A lot of juggling going on in New Orleans, and I am the ball, trying to have a 16 year old live a normal life here while popping in on my husband in Laguna, and preparing for the big move in 83 days...
Back when I thought October would be a relatively quiet month, I agreed to go on our first-ever girls trip with 2 friends I've known since kindergarten...
That is how I ended up in Seattle and Vancouver last week, while my brother-in-law stayed here with Portia...Vancouver was a GREAT vacation destination, the most beautiful bike ride I've ever taken, (a reasonable one hour and 15 minutes around Stanley Park, if we hadn't stopped a million times to take pictures), a gorgeous walk over the Capilano Suspension Bridge, lunch overlooking the water, boat rides, mountains...so many things to see and do. And they are getting ready to host the Olympics in February, so we got to see the Olympic Village and where the Opening Ceremonies will be held...
I had a remarkable piece of bad luck in Vancouver...due to the Olympics, there is feverish, last-minute construction occuring, lots of cranes and hard hats and noise...so we are innocently walking down the sidewalk one afternoon, and there is a cement truck. A construction worker asks us to wait a minute and we wait a reasonable amount of time, and then decide we will just cross the street and continue on down the road...I start to walk in front of the truck at the exact moment that a pipe bursts and, like paint ball run amok, this fierce blast of toxic cement comes roaring towards me. In case you didn't know, when you get randomly pummeled with most contruction materials, say gravel or rocks, it hits you hard and then falls to the ground...when the cement attacked me, it hit me hard and then glomed on to me, I felt like I was in a Homer Simpson cartoon, did you ever see that episode where he is covered with green, radioactive goop? Anyway, back in the real world, I was covered in cement, in my hair, my ear, and clothes from head to toe...once my "friends" realized I wasn't hurt, they started laughing hysterically, which is so helpful. And I'm saying things like "Uh, would it have been too much to ask either of you so-called friends to have said something like - Look out!"? Which just made them laugh harder... it lands soft, but I could feel it starting to harden rapidly. They saw it mainly as a photo opportunity...we were just a few blocks from our 5-star hotel, which I had to enter and walk through the grand lobby covered with cement...in the end, the constuction company was nice, they sent me a box of chocolates and $300 for "dry cleaning" which, believe me, my clothes were WAY passed dry cleaning, I threw them all away, even the coat...
Luckily I'd brought a coat AND a jacket, and I continued to provide amusement later in the day; I had the jacket tied around my waist and (in retrospect, possibly not the very best decision I've ever made) as it got cooler, I was putting the jacket on while still riding the bike, and I got the sleeve caught in the spokes, practically killing myself, but definitely destroying the leather jacket. My friends were so pleased, like could this day get any funnier? Ruining TWO pieces of outerwear in one afternoon, that's got to be a world record!
Patty
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Monday, October 12, 2009
Just a thumb…(Ruby)
I am thoroughly enjoying the fall in Wisconsin this year; September was a spectacularly pleasant month…virtually no rain, cloudless skies, a crispness to the air without any hint of a chill. Lovely. And now it has changed overnight, as it so often does and it’s really cold for October, temperatures more like what we typically see in November…and yet I love this just as much because I am really a human with an indoor cat mentality, looking for a window seat that is drenched in blistering sunlight, hot winter-white sun, warming me during the day, not unlike the fireplace-fires that warm me at night.
I do cozy very well.
I love the sense that I really am not “pressured” to go outside, as the days get shorter and cooler until it’s bone-cracking cold and black-as-night around 4:30pm. And not that anyone literally pressures me…but I will admit that in the spring, when the earliest shoots and buds are peeking up through the still shivering soil, I get a sense of urgency that simply makes my skin crawl and it has something to do with all the guilt I have for not yet being the gardener I would like to be. For now, this guilt has me saying things like “I LOATHE gardens….I don’t even want grass”. I find myself fantasizing about my perfect outdoor space which is inspired by a charming courtyard/patio that my sister had at a first-floor-of-a-house-apartment, years ago in Philadelphia; she had painted the concrete (no grass!!) PINK, there was a tall fence that made it entirely private, she had made countless wind-chimes out of old keys and found objects and took good care of pots of flowers. The gentle tinkling of the chimes and lighting and pink “floor” were delightful, the perfect space to enjoy a coffee and get the giggles over some crazy story. The more I coveted that pink patio fantasy yard, the more I resented grass…although I imagine my resentment is more about my defensive reaction to a feeling of ineptitude…and embarrassment for being the neighborhood perpetrator of the un-yard, the anti-landscape…
I’ve thought about the notion of a GREEN-THUMB, knowing that mine is just a plain ol’ thumb, no verdant magic in these hands. But this doesn’t bode well because, afterall, I am an “artist” of sorts; I know what I want to look at, I love beautiful things, I pull my car over to take pictures of other people’s gardens, I draw, I paint, I design, I love the whole world of “LAYOUT”, I am obsessed with the tweaking and refining of décor within rooms to achieve the optimal coziness and lovliness, I am clean, I take care of things. So why do I subject myself to being only an observer of appealing landscapes beyond my front door, merely appreciating what the rest of the world is doing with their yards, but never getting my own hands soiled?
It’s NOT because I am a clean freak, although I suspect it’s because I am a control freak. It occurred to me one day as I thought about how I love to gussy up a living room with art on the walls, fresh paint, the perfect rug, the right throw pillow…that the one difference between what goes on inside my house versus outside is that my pillows and ottomans do not grow. I choose them for the color and the size that they are and will always be. I don’t stress over not remembering to feed my couch…with the threat of it wilting and everyone knowing I just didn’t know how to care for it. I don’t worry about my coffee table becoming disproportionately large and blocking the couch from my view. I don’t worry that the artwork on my walls will suddenly fade to entirely new hues that I hadn’t anticipated and then crack leaving shattered remnants on the floor beneath where it once hung.
And so I conclude that the growing, the changing, the metamorphosis that is the essence of a garden…and then the dying and the transitions that keep any garden current at any time…is too much for me to handle. I love the predictability of how everything looks around me INSIDE my house (give or take the daily abominations called stray junk, dust, too many shoes by the front door, sticky spots on counters, etc.). Clearly, if I got myself a private horticulturalist mentor (think personal trainer at the gym…same thing, but in the dirt), I might stand a chance of actually comprehending what to grow when and where and for how long and might even find that there are certain garden styles that could be tailored to my needs for low maintenance perfection.
But until that time, I try to forgive and forget the scruffy, unloved look of my un-yard, try to appreciate it for the space it provides for now - for my kids and dog - whether or not we make the cover of House Beautiful in this lifetime. And meanwhile, I tell myself that I have the perfect excuse not to do a damn thing about it - until possibly next spring - as the air starts to whip me in the face with the reality of another mid-western winter around the corner. Oh well. Guess I better hunker down by the fire…with my wine and my pooch, where I am safe…and sound(ish)…
P.S. the super ugly yard picture is not MY yard…just had to clear that up (although it might as well be)…nor is the sweet pink-ish patio my sisters, but you get the idea…
Ruby
I do cozy very well.
I love the sense that I really am not “pressured” to go outside, as the days get shorter and cooler until it’s bone-cracking cold and black-as-night around 4:30pm. And not that anyone literally pressures me…but I will admit that in the spring, when the earliest shoots and buds are peeking up through the still shivering soil, I get a sense of urgency that simply makes my skin crawl and it has something to do with all the guilt I have for not yet being the gardener I would like to be. For now, this guilt has me saying things like “I LOATHE gardens….I don’t even want grass”. I find myself fantasizing about my perfect outdoor space which is inspired by a charming courtyard/patio that my sister had at a first-floor-of-a-house-apartment, years ago in Philadelphia; she had painted the concrete (no grass!!) PINK, there was a tall fence that made it entirely private, she had made countless wind-chimes out of old keys and found objects and took good care of pots of flowers. The gentle tinkling of the chimes and lighting and pink “floor” were delightful, the perfect space to enjoy a coffee and get the giggles over some crazy story. The more I coveted that pink patio fantasy yard, the more I resented grass…although I imagine my resentment is more about my defensive reaction to a feeling of ineptitude…and embarrassment for being the neighborhood perpetrator of the un-yard, the anti-landscape…
I’ve thought about the notion of a GREEN-THUMB, knowing that mine is just a plain ol’ thumb, no verdant magic in these hands. But this doesn’t bode well because, afterall, I am an “artist” of sorts; I know what I want to look at, I love beautiful things, I pull my car over to take pictures of other people’s gardens, I draw, I paint, I design, I love the whole world of “LAYOUT”, I am obsessed with the tweaking and refining of décor within rooms to achieve the optimal coziness and lovliness, I am clean, I take care of things. So why do I subject myself to being only an observer of appealing landscapes beyond my front door, merely appreciating what the rest of the world is doing with their yards, but never getting my own hands soiled?
It’s NOT because I am a clean freak, although I suspect it’s because I am a control freak. It occurred to me one day as I thought about how I love to gussy up a living room with art on the walls, fresh paint, the perfect rug, the right throw pillow…that the one difference between what goes on inside my house versus outside is that my pillows and ottomans do not grow. I choose them for the color and the size that they are and will always be. I don’t stress over not remembering to feed my couch…with the threat of it wilting and everyone knowing I just didn’t know how to care for it. I don’t worry about my coffee table becoming disproportionately large and blocking the couch from my view. I don’t worry that the artwork on my walls will suddenly fade to entirely new hues that I hadn’t anticipated and then crack leaving shattered remnants on the floor beneath where it once hung.
And so I conclude that the growing, the changing, the metamorphosis that is the essence of a garden…and then the dying and the transitions that keep any garden current at any time…is too much for me to handle. I love the predictability of how everything looks around me INSIDE my house (give or take the daily abominations called stray junk, dust, too many shoes by the front door, sticky spots on counters, etc.). Clearly, if I got myself a private horticulturalist mentor (think personal trainer at the gym…same thing, but in the dirt), I might stand a chance of actually comprehending what to grow when and where and for how long and might even find that there are certain garden styles that could be tailored to my needs for low maintenance perfection.
