.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