But until that time, I try to forgive and forget the scruffy, unloved look of my un-yard, try to appreciate it for the space it provides for now - for my kids and dog - whether or not we make the cover of House Beautiful in this lifetime. And meanwhile, I tell myself that I have the perfect excuse not to do a damn thing about it - until possibly next spring - as the air starts to whip me in the face with the reality of another mid-western winter around the corner. Oh well. Guess I better hunker down by the fire…with my wine and my pooch, where I am safe…and sound(ish)…P.S. the super ugly yard picture is not MY yard…just had to clear that up (although it might as well be)…nor is the sweet pink-ish patio my sisters, but you get the idea…
Ruby
Thursday, September 24, 2009
WINE and a little cheese (Patty)
Yes, I can definitely relate to the absolute natural high that you get as a young girl with a new outfit! In fact I can look back at almost every photo that exists of myself, and tell you how I felt about the clothes I had on that day!
This week's drama starts with Zeke. He is in the Architecture program at Tulane, and it is a very demanding situation. He is wavering on remaining in the program, his grades are fine but it is so time-consuming, ( 9AM til 12 midnight every day with a couple all-nighters thrown in...) that he can't do ANYTHING else. Zeke likes to socialize and work out and have downtime...what to advise? If only I was Asian, all the Asian kids I know persevere through the pain, no questions asked...but we are Irish, and need a little time to shoot the breeze! He might not even want to be an architect, and then he will have "wasted" his college years, according to him...then again, having a degree in something is very valuable these days, and it's just so cool to be in the Tulane School of Architecture! He has 2 more days to decide...
Madison is getting ready for her trip to New York with Sony. It's a big music convention for college kids. Emory sends the GM of the radio station, a student who has given sweat and blood, volunteering for years and years gets the prize, the all-expense paid trip to the CMJ (College Music Journal or something along those lines...) When that Senior found out Madison was also going on the trip, he was like "Who the heck is she??? How long has she been with Sony???" (Don't think he was too pleased when he found out she'd worked there 4 weeks...) She is the very lowest man on the totem pole, but someone has to be!!
Had a going-away party for John on Sunday. We went through 25 bottles of wine and there were maybe 35 people here...my neighbors can drink a lot! Good thing everyone was walking home...I was somewhat embarrassed to take the trash out...He is leaving on Tuesday for The Big Adventure, driving 30 hours to Laguna by way of everywhere...
And back here, it will just be me and Portia, preparing industriously for Halloween and her 17th birthday party. John is anxious for us to join him in January, 93% because he enjoys our company and 7% because I am a source of dinner, errands, and general shadow chores, everyone likes a wingman, and John will be wingless for 90 days. I've never been on more than a 6 hour drive in my entire life, but my new motto: Embrace change!
Patty
This week's drama starts with Zeke. He is in the Architecture program at Tulane, and it is a very demanding situation. He is wavering on remaining in the program, his grades are fine but it is so time-consuming, ( 9AM til 12 midnight every day with a couple all-nighters thrown in...) that he can't do ANYTHING else. Zeke likes to socialize and work out and have downtime...what to advise? If only I was Asian, all the Asian kids I know persevere through the pain, no questions asked...but we are Irish, and need a little time to shoot the breeze! He might not even want to be an architect, and then he will have "wasted" his college years, according to him...then again, having a degree in something is very valuable these days, and it's just so cool to be in the Tulane School of Architecture! He has 2 more days to decide...
Madison is getting ready for her trip to New York with Sony. It's a big music convention for college kids. Emory sends the GM of the radio station, a student who has given sweat and blood, volunteering for years and years gets the prize, the all-expense paid trip to the CMJ (College Music Journal or something along those lines...) When that Senior found out Madison was also going on the trip, he was like "Who the heck is she??? How long has she been with Sony???" (Don't think he was too pleased when he found out she'd worked there 4 weeks...) She is the very lowest man on the totem pole, but someone has to be!!
Had a going-away party for John on Sunday. We went through 25 bottles of wine and there were maybe 35 people here...my neighbors can drink a lot! Good thing everyone was walking home...I was somewhat embarrassed to take the trash out...He is leaving on Tuesday for The Big Adventure, driving 30 hours to Laguna by way of everywhere...
And back here, it will just be me and Portia, preparing industriously for Halloween and her 17th birthday party. John is anxious for us to join him in January, 93% because he enjoys our company and 7% because I am a source of dinner, errands, and general shadow chores, everyone likes a wingman, and John will be wingless for 90 days. I've never been on more than a 6 hour drive in my entire life, but my new motto: Embrace change!
Patty
Friday, September 18, 2009
Fashionistavore = an animal that feeds on STYLE (Ruby)
You may not know that I have 30-odd hats, not actually ODD hats…but approximately that number…and I always want more. As far as I am concerned, a hat functions nicely in so many ways; I always think it helps keep the “steam” in…tames the lion in you (or me) by literally keeping a “lid on it” and it can be like a cave to hide in with the brim or visor pulled down low over the eyes, delineating personal space like a privacy fence. But, most importantly, the right hat makes anything look better…the very cherry on top.
My husband, shown here, was the first person I knew who regularly wore a "Fidel" or "Castro" style hat in the 1980’s and now that they are literally everywhere, in every color and texture imaginable, for women, men and babies, this particular style has become somewhat diluted for me…fallen a notch on my personal style-o-meter, by default, for having become a mainstream T-R-E-N-D. The irony is that in the fleeting world of fashion the precise thing that you might want for a look – for it to actually catch on, become popular – is the same thing that causes it to lose that special quality that makes it unique and sought after to begin with…which is why it’s fortunate that there is a new line of everything every season. I was three years old when it started to matter to me what I wore. My perfectly pressed ensembles, genteel in their matchy-matchiness – thanks to my mother and her early patronage to tailored designers like Florence Eiseman - were my first venue for comprehending that all articles of clothing had a natural “mate”…that there was a “RIGHT” combination or the opposite of that…a mess…the anti-ensemble, which my younger sister’s clothing choices epitomized with merry abandonment and which I recoiled from as if it were a disability. I remember the day my mother unveiled my new lavender oufit: a white shirt with an embroidered lavender kitty on it, lavender shorts with small white dots and white ankle socks with lavender scalloped embroidered edging along the delicate cuff. I recall laying the outfit upon my bed just to gaze at it before ever putting it on as if to drink up all the magical air around it, and in my 3 year old mind I believed that if there was any goodness on the earth, it resided in two things:
• the color L-A-V-E-N-D-E-R
• the rules and regulations of matchy-matchy
And so began my personal pursuit – entirely wrapped up in emotion – of the right thing to wear, and not in a Garanimals way, but in a way that is intuitive and passionate, if not desperate at times…as in “no…this isn’t right, I don’t FEEL like this today…”, a common and direct cause of much hysteria among girls and women.
Over the last couple of weeks I have been enjoying, with my husband and kids, a show called The Day Before – a Fashion & Style documentary sub-series that is part of the Full Frontal Fashion series on the Sundance Channel. For our family, the equivalent of “Movie-Night” is that we are all huddled around some Fashion show on television (Project Runway-esque)…possibly with Popcorn to enhance the down-to-earthiness of our pastime. The first one that I watched was about Marc Jacobs, who I just loved, and although I have always imagined top Fashion Designers as the elite, Deity-like purveyors of the Keat’s adage: “beauty is truth, truth beauty”…(that is all ye know on earth and all ye need to know), I found him enchantingly human, a nice guy who seeks feedback and support like all of us and who shows a seriously vulnerable side of his mega-designer persona as he questions the “correctness” of the choices he makes while developing his latest line of clothing.
Most charming, though, so far in the series for me, has been the episode that featured the preparation of the 2009 Fall Debut of Proenza Schouler which, until I saw the human version of this super-power, still thought this name referred to one woman with a very robust first name: PROENZA!! Realizing that “Proenza” and “Schouler” are the respective maiden names of the mothers of designers Lazaro Hernandez and Jack McCullough, I was charmed by the very real slice-of-apple-pie-and-Mom feeling they seem to exude and intrigued by their unintimidating, almost impish-boyishness while being awed by their great design and industry savvy. After meeting at the Parson’s School of Design as Fashion Design students, Jack and Lazaro ended up becoming a real-life team after wowing audiences with their final collaborative project and thus the launch of their own label, Proenza Schouler. And they continue to impress as fresh, young faces in the uber-competitive world of fashion. Their new line of slouchy jackets and coats with layer upon layer of shapely lapels and hip-skimming skirts looks comfortable but with a sophisticated twist that seems to come from the juxtaposed angles of it all. Meanwhile, the thrill of fashion for me is that I get to see the resurgence of attitudes via textures, colors and/or patterns that I have fallen in love with at an earlier time – come back with a new splash, a new translation and a tweak, like recycled sentiments that continue to evolve in style and wisdom with every assertion, every season. Or, perchance, we get to see something we have never seen before, possibly more exciting. In the end, it all comes back to the mantra that seemed to be echoing throughout The Day Before series which simply asks: “Is it wearable?” And the judges on this particular show certainly seem to know how to assess this. Would we all wear these “wearable” items? Not necessarily, but “everyday” clothing can be an off-shoot of the attitudes of high fashion…a sort of dumbed-down, easier to walk in, easier to zip up version. Thankfully.
Some of the looks that seem to be everywhere right now that I am enjoying are the following:
Fringe Boots – many to choose from, but Minnetonka gets points for being the tried and true, authentic brand; GARGANTUAN heels – a short woman’s best friend…kind of; Military jackets keep coming back with evermore style and, in some cases, decidedly feminine touches; very high and slouchy boots – at least to the knee, some with peek-a-boo toes; harem pants, which take a little more getting used to for me because of the very low, drooping crotch but, admittedly, I do own a very cool pair of black ones; very dramatic jackets and coats with interesting angled closures, giant collars and lapels, big-bold-statement outerwear; a new twist on “half-gloves” as seen on Sarah Jessica Parker in last year’s Sex and the City movie where the fingers are in tact but the part of the glove that covers the hand is not all there (I am still partial to the “Hobo” gloves that are missing the ends of all the fingers…because of the practicality of being able to perform tasks while staying relatively warm and I have created my own for years by snipping of the tips of inexpensive gloves);
luckily for me, horizontal stripes are back with a vengeance; and finally, the art of makeup is as pronounced as ever with crimson lips a rev-it-up easy accessory – again – and deep, dark, sultry eyes with extensively lined lids are equally popular in magazines and on the streets. And body art – as seen at fashion Week in New York (Rodarte / Black Magic) – is an interesting twist - time consuming but pain-free - on the fairly recent surge of tattooing, as an example of that place where art and fashion link up with lifestyle and its own momentum.
Finally, a great website for getting to be the all-powerful implementer of a personalized look is Polyvore.com; while magazine sales are down recently, this online real-time, potentially trend tracking fashion “magazine” of sorts – which managed to triple its traffic over the last year - is generated by the folks who visit, populate and use the site. At Polyvore, among other things, you are able to not only put together outfits but also design an entire layout, essentially an essence board, which could include anything from background designs to furniture to nature scapes, etc., that can be incorporated to compliment your look. You can make as many of these “sets” as you desire and publish them on the site itself for other Polyvore-ites to enjoy or share on social networks like Facebook and Twitter with a simple click. Here is a look of my first published set and I’ll be going back for more, no doubt…the perfect outlet for the fashionista-vore in all of us!
Items in this set:
Coat with full skirt, 2,165 GBP
Bell Flower Screen Tank, $13
Chloë Sevigny For Opening Ceremony Suede Buckle-strap Sandal Boot, $375
GIVENCHY - CHAINS AND BEADS NECKLACE, 1.652 EUR
MAURIZIO PECORARO - LARGE BEADED BRACELET, 464 EUR
...Coat with full skirt, 2,165 GBP
Bell Flower Screen Tank, $13
Chloë Sevigny For Opening Ceremony Suede Buckle-strap Sandal Boot, $375
GIVENCHY - CHAINS AND BEADS NECKLACE, 1.652 EUR
MAURIZIO PECORARO - LARGE BEADED BRACELET, 464 EUR
Ruby
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Ever hooked up with a Saj? (Patty)
I want a deportment badge! A shiny red gem in my lapel that would let everyone know that I am holding up my end of this mothering thing...
We just returned from Laguna Beach. As you know, John is moving there next week and Portia and I will follow in January. It's a fun town, lots of art galleries and surf shops, and the inevitable Surf Art Gallery. There are yoga studios and organic restaurants, The Chakra Shack and an inordinate amount of bead shops. There are handsome young blonde surfer boys walking through town barefoot, and 40-something surfer men who are kind of cool looking but a little pitiful, like weren't they supposed to "move on" at some point? The main activity seems to be entertainment, which is right up my alley! It's got a laid-back atmosphere, lots of people making eye contact and saying hello, fun stores like Pretty Trash and Sniff and Bark...a number of places to eat breakfast, like my new favorite, Madison Square Gardens, which was a general store/restaurant hybrid that had at least 40 working fountains for sale, a festive atmosphere although it was embarassing to Portia because I can't pass a wind chime without giving it a little push, and after the first 10 she was very much hoping I would "get OVER it"...I heard a sentence I'd never heard before at coffee one morning, one employee said to the other, "Have you ever hooked up with a Saj?" and in context, I quickly surmised we were talking zodiacally...I ran home and asked John what sign he was, a piece of info that I hadn't asked in 25 years but suddenly seemed like it might be good to know! (He's a Cap, by the way)...
It's a plateau community, lots of houses on the "hills" which to me seem more like huge mountains, and most places have a view of the Pacific.
We rented a furnished house and got Portia all set for Laguna Beach High School...it's very surreal. Life is funny sometimes...I will just wear my invisible badge and make it all work out!
Patty
We just returned from Laguna Beach. As you know, John is moving there next week and Portia and I will follow in January. It's a fun town, lots of art galleries and surf shops, and the inevitable Surf Art Gallery. There are yoga studios and organic restaurants, The Chakra Shack and an inordinate amount of bead shops. There are handsome young blonde surfer boys walking through town barefoot, and 40-something surfer men who are kind of cool looking but a little pitiful, like weren't they supposed to "move on" at some point? The main activity seems to be entertainment, which is right up my alley! It's got a laid-back atmosphere, lots of people making eye contact and saying hello, fun stores like Pretty Trash and Sniff and Bark...a number of places to eat breakfast, like my new favorite, Madison Square Gardens, which was a general store/restaurant hybrid that had at least 40 working fountains for sale, a festive atmosphere although it was embarassing to Portia because I can't pass a wind chime without giving it a little push, and after the first 10 she was very much hoping I would "get OVER it"...I heard a sentence I'd never heard before at coffee one morning, one employee said to the other, "Have you ever hooked up with a Saj?" and in context, I quickly surmised we were talking zodiacally...I ran home and asked John what sign he was, a piece of info that I hadn't asked in 25 years but suddenly seemed like it might be good to know! (He's a Cap, by the way)...
It's a plateau community, lots of houses on the "hills" which to me seem more like huge mountains, and most places have a view of the Pacific.
We rented a furnished house and got Portia all set for Laguna Beach High School...it's very surreal. Life is funny sometimes...I will just wear my invisible badge and make it all work out!
Patty
Saturday, September 12, 2009
A note to my Mom for being brave enough to give birth to ME (Ruby)
Fifty-two years ago tonight, my mother went into labor with me and I have heard the story so many times; it is a cold and lonely version of what should have been wonderful in every way except for the obvious discomfort of pushing a baby out of your body. And I have never remembered to say "thanks for that..."
How impolite.
She was taken into an operating room where there were other women screaming in agony in their various stages of birthing. They were all lying on metal gurneys. Without any cushioning. Without any blankets. Without their husbands. Without gentle encouragement from anyone. Cold, hard gurneys and them.
My mother was freezing, but shaking more from the pain than the cold. She asked the nurse on duty if she could sit up and the nurse’s kind words were: “Shut up and just have a good pain!”
Nice.
When I think about the way things are these days, with birthing rooms, privacy, our husbands in the room with us, blankets that are warmed and draped carefully over us, pillows, loving care on so many levels, I cannot imagine anyone having to endure the icy cold metal harshness that my Mom put up with. And the distraction of all those other women crying out in pain all around her is unimaginable…and unnecessary.
Oh well.
After she had me, she saw me only for a moment and then “they” took me away for 3 days and would not allow her to see me even once because according to them I “wasn’t eating enough”…she reasoned with them that I would probably eat if I was with my mother, but they rejected her plea.
On the 4th day, she’d had it and somehow stepped it up a notch as the POWERFUL ONE and demanded that they get me ready to go home. They said “but you need to have a day of dangling your feet…before you can think about going home.”
Dangle? Not.
We left, escaped together…I ate just fine and have been the PERFECT DAUGHTER ever since…HA!
So, Mom, thanks for being brave enough to finally say “piss-on-this-Nurse-Nancy” and bring me home. Good job!
Ruby
Back to the GRIND (Ruby)
Every day I have been meaning to write, to update my life in this space…but simply haven’t, no excuses, no perfect “dog-ate-my-homework” story…not that writing to you in the blogosphere is a “homework assignment”...in any case, this is a place I try to be, consistently-ish, but sometimes I find myself other places. Inexplicably.
School started. For the most part, with the exception of last night, you might not guess this by observing my children. There is not yet an overriding, anguished huddling over textbooks at night, but rather a predictable amount of time - between the 3 youngest kids (10, 12, 15) - at their computers recreationally, skateboarding, biking, scootering, hanging out with friends, watching the Simpsons, etc. For us, this is essentially what the summer also looked like. Which is nice because I feel like the first couple of weeks back at school have not upset the apple-cart, which is one of my goals as a Mom…in a general way. Even though I believe truly that changes are healthy and can be invigorating, I am never ready to embrace change that feels more like electric shock therapy.
I sense that there are kids who are already SLAVING away with the grind of homework. This makes me sad…year after year. I have listened to parents and teachers talk about homework in intellectual terms and I can nod my head in token agreement over why, in theory, we would all want our kids to have the opportunity to “practice” what they are learning, to take it all into their own hands, to exert and assert their various skill-sets, say it in their own words, spit it all back out, integrate it, share it, remember it.
But in my head, I hear the words: Bull-shit.
I want my kids to finish up their school-business at school, a novel idea, I know. Keep them in school for an hour longer or extend the classes measurably, let them learn and re-learn…in an environment where the experts are all around them. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: when I went to a strict all-girl’s school in London in the late ‘60’s – something right out of a Dickens-style setting, all cold grey brick, scratchy brown tweed uniforms against bare legs, horrifyingly scary and controlling teachers in long black capes that flowed behind them like the wings of bats, wide open windows in the classrooms in January to KEEP US AWAKE and detentions that were handed out to the many unsuspecting, less-than-perfect children who were continuously shocked to find out that this or that had just qualified them as “disobedient” – I was happy to apply myself because the expectations for the school, itself, to uphold standards as well as for the girls to reciprocate with hard work and respect was the whole point. And a completely viable one. We started school at 8:30 am and we finished at 4:00pm. We went home tired, educated, and without any homework, essentially…other than an occasional miniscule task that would not make or break the outcome of our “grade”. A huge part of our success during school hours was based on our “deportment”; our posture, how we sat (knees touching, legs at right angles), walked and carried ourselves, how graciously we listened, that we remembered not to interrupt, not talk out of turn, not forget to wash our hands before lunch…all of this mattered enormously. If you did it right, you got a deportment badge…a slim red jewel-tone pin that caught the light nicely against our chocolate colored uniform sweaters. A badge that could be worn with pride because it meant you were holding up your part of the deal in the challenge called “growing up”, and becoming an accountable person, while learning!
I never learned more than I did at that school; the curriculum was robust and the expectations for not just scraping by but for being fully engaged and immersed were a given. Not everyone wore a deportment badge, but there was nothing elitist or exclusive about aspiring to receive one; we were all on the same page, wanting the same outcomes, wanting the same education…where a perfect French accent mattered, perfect grammar mattered, perfect spelling mattered, math was to be done in pen & ink because it mattered that we knew what we were writing down versus scrubbing sleepily with an eraser at the lame attempts of our number 2 pencils.
Home was where I went when I had done my day as a student. I would draw, eat, watch T.V., play the piano, play with my siblings, be with my Mother, get ready for the next day with excitement and with a feeling of being perfectly refreshed.
As you know, a couple of my kids have special needs within the school environment; Louki has a unique school situation to accomodate his severe non-verbal autism. I am really excited for him this year because his Case Manager is not fearful or hesitant regarding Louki’s moods or abilities. He’s in the choir this year, in a theater class, working with a 1:1 aide at a part time volunteer job…as the first rung in the ladder towards his adult life. It is all complex for him but I so embrace the interest in leaping versus baby-stepping into new areas on the part of his new staff this year.
Ollie, too, has a special situation and I’ll be meeting with his teachers first thing in the morning; I asked that we meet asap to discuss the repercussions of his Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I care for him like he’s made out of glass sometimes, making sure his breakfast is his “dream breakfast”, that he gets a cup of warm cocoa every morning (Ovaltine, actually, because it has a better nutritional profile) that I lay out his clothes to avoid the stress of having him needing to hunt for socks, etc., on his own; I hope so desperately for him to walk away from this house each morning with his spirit in tact. He’s 10 but he’s my baby and he so easily spins out of control when he is in a particularly turbulent place, as he is now.
The one thing he wanted to do when he got home from school today was to lie with me on his bed for one full hour of the Simpsons. Uninterrupted. I bought his favorite bagels and a bottle of chocolate milk for a treat and we started the show. His arms and legs flailed in accordance with patterns and numbers, exacting certain rituals he needs to repeat almost non-stop as part of his OCD; the whole thing is a colossal invasion and he expends inordinate energy trying to tame the mammoth drive to ritualize and repeat, rehearse…restrain, start again…with more urgency each time….
It helps my children to have free time; they are not perfect children, they don’t always use their time “perfectly”, they are not profoundly academic or athletic but they all have a thirst for things that interest them, they are resourceful and they rely on a feeling of coziness and freedom in our home. They are relatively peaceful and creative and their afternoons and lives are not choreographed by me, in part because there are too many of them for me to afford all the things I might let them nibble on extracurricularly, but also in part because I think that much of the brilliance of childhood comes from leaving kids to their own means, to the impromptu spirit within. We were all stellar participants in the moment-by-moment unfolding of our days and lives, when I was growing up. We didn’t have to be sucked into the undertow of extracurricular mayhem. We could play and wander and wonder, and wriggle our way out of boredom, much of the time.
Last night was more disruptive than any other since school started because Bowie was confused by his 7th grade math homework; we argued about what we each thought the answers should be, we squabbled over the “right” technique, we disagreed about whether the assignment had been done neatly enough, whether the effort made had been appropriate. For me, this is an ugly way to spend my time with my kids and I dream of an alternative like what I had in London at Bowie’s age.
Either way, we’ll plug along and do our best within the homework culture that is so very popular here, but I will never disapprove of the dreamy far-away look in a child’s eyes – at home - that tells me he or she is on a journey of his/her own making.
Ruby
School started. For the most part, with the exception of last night, you might not guess this by observing my children. There is not yet an overriding, anguished huddling over textbooks at night, but rather a predictable amount of time - between the 3 youngest kids (10, 12, 15) - at their computers recreationally, skateboarding, biking, scootering, hanging out with friends, watching the Simpsons, etc. For us, this is essentially what the summer also looked like. Which is nice because I feel like the first couple of weeks back at school have not upset the apple-cart, which is one of my goals as a Mom…in a general way. Even though I believe truly that changes are healthy and can be invigorating, I am never ready to embrace change that feels more like electric shock therapy. I sense that there are kids who are already SLAVING away with the grind of homework. This makes me sad…year after year. I have listened to parents and teachers talk about homework in intellectual terms and I can nod my head in token agreement over why, in theory, we would all want our kids to have the opportunity to “practice” what they are learning, to take it all into their own hands, to exert and assert their various skill-sets, say it in their own words, spit it all back out, integrate it, share it, remember it.
But in my head, I hear the words: Bull-shit.
I want my kids to finish up their school-business at school, a novel idea, I know. Keep them in school for an hour longer or extend the classes measurably, let them learn and re-learn…in an environment where the experts are all around them. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: when I went to a strict all-girl’s school in London in the late ‘60’s – something right out of a Dickens-style setting, all cold grey brick, scratchy brown tweed uniforms against bare legs, horrifyingly scary and controlling teachers in long black capes that flowed behind them like the wings of bats, wide open windows in the classrooms in January to KEEP US AWAKE and detentions that were handed out to the many unsuspecting, less-than-perfect children who were continuously shocked to find out that this or that had just qualified them as “disobedient” – I was happy to apply myself because the expectations for the school, itself, to uphold standards as well as for the girls to reciprocate with hard work and respect was the whole point. And a completely viable one. We started school at 8:30 am and we finished at 4:00pm. We went home tired, educated, and without any homework, essentially…other than an occasional miniscule task that would not make or break the outcome of our “grade”. A huge part of our success during school hours was based on our “deportment”; our posture, how we sat (knees touching, legs at right angles), walked and carried ourselves, how graciously we listened, that we remembered not to interrupt, not talk out of turn, not forget to wash our hands before lunch…all of this mattered enormously. If you did it right, you got a deportment badge…a slim red jewel-tone pin that caught the light nicely against our chocolate colored uniform sweaters. A badge that could be worn with pride because it meant you were holding up your part of the deal in the challenge called “growing up”, and becoming an accountable person, while learning!
I never learned more than I did at that school; the curriculum was robust and the expectations for not just scraping by but for being fully engaged and immersed were a given. Not everyone wore a deportment badge, but there was nothing elitist or exclusive about aspiring to receive one; we were all on the same page, wanting the same outcomes, wanting the same education…where a perfect French accent mattered, perfect grammar mattered, perfect spelling mattered, math was to be done in pen & ink because it mattered that we knew what we were writing down versus scrubbing sleepily with an eraser at the lame attempts of our number 2 pencils.
Home was where I went when I had done my day as a student. I would draw, eat, watch T.V., play the piano, play with my siblings, be with my Mother, get ready for the next day with excitement and with a feeling of being perfectly refreshed.
As you know, a couple of my kids have special needs within the school environment; Louki has a unique school situation to accomodate his severe non-verbal autism. I am really excited for him this year because his Case Manager is not fearful or hesitant regarding Louki’s moods or abilities. He’s in the choir this year, in a theater class, working with a 1:1 aide at a part time volunteer job…as the first rung in the ladder towards his adult life. It is all complex for him but I so embrace the interest in leaping versus baby-stepping into new areas on the part of his new staff this year.
Ollie, too, has a special situation and I’ll be meeting with his teachers first thing in the morning; I asked that we meet asap to discuss the repercussions of his Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I care for him like he’s made out of glass sometimes, making sure his breakfast is his “dream breakfast”, that he gets a cup of warm cocoa every morning (Ovaltine, actually, because it has a better nutritional profile) that I lay out his clothes to avoid the stress of having him needing to hunt for socks, etc., on his own; I hope so desperately for him to walk away from this house each morning with his spirit in tact. He’s 10 but he’s my baby and he so easily spins out of control when he is in a particularly turbulent place, as he is now.
The one thing he wanted to do when he got home from school today was to lie with me on his bed for one full hour of the Simpsons. Uninterrupted. I bought his favorite bagels and a bottle of chocolate milk for a treat and we started the show. His arms and legs flailed in accordance with patterns and numbers, exacting certain rituals he needs to repeat almost non-stop as part of his OCD; the whole thing is a colossal invasion and he expends inordinate energy trying to tame the mammoth drive to ritualize and repeat, rehearse…restrain, start again…with more urgency each time….
It helps my children to have free time; they are not perfect children, they don’t always use their time “perfectly”, they are not profoundly academic or athletic but they all have a thirst for things that interest them, they are resourceful and they rely on a feeling of coziness and freedom in our home. They are relatively peaceful and creative and their afternoons and lives are not choreographed by me, in part because there are too many of them for me to afford all the things I might let them nibble on extracurricularly, but also in part because I think that much of the brilliance of childhood comes from leaving kids to their own means, to the impromptu spirit within. We were all stellar participants in the moment-by-moment unfolding of our days and lives, when I was growing up. We didn’t have to be sucked into the undertow of extracurricular mayhem. We could play and wander and wonder, and wriggle our way out of boredom, much of the time.
Last night was more disruptive than any other since school started because Bowie was confused by his 7th grade math homework; we argued about what we each thought the answers should be, we squabbled over the “right” technique, we disagreed about whether the assignment had been done neatly enough, whether the effort made had been appropriate. For me, this is an ugly way to spend my time with my kids and I dream of an alternative like what I had in London at Bowie’s age.
Either way, we’ll plug along and do our best within the homework culture that is so very popular here, but I will never disapprove of the dreamy far-away look in a child’s eyes – at home - that tells me he or she is on a journey of his/her own making.
Ruby
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Dude, where's my sleep? (Patty)
Katrina was a good exercise in mandatory purging. We lost about one/third of our stuff, and I was glad to get rid of some of that crap! Paperwork from the 90s, Christmas ornaments that were in the family but I didn't really LOVE, furniture that needed to be replaced, a certain portion of our things I felt great about losing....
Another portion I felt stupid about losing, the American Girl dolls and all their outfits and paraphernalia; they were so expensive that instead of giving them away, I was selfishly into that "save them for the grandchildren" mentality, so now no one has them. Also, right before we evacuated I made a big to-do about Portia's big suitcase...she had been home from camp for over a month and it was still lying around, I insisted she move it back to the storage room...she still laments the loss of that turquoise valise that went for a swim with everything else...
Then there was stuff that I occasionally miss, especially the yearbooks, which I would refer to now and again and a few products that they really DON'T make the way they used to...
Finally there is the stuff that was painful to lose, like the entire, recently renovated apartment and the tenant, the washer/dryer, the carpet, the pool table...
The sad or possibly happy thing is that even though we completely gutted the storage room in 2005 resulting in NOTHING in it, 4 years later, the room has filled up again! New crap, new years of paperwork, John's entire office when he moved home, lamps that don't work too well but MAYBE someone will use them one day...
So I would say that I am inconsistent on the hoarding issue. I do have a drawer that is sort of scary to open, where I keep keys and Scotch tape and postage stamps and envelopes and thousands of various sundry items. I can find anything I am looking for in seconds...why does tape go with keys? My mother had a similar drawer, and in my mind, these items belong together...I suppose I am propagating another generation of weird-items-thrown-together. When I really stop to look at it, some of the items make NO sense, like old cellphones are in that drawer...when there are old veggies in the fridge, even when there is 99% chance that no one will ever eat them I can look at them and say "Hmmm, not quite rotten enough yet" and close the drawer. The food will eventually go BAD and then I throw it out. If ONLY the cell phones would just go BAD!
It was a crazy week, first it was the midnight showing of Inglourious Basterds followed by Cafe du Monde resulting in a sea of teenagers coming in at 4AM...then the going-away night, which also involved lots of loud teens, ( 1AM reenactment: "DUUUUUUDDDE!!!!" ) Do you now feel like you were here?? Then, Saturday at Tulane moving Zeke in to his dorm room and on to Atlanta in our Beverly Hillbillies car, with mops and hangers sticking out the windows to move Madison in to her on-campus apartment on Sunday...now I'm home and it's like someone died. It's so quiet! Good time to look at an old yearbook...doh!!
Patty
Another portion I felt stupid about losing, the American Girl dolls and all their outfits and paraphernalia; they were so expensive that instead of giving them away, I was selfishly into that "save them for the grandchildren" mentality, so now no one has them. Also, right before we evacuated I made a big to-do about Portia's big suitcase...she had been home from camp for over a month and it was still lying around, I insisted she move it back to the storage room...she still laments the loss of that turquoise valise that went for a swim with everything else...
Then there was stuff that I occasionally miss, especially the yearbooks, which I would refer to now and again and a few products that they really DON'T make the way they used to...
Finally there is the stuff that was painful to lose, like the entire, recently renovated apartment and the tenant, the washer/dryer, the carpet, the pool table...
The sad or possibly happy thing is that even though we completely gutted the storage room in 2005 resulting in NOTHING in it, 4 years later, the room has filled up again! New crap, new years of paperwork, John's entire office when he moved home, lamps that don't work too well but MAYBE someone will use them one day...
So I would say that I am inconsistent on the hoarding issue. I do have a drawer that is sort of scary to open, where I keep keys and Scotch tape and postage stamps and envelopes and thousands of various sundry items. I can find anything I am looking for in seconds...why does tape go with keys? My mother had a similar drawer, and in my mind, these items belong together...I suppose I am propagating another generation of weird-items-thrown-together. When I really stop to look at it, some of the items make NO sense, like old cellphones are in that drawer...when there are old veggies in the fridge, even when there is 99% chance that no one will ever eat them I can look at them and say "Hmmm, not quite rotten enough yet" and close the drawer. The food will eventually go BAD and then I throw it out. If ONLY the cell phones would just go BAD!
It was a crazy week, first it was the midnight showing of Inglourious Basterds followed by Cafe du Monde resulting in a sea of teenagers coming in at 4AM...then the going-away night, which also involved lots of loud teens, ( 1AM reenactment: "DUUUUUUDDDE!!!!" ) Do you now feel like you were here?? Then, Saturday at Tulane moving Zeke in to his dorm room and on to Atlanta in our Beverly Hillbillies car, with mops and hangers sticking out the windows to move Madison in to her on-campus apartment on Sunday...now I'm home and it's like someone died. It's so quiet! Good time to look at an old yearbook...doh!!
Patty
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
One Man's Garbage... (Ruby)
It seems like there are suddenly a lot more shows on T.V. about Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD) and I have a vested interest in this topic because of my little guy, Ollie, whose OCD behaviors got severe around the age of eight…as well as my own tendencies, not nearly as severe, throughout my life. The show “Obsessed” which was on for a few consecutive weeks became a favorite in our household and last week the season concluded with a story about a very likeable man who is a “Hoarder”, an OCD derivative that causes a person to live among the chaotic ruins of, essentially, all their own garbage; they continuously acquire “stuff” but are psychologically unable to get rid of a thing. (Ollie is not a Hoarder by definition...yet...although I imagine his OCD could go in several directions...we'll see) They develop a comfort level within the horrific messes they call home and see their lives as predictable and safe, in the same way that any of us would appreciate our own lifestyles as predictable and safe. The big difference is that they live with the nagging threat that they could lose everything from their homes to their children and relationships with all family and friends because of the deteriorating and insanitary living conditions…which probably perpetuates the problem, making them hold on to all their stuff even more. Although they all probably comprehend how destructive it is to the framework of their lives, it appears to take some super-vigilant intervention to get them to finally part with their “special” possessions and then “stay clean”, literally. And the likelihood of returning to their previous behaviors is all too common. Last night a new series called “Hoarders” premiered and this will, as the name implies, specifically feature people who hang on to and hoard, for dear life, all their stuff – from rotten food, to broken toys and dirty laundry – all scattered and piled to obscure every inch of the floor. 
Throughout my life I’ve observed houses and yards that must certainly be occupied by hoarders…I remember going with friends in college to get a sneak peek through the bushes of one such back yard that was wooly with shrubs and trees, where millions and millions of trinkets hung from the branches, were hidden in the brush or piled precariously high on top of older piles of garbage; my friends and I were fascinated by the place. I recall always prefacing for anyone about to see it for the first time, “You will not believe it…you’ll DEFINITELY think it was worth the trip”. It was like peering into a crazy cave, a secret world that no one was supposed to see or know about, a show.
I remember hearing that a friend of mine had a mother who was a Hoarder; every hallway and room of their house was completely lined from floor to ceiling with cardboard boxes, with only narrow ”tunnels” between all the cardboard to move around in. My friends squeezed through the halls, single file, and were horrified to think of our friend having to call that his home.
On the other hand, as Scot and I watched this perfectly nice couple, last night, struggling to get rid of their junk and beginning the clean up phase – fully assisted by a team of cleaners – I did think a few times about my own basement, shown here with lime green hampers and baskets of CLEAN, not dirty laundry - one for each child, one for each parent, one for towels, one for sheets and blankets, one for boy socks, one for boy boxers, etc...never put away but picked through as we need stuff because there is simply too much of it to get on top of; mine is an organized mess, certainly not an example of hoarding but clearly a project for optimizing and parting with tons of the items at the bottom of all the piles, to make it easier to find things, easier to visually comprehend, easier for me to emotionally stomach.
I thought of attics or garages I’ve had in the past, closets, certain drawers, the tops of certain counters throughout the house. I believe we all hoard to a degree but we set limits; I can scrounge around through my “pencil drawer” and toss random things into it as I race through my day, a lone thumbtack, a rubberband, a lozenge, someone’s library card, a couple pennies. I tell myself it’s O.K. I don’t even think about it. But if you were to ask me to go through that drawer and make sense of it, I’d put it off for as long as possible. It’s hard to be discriminating about what’s really important to hold onto. So much stuff is flying at us all the time; junk mail that we fear could be important mail, important info and dates from our children’s schools, the millions of THINGS that could be useful at another time, all screaming at us “KEEP ME!”
Because I do NOT have a serious hoarding condition, only your average-human kind of "keeping stuff I don't need", I am thankfully able to numb myself to the significance of my stuff - from time to time - and simply toss, toss, toss! Moving is the perfect excuse for this type of cleansing because most of us really want to know what we’re putting the effort into, what are the items that really get to stay in the “keep” pile. I knew I had really dulled my neurotic senses to a workable point when we moved to our current home because I had all five kids at that time, but none of them were babies anymore…which meant that I had to go through their baby stuff. That’s when I was finally able to get rid of their little belly-button stubs that I had saved from their infancies. And not that a baby’s belly button takes up a lot of room, but I was able to get rid of them mentally, which is the exercise that has to happen…for anyone...OCD, or not.
Scrapbooking is a form of hoarding, by the way, but it’s a controlled and elegant version of the same human sentiments. And it’s designed, laid out, displayed like a perfect advertisement for the moments of your life, versus strewn on the ground to be stepped on. I could totally see someone becoming obsessive-compulsive about their scrap-booking though, like freaking out if they had not been careful to hold onto every precious moment. My belly-buttons would have been perfect in a scrap-book but I never took the time to put one together. Instead I have bins, Rubbermaid bins, some labeled, some not, tons of them, with my important stuff that passed the test and was granted entrance to “the next house”…
I guess the curious thing for me is where the possibly fine line is when “collecting” or “keeping” in a healthy, sentimental way crosses into “hoarding” and the scary feeling of literally having your soul “emptied out” when you’re challenged to get rid of your garbage for the sake of saving your home or your life.
Blue had a Pork Chop for a while in the back seat of his car, an old slice of Pizza, a million empty cigarette packs, a broken umbrella, a stray shoe. Scot keeps broken phones, broken VCR’s, mostly appliances, but out of sight…in the garage. I keep things that bring a tear to my eye like notes from Santa to the kids, but also WAY too many clothes, lipsticks, things I know will never be used. Toyen “collects” bottles and cans, some of which are beautiful, limited edition pieces of art…while she’ll also allow an empty humdrum pepsi can - which somehow feels like pure garbage to me - to be part of her display; many of these bottles are crammed in between other significant things in her large bookshelf and look less like an artisitc collection than something more quirky. And if she catches me even glancing at the overcrowded and chaotic "display", she glares hard at me with a face that says “Don’t go NEAR them!”. Clearly these are significant in her life.
“I’ll keep it for my grandchildren!” is another classic reason to hold onto every little thing…but for me, I have so much crap to wade through in my own life as a Mom that I’d have to threaten my mother if she started sending us stuff from my past; she’s shared a few things, some books, an item here or there…but honest-to-God, would my kids really cherish all my old things?? How exciting is my erector set from the ‘60’s to a child who really wants an I-Phone??
Anyway, just curious...what have you held onto? Are you able to simply TOSS or are you a sentimental KEEPER? A scrap-booker? A hoarder? (I am guessing not…) All I know is that after watching these Hoarder shows I am feeling a little uneasy about my basement, in particular, my laundry room and I am determined to have it morph into something very different by sometime in September, that’s my goal.
But for now, I’m feeling somehow balanced between my pristine living room (who is LIVING in it?) and the chaos of the basement, as I imagine the average person is.
Ruby
Throughout my life I’ve observed houses and yards that must certainly be occupied by hoarders…I remember going with friends in college to get a sneak peek through the bushes of one such back yard that was wooly with shrubs and trees, where millions and millions of trinkets hung from the branches, were hidden in the brush or piled precariously high on top of older piles of garbage; my friends and I were fascinated by the place. I recall always prefacing for anyone about to see it for the first time, “You will not believe it…you’ll DEFINITELY think it was worth the trip”. It was like peering into a crazy cave, a secret world that no one was supposed to see or know about, a show. I remember hearing that a friend of mine had a mother who was a Hoarder; every hallway and room of their house was completely lined from floor to ceiling with cardboard boxes, with only narrow ”tunnels” between all the cardboard to move around in. My friends squeezed through the halls, single file, and were horrified to think of our friend having to call that his home.
On the other hand, as Scot and I watched this perfectly nice couple, last night, struggling to get rid of their junk and beginning the clean up phase – fully assisted by a team of cleaners – I did think a few times about my own basement, shown here with lime green hampers and baskets of CLEAN, not dirty laundry - one for each child, one for each parent, one for towels, one for sheets and blankets, one for boy socks, one for boy boxers, etc...never put away but picked through as we need stuff because there is simply too much of it to get on top of; mine is an organized mess, certainly not an example of hoarding but clearly a project for optimizing and parting with tons of the items at the bottom of all the piles, to make it easier to find things, easier to visually comprehend, easier for me to emotionally stomach.
I thought of attics or garages I’ve had in the past, closets, certain drawers, the tops of certain counters throughout the house. I believe we all hoard to a degree but we set limits; I can scrounge around through my “pencil drawer” and toss random things into it as I race through my day, a lone thumbtack, a rubberband, a lozenge, someone’s library card, a couple pennies. I tell myself it’s O.K. I don’t even think about it. But if you were to ask me to go through that drawer and make sense of it, I’d put it off for as long as possible. It’s hard to be discriminating about what’s really important to hold onto. So much stuff is flying at us all the time; junk mail that we fear could be important mail, important info and dates from our children’s schools, the millions of THINGS that could be useful at another time, all screaming at us “KEEP ME!”Because I do NOT have a serious hoarding condition, only your average-human kind of "keeping stuff I don't need", I am thankfully able to numb myself to the significance of my stuff - from time to time - and simply toss, toss, toss! Moving is the perfect excuse for this type of cleansing because most of us really want to know what we’re putting the effort into, what are the items that really get to stay in the “keep” pile. I knew I had really dulled my neurotic senses to a workable point when we moved to our current home because I had all five kids at that time, but none of them were babies anymore…which meant that I had to go through their baby stuff. That’s when I was finally able to get rid of their little belly-button stubs that I had saved from their infancies. And not that a baby’s belly button takes up a lot of room, but I was able to get rid of them mentally, which is the exercise that has to happen…for anyone...OCD, or not.
Scrapbooking is a form of hoarding, by the way, but it’s a controlled and elegant version of the same human sentiments. And it’s designed, laid out, displayed like a perfect advertisement for the moments of your life, versus strewn on the ground to be stepped on. I could totally see someone becoming obsessive-compulsive about their scrap-booking though, like freaking out if they had not been careful to hold onto every precious moment. My belly-buttons would have been perfect in a scrap-book but I never took the time to put one together. Instead I have bins, Rubbermaid bins, some labeled, some not, tons of them, with my important stuff that passed the test and was granted entrance to “the next house”…I guess the curious thing for me is where the possibly fine line is when “collecting” or “keeping” in a healthy, sentimental way crosses into “hoarding” and the scary feeling of literally having your soul “emptied out” when you’re challenged to get rid of your garbage for the sake of saving your home or your life.
Blue had a Pork Chop for a while in the back seat of his car, an old slice of Pizza, a million empty cigarette packs, a broken umbrella, a stray shoe. Scot keeps broken phones, broken VCR’s, mostly appliances, but out of sight…in the garage. I keep things that bring a tear to my eye like notes from Santa to the kids, but also WAY too many clothes, lipsticks, things I know will never be used. Toyen “collects” bottles and cans, some of which are beautiful, limited edition pieces of art…while she’ll also allow an empty humdrum pepsi can - which somehow feels like pure garbage to me - to be part of her display; many of these bottles are crammed in between other significant things in her large bookshelf and look less like an artisitc collection than something more quirky. And if she catches me even glancing at the overcrowded and chaotic "display", she glares hard at me with a face that says “Don’t go NEAR them!”. Clearly these are significant in her life.
“I’ll keep it for my grandchildren!” is another classic reason to hold onto every little thing…but for me, I have so much crap to wade through in my own life as a Mom that I’d have to threaten my mother if she started sending us stuff from my past; she’s shared a few things, some books, an item here or there…but honest-to-God, would my kids really cherish all my old things?? How exciting is my erector set from the ‘60’s to a child who really wants an I-Phone??
Anyway, just curious...what have you held onto? Are you able to simply TOSS or are you a sentimental KEEPER? A scrap-booker? A hoarder? (I am guessing not…) All I know is that after watching these Hoarder shows I am feeling a little uneasy about my basement, in particular, my laundry room and I am determined to have it morph into something very different by sometime in September, that’s my goal.
But for now, I’m feeling somehow balanced between my pristine living room (who is LIVING in it?) and the chaos of the basement, as I imagine the average person is.Ruby
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Seeing Red (Patty)
I have definitely been experiencing the hemorrhaging, and a little more time between occurrences….This was my most recent secret drama (Party of One? Oh, right over here for your monthly unpredictable event that no one will ever hear about…)
When we were in Europe, I was getting smug, like “Oh yeah! Old age ROCKS! It is so cool NOT to get your period while on vacation. Ha, HA! But then (cue the Jaws soundtrack…) the night before we left, I was walking around Vienna, and I got some “pre” signs that it was on it’s way. You know how you are about to have a picnic and you see ominous clouds and a flash of lightning in the distance but still you hope and sort of believe it’s not going to rain?
My most-excellent plan was to ignore it in the hopes that it would go away. The following morning was one of those crazy travel days, where our wake-up call was at 430AM for a 630 flight. I packed a good amount of supplies in my carry-on, and semi-ignored that situation. We took a short flight to Amsterdam, and right when we were landing, the dam broke and The Event was underway. But we had to go through customs, and we made our connecting flight by the skin of our teeth, in fact if it hadn’t left a few minutes late, we would have missed that 10 and a half hour flight to Houston….I was in a movie coma, and about 2 hours into the flight, right after Last Chance Harvey but before Ratatouille, all my supplies were gone, no match for the torrent that is my “peri” stage. Even the flight attendant commented “Wow! You have so much energy!” Which is airlinespeak for “Wow! You like to be in my way in the aisles a lot!” In the end, after using maybe 10,000 Continental paper towels, and several more movies, the plane, (thank you, Jesus!) was landing in Houston…I run/waddle to the gift shop, where they have everything a person could want, Slim Jims, eyeglass repair packets, ashtrays, Texas-shaped potato-chip bowls, leaf-rubbing kits for kids, 72 varieties of gum, condoms…but they DON’T stock feminine hygiene supplies…what the F?!!?!? This emotional rollercoaster is all under the veil of secrecy, somewhere in there I had completely changed outfits, but for whatever reason, husbands are wired not to notice that sort of thing and it’s probably all for the best, they don’t want to end up with TMI, something I have just provided you with I’m afraid…
My hand hurts today, I went to a pool party last night that was “Tankini Mandatory” and I volunteered to bring my awesome juicer and 100 limes for skini Martinis, but after lugging this cumbersome appliance to the party, I realized that I’d left a piece of the juicer (and apparently a piece of my brain) on the counter at home, and it was too far to go back and get it…the host had a manual, pitiful excuse-for-a-juicer, and I felt obligated to juice a gazillion limes…
And completely unrelated, but always fun are Summer Events in New Orleans…Last weekend was White Linen night, all the art galleries are open and the streets are pedestrian-only... maybe 25,000 attend this event and everyone wears white, it’s a great people watching event, you see lots of women in interesting hats, drinking wine, it’s quite lovely… like Mardi Gras without the drunks…
They follow that the next weekend with a lower-brow event called Dirty Linen night, which takes place in the French Quarter and is kicked-off by the Red Dress Race. It’s not cheap, I think it’s 50 bucks to participate in this running/drinking event, but that didn’t stop over 6,000 people from signing up, thus all day yesterday, from the coffee shops to bookstores, wherever you went you saw men and women in lovely red dresses…gotta do something to beat the heat!!
Patty
When we were in Europe, I was getting smug, like “Oh yeah! Old age ROCKS! It is so cool NOT to get your period while on vacation. Ha, HA! But then (cue the Jaws soundtrack…) the night before we left, I was walking around Vienna, and I got some “pre” signs that it was on it’s way. You know how you are about to have a picnic and you see ominous clouds and a flash of lightning in the distance but still you hope and sort of believe it’s not going to rain?
My most-excellent plan was to ignore it in the hopes that it would go away. The following morning was one of those crazy travel days, where our wake-up call was at 430AM for a 630 flight. I packed a good amount of supplies in my carry-on, and semi-ignored that situation. We took a short flight to Amsterdam, and right when we were landing, the dam broke and The Event was underway. But we had to go through customs, and we made our connecting flight by the skin of our teeth, in fact if it hadn’t left a few minutes late, we would have missed that 10 and a half hour flight to Houston….I was in a movie coma, and about 2 hours into the flight, right after Last Chance Harvey but before Ratatouille, all my supplies were gone, no match for the torrent that is my “peri” stage. Even the flight attendant commented “Wow! You have so much energy!” Which is airlinespeak for “Wow! You like to be in my way in the aisles a lot!” In the end, after using maybe 10,000 Continental paper towels, and several more movies, the plane, (thank you, Jesus!) was landing in Houston…I run/waddle to the gift shop, where they have everything a person could want, Slim Jims, eyeglass repair packets, ashtrays, Texas-shaped potato-chip bowls, leaf-rubbing kits for kids, 72 varieties of gum, condoms…but they DON’T stock feminine hygiene supplies…what the F?!!?!? This emotional rollercoaster is all under the veil of secrecy, somewhere in there I had completely changed outfits, but for whatever reason, husbands are wired not to notice that sort of thing and it’s probably all for the best, they don’t want to end up with TMI, something I have just provided you with I’m afraid…
My hand hurts today, I went to a pool party last night that was “Tankini Mandatory” and I volunteered to bring my awesome juicer and 100 limes for skini Martinis, but after lugging this cumbersome appliance to the party, I realized that I’d left a piece of the juicer (and apparently a piece of my brain) on the counter at home, and it was too far to go back and get it…the host had a manual, pitiful excuse-for-a-juicer, and I felt obligated to juice a gazillion limes…
And completely unrelated, but always fun are Summer Events in New Orleans…Last weekend was White Linen night, all the art galleries are open and the streets are pedestrian-only... maybe 25,000 attend this event and everyone wears white, it’s a great people watching event, you see lots of women in interesting hats, drinking wine, it’s quite lovely… like Mardi Gras without the drunks…
They follow that the next weekend with a lower-brow event called Dirty Linen night, which takes place in the French Quarter and is kicked-off by the Red Dress Race. It’s not cheap, I think it’s 50 bucks to participate in this running/drinking event, but that didn’t stop over 6,000 people from signing up, thus all day yesterday, from the coffee shops to bookstores, wherever you went you saw men and women in lovely red dresses…gotta do something to beat the heat!!
Patty
Saturday, August 8, 2009
We could have had CAKE! (Ruby)
Let’s get the Menopause thing straight…and if I already explained this to you, my apologies up front. It will occur on ONE DAY and you will not know that it is THE DAY at the time…which kind of takes all the event-planning and party-potential right out of it. Menopause is technically the one day that is one year from your last MENSES (a word I love to say in my old puckered Spinster face and voice; from Latin, plural of mensis ‘month’). Anyway, our Moms don’t tell us this because they are clueless and Doctors refuse to tell you this unless pressed, because they enjoy secrets, so I am committed to sharing what I do know – in humane terms - about this bizarre and often troublesome female passage. I kept saying to my doctor “I have been non-stop hemorrhaging to death for two years….is this menopause”?...and she would say, with a wink and a knowing but private-not-sharing-shit look “oh no…..PERI…menopause…”. So the mystery for me was the whole Peri thing, which seems to be more symptomatic than Menopause itself…you could stop bleeding altogether, or sporadically, or hemorrhage-style bleeding off and on or continuously like I did, which leaves you light-headed and distracted at work. Not to mention a million other little annoyances like hot-flashes, night-sweats, libido issues, etc…a different bundle of pleasantries for different women. My confusion was always when does it BECOME “menopause”, certifiably?? When can we drop the stupid PERI prefix? When I finally had stopped bleeding to death and I had essentially been dry docked for about one and a half years, my doctor decided I was grown up enough to hear that menopause had occurred on that magical date one year after the bleeding officially stopped. “Now you are POST-Menopausal and have been for about a half year”, she explained. My office buddy said, when I told him this, “Aw, shit…you mean we missed it? We could have had cake!”…which is why I said before that you really cannot celebrate menopause itself…only peri-hemorrhaging or Post Menopause,…which I am now thinking could go on for ever. I am in the throws of such insane hot-flashes that my back is almost always sticky, if not drenched, and at any given moment I can turn beet red and have a body temperature of 200 degrees Farenheit. Luckily since I wear my hair short and spiky-ish, hair sweat can double as styling product...a huge savings for me. Hot flashes seem dangerous though, like it’s all a mistake…as in how can our bodies endure that much heat? I think of a car that overheats and has the good fortune to be treated to care and repair when this happens while women just have to keep huffing and puffing along with steam coming out of their nostrils like furious dragons, pretending to be fine, fanning with feminine dignity at our faces with our hands or shopping lists, a shoe, whatever we can find. I have been known to run to the freezer and cram my face between the frozen spinach packages. None of it seems fair, but…whatever. My mother insists that she never actually went through menopause; I keep telling her “uh, Mom….we all actually HAVE to go through it….it’s that no-more-eggies thing…I think you were just thinking about other things at the time and maybe didn’t notice…”. And for her, that’s fine...because she’ll be 100 years old and still be adorable and stronger than I am now, flirting with her plumber, doing the girly thing…she lucked out by having no raging flashes or soaked sheets or anger management issues as a 50-ish woman. Which gets me finally to you…don’t worry about any of this…it’ll happen. I think it’s kind of cute that you have not done it yet…but are you not Peri at all?? Like no changes in your MENSES (ha!), whatsoever? Not so much as a temper tantrum? Good for you, girl!
Please do me this favor, then, so that you can be the ONE person I know who gets to have a Menopause party: carefully document the EXACT last day of every period you get from now on, since one of them is bound to be your last…then start counting…get the dang thing on your calendar and when you are about a month or two away from the one year lapse from that truly LAST one, I will work on cute, girly invitations and we’ll do it up…can’t you see it…party favors in shades of red…lot’s of red balloons, Pomegranate-Vodka-Punch (duh), red velvet cake, red jellybeans (eggs, get it?), etc…the theme has endless possibilities in my mind. 
In fact I am thinking there is some career potential in this for us…we could become the Global-Menopause-Party-Planners (GMPP, Inc.), shedding light and good will upon something that can otherwise be a pinnacle of female doldrums.
Start Counting!!!! And I'll be looking for a fun red hat to wear!
Ruby
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Semper Fi (Patty)
That is hilarious. They could use you in the Air Force, they'd have to issue Combat Heels, of course. I'm pretty sure that a pair of those clunky boots weigh more than you do. And you'd have to do some kind of batik on the uniform...aren't you afraid to fly?
And yes, I knew that Target's in-house brand is Archer, we still don't carry it...
One last thing on the yogurt topic, I would stay away from Soy-licious, it's heavy on the Soy and light on the -licious...
We are winding down on summer. On our job scene, Madison started her summer jobs this weekend even though she is leaving for college on the 18th. She is semi-babysitting these 2 girls, ages 14 and 16, while their parents are out of town. In a million years, I would not leave kids that age alone for 10 days, but they seem to be really good kids who enjoy each other's company, and once a day, Madison takes them somewhere. The first day they wanted to go to Glow-in-the-dark Putt-Putt, which I think of as more of an outing for 9 year-olds, but whatever. Yesterday she took them for Mexican food. She gets $50 a day for this grueling schedule. They seem happy for her to arrive and happy for her to leave. In my warped mind, they are doing nasty deeds at night, but in reality, they are probably baking cookies...she also got a job with Sony Records for the school year. Madison loves music, attends all kinds of Indie concerts and festivals, but the job that was available was in the COUNTRY division...hmmmm....still it's a foot-in-the-door, and it's $150 a week, a lot of the job is on Facebook and going to concerts. With her spending habits, she was in dire need of a weekly cash infusion. Thus, we were running around while she was interviewing, buying Billboard, memorizing the top 20 country artists and their hits, asking Portia, our resident country expert thanks to our extended evacuation in Texas, her favorite songs and lyrics, i.e. "I'm so much cooler on line"...she even gets business cards, so this will be fun.
This might be more information than you want, but um, am I ever going to hit menopause? It's getting a little embarrassing, someone forgot to give the memo to my body that the time has come and gone, I'm really sick of producing estrogen, just me and all the 19 year olds...
All the high schools start one week from today. Portia will be a Junior. It is the New Orleans mentality that expects disaster, maybe the Swine Flu, possibly a huge tropical storm, always anticipating lenghty disruption of school...let's get a few weeks in while we can! So that's about it for Summer '09, it's a wrap!
Patty
And yes, I knew that Target's in-house brand is Archer, we still don't carry it...
One last thing on the yogurt topic, I would stay away from Soy-licious, it's heavy on the Soy and light on the -licious...
We are winding down on summer. On our job scene, Madison started her summer jobs this weekend even though she is leaving for college on the 18th. She is semi-babysitting these 2 girls, ages 14 and 16, while their parents are out of town. In a million years, I would not leave kids that age alone for 10 days, but they seem to be really good kids who enjoy each other's company, and once a day, Madison takes them somewhere. The first day they wanted to go to Glow-in-the-dark Putt-Putt, which I think of as more of an outing for 9 year-olds, but whatever. Yesterday she took them for Mexican food. She gets $50 a day for this grueling schedule. They seem happy for her to arrive and happy for her to leave. In my warped mind, they are doing nasty deeds at night, but in reality, they are probably baking cookies...she also got a job with Sony Records for the school year. Madison loves music, attends all kinds of Indie concerts and festivals, but the job that was available was in the COUNTRY division...hmmmm....still it's a foot-in-the-door, and it's $150 a week, a lot of the job is on Facebook and going to concerts. With her spending habits, she was in dire need of a weekly cash infusion. Thus, we were running around while she was interviewing, buying Billboard, memorizing the top 20 country artists and their hits, asking Portia, our resident country expert thanks to our extended evacuation in Texas, her favorite songs and lyrics, i.e. "I'm so much cooler on line"...she even gets business cards, so this will be fun.
This might be more information than you want, but um, am I ever going to hit menopause? It's getting a little embarrassing, someone forgot to give the memo to my body that the time has come and gone, I'm really sick of producing estrogen, just me and all the 19 year olds...
All the high schools start one week from today. Portia will be a Junior. It is the New Orleans mentality that expects disaster, maybe the Swine Flu, possibly a huge tropical storm, always anticipating lenghty disruption of school...let's get a few weeks in while we can! So that's about it for Summer '09, it's a wrap!
Patty
Friday, July 31, 2009
Fighting MAN (Ruby)
So the search continues for the job of my dreams, or just the one that will pay me, and some days I am more engaged in this search than others. There are so many days when my kids just look at me and repeat the following, without a pause: “…what are we doing today? Can we go somewhere? There’s nothing to do. I’m bored. Can’t we just go do something? Are we going to the pool? Can I have ice cream? Can we go to a movie? Can we rent a movie? Can I have a ride? Can you make me my lunch? Did you do my laundry? Can you cut my hair? Can I have ice cream? Can we go shopping? Can we go to the pool? Can we have lunch there? Where are we going? Can we do something?”…which can slow me down a little. And my classic response - “I’m trying to get some WORK done” – does not go over well because they cannot comprehend that you actually have to “work” at finding work. Hmmm. So I try to balance it all out. Typically Scot and I work out in the morning AFTER getting Louki on the bus to his morning summer program and after both of us squeeze some “work” in. By the time we return, charged up and clean, those kids are drooling for some ACTION, after their fourth or fifth breakfast-snack-lunch-breakfast-snack. I squeeze in a little more “work” and then often take them to the city pool, which loses its appeal within one hour or as soon as the six - or so - busloads of camp kids arrive, turning the place into an asylum with lifeguard whistles blaring, children running, screaming, shrieking, drowning, fighting for their lives in the deep end. Medusa sits in the shade, with perfect posture and an increasingly annoyed look on her face. The boys like to spend the whole time eating after one quick trip down the slide. But, remember, we are on the austerity plan and so I beg them not to beg me for food but often give in because of my failing parenting skills.
Then I return home for more “work-to-find-work”…if I can get OUT OF THE KITCHEN which is, more times than not, set with booby traps that capture and hold me hostage for hours at a time. The sink is one of those traps… I often don’t walk by it without staying for a full week. And then my children remind me that they have not actually eaten any food yet on that particular day (????) and so I prepare something…then clean up…they could clean up themselves – I know what you are thinking – but let’s be real. By this time, it is 3:oopm and time for me to do some “work” but my children are already eager to talk about what’s for dinner and don’t really want to hear me say that I am “working”…
Then there are the days like last Monday, when I hunker down with NO DISTRACTIONS because I am in a dead panic about being unemployed and I make it very clear that WE ARE NOT DOING ANYTHING TODAY…I am WORKING all day and that’s that!!!
And so on Monday I applied to several jobs and then signed up with yet another employment agency online. I probably have two thousand username / password combos for all the various ones I have signed with but this one TOOK THE CAKE. I spent much longer than I typically spend, creating my profile, answering a multitude of questions, uploading my resume and cover letter. This particular one seemed to be more focused, asking more relevant questions, offering more options for location preferences and lines of work, and it felt very worth my while. Literally three hours after I had started this search, I was ready to hit submit and get my first peek at the available jobs, hand picked for me. Yay!!
And this was the intro at the top of a list of job possiblities that were pooled just for me:
“… these are the best jobs which match your primary job category and the list of desired work locations in your Account Profile. They are ordered by Relevance (best match).”
All the jobs were in the Air Force. I get nervous just saying “Air Force”. I am terrified of my own shadow. I listed Advertising, Design, Writing…things like that, in my Profile. I also divulged that I am FEMALE and WHITE, which is optional information to reveal. So this and many of the hand-picked jobs they came back to me with said (at the very end of the job description) FOR MALES ONLY…hmmm. Makes me just kind of scratch that girly head of mine and ask “what part of GIRL, CREATIVE, etc. did you not get?” This was my favorite:
Job Description
COMBAT CONTROL APPRENTICE A Combat Controller is an air traffic controller in remote and sometimes hostile areas. He is a precision parachutist capable of penetrating hostile areas to perform his duties. He is skilled in water operations using both scuba and amphibious techniques, and he's been trained on motorcycles, snowmobiles, rappelling and fast-rope procedures, all as ways to get to work. The combat controller is an expert with maps and compasses, capable of overland travel in any environment. Survival training in various climates enables combat controllers to function under the most demanding conditions. As an air traffic controller, he establishes assault zones and directs aircraft within those zones. Combat control is a very physically, mentally and technically demanding job, one of the best and most prestigious the Air Force has to offer. The faster an Airman can run and swim, or the more repetitions he can do on each exercise, the better…
Needless to say, I applied immediately. I am particularly intrigued by the “fast-rope procedures” as a means of transportation…which could totally come in handy during summers in Madison when EVERY street in the city is under construction. And then “….capable of penetrating hostile areas to perform his duties…” caught my eye as well; this can’t be too far of a stretch from life in Corportate America, right?...nor all that different from certain days in a house full of teens and teen-wannabes, right? And since extreme fluctuations in temperature would NEVER affect my mood or stamina, I am IN!!!
Tuesday was a day off from searching for a job for me (and maybe simply because I sensed that I’d finally found my calling??)
Yesterday I found a smeared and tattered UPS envelope leaning against the front of our house so I brought it in and opened it, with Scot as my witness. CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR WIN, it said, and I almost threw it out because it looked like all that JUNK mail that we’re all drowning in. Scot took a few more minutes to read the pages and pages of stuff and we then realized that yep –indeedy! We have won a 3-night stay and airfare for 2 to this lovely place in Lourges, France…at a winery in the heart of Provence.
It all started with a “French Cocktail Party” that a friend of mine had invited me to. It was an online thing that was taking place at many locations across the country at the same time and anyone who participated had the opportunity to enter to win this trip; the password that I had initially chosen, just to RSVP to the party, alluded me at one point and I couldn’t get a confirmation that I had entered the trip contest, so I said…”stupid thing!” and told Scot that if he wanted to do it he could figure it out…which I guess he did. This is the first time I’ve ever won anything, although I have been purchasing Power Ball Lottery tickets sporadically since I lost my job…
So we are working out the details…how exciting is that??!!!! And then I’ll have to get my combat boots polished up and SWING into action as a FIGHTING MAN when I return!!
Another day in the life…
Ruby
Then I return home for more “work-to-find-work”…if I can get OUT OF THE KITCHEN which is, more times than not, set with booby traps that capture and hold me hostage for hours at a time. The sink is one of those traps… I often don’t walk by it without staying for a full week. And then my children remind me that they have not actually eaten any food yet on that particular day (????) and so I prepare something…then clean up…they could clean up themselves – I know what you are thinking – but let’s be real. By this time, it is 3:oopm and time for me to do some “work” but my children are already eager to talk about what’s for dinner and don’t really want to hear me say that I am “working”…
Then there are the days like last Monday, when I hunker down with NO DISTRACTIONS because I am in a dead panic about being unemployed and I make it very clear that WE ARE NOT DOING ANYTHING TODAY…I am WORKING all day and that’s that!!!
And so on Monday I applied to several jobs and then signed up with yet another employment agency online. I probably have two thousand username / password combos for all the various ones I have signed with but this one TOOK THE CAKE. I spent much longer than I typically spend, creating my profile, answering a multitude of questions, uploading my resume and cover letter. This particular one seemed to be more focused, asking more relevant questions, offering more options for location preferences and lines of work, and it felt very worth my while. Literally three hours after I had started this search, I was ready to hit submit and get my first peek at the available jobs, hand picked for me. Yay!!
And this was the intro at the top of a list of job possiblities that were pooled just for me:
“… these are the best jobs which match your primary job category and the list of desired work locations in your Account Profile. They are ordered by Relevance (best match).”
All the jobs were in the Air Force. I get nervous just saying “Air Force”. I am terrified of my own shadow. I listed Advertising, Design, Writing…things like that, in my Profile. I also divulged that I am FEMALE and WHITE, which is optional information to reveal. So this and many of the hand-picked jobs they came back to me with said (at the very end of the job description) FOR MALES ONLY…hmmm. Makes me just kind of scratch that girly head of mine and ask “what part of GIRL, CREATIVE, etc. did you not get?” This was my favorite:
Job DescriptionCOMBAT CONTROL APPRENTICE A Combat Controller is an air traffic controller in remote and sometimes hostile areas. He is a precision parachutist capable of penetrating hostile areas to perform his duties. He is skilled in water operations using both scuba and amphibious techniques, and he's been trained on motorcycles, snowmobiles, rappelling and fast-rope procedures, all as ways to get to work. The combat controller is an expert with maps and compasses, capable of overland travel in any environment. Survival training in various climates enables combat controllers to function under the most demanding conditions. As an air traffic controller, he establishes assault zones and directs aircraft within those zones. Combat control is a very physically, mentally and technically demanding job, one of the best and most prestigious the Air Force has to offer. The faster an Airman can run and swim, or the more repetitions he can do on each exercise, the better…
Needless to say, I applied immediately. I am particularly intrigued by the “fast-rope procedures” as a means of transportation…which could totally come in handy during summers in Madison when EVERY street in the city is under construction. And then “….capable of penetrating hostile areas to perform his duties…” caught my eye as well; this can’t be too far of a stretch from life in Corportate America, right?...nor all that different from certain days in a house full of teens and teen-wannabes, right? And since extreme fluctuations in temperature would NEVER affect my mood or stamina, I am IN!!!
Tuesday was a day off from searching for a job for me (and maybe simply because I sensed that I’d finally found my calling??)
Yesterday I found a smeared and tattered UPS envelope leaning against the front of our house so I brought it in and opened it, with Scot as my witness. CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR WIN, it said, and I almost threw it out because it looked like all that JUNK mail that we’re all drowning in. Scot took a few more minutes to read the pages and pages of stuff and we then realized that yep –indeedy! We have won a 3-night stay and airfare for 2 to this lovely place in Lourges, France…at a winery in the heart of Provence.
It all started with a “French Cocktail Party” that a friend of mine had invited me to. It was an online thing that was taking place at many locations across the country at the same time and anyone who participated had the opportunity to enter to win this trip; the password that I had initially chosen, just to RSVP to the party, alluded me at one point and I couldn’t get a confirmation that I had entered the trip contest, so I said…”stupid thing!” and told Scot that if he wanted to do it he could figure it out…which I guess he did. This is the first time I’ve ever won anything, although I have been purchasing Power Ball Lottery tickets sporadically since I lost my job…So we are working out the details…how exciting is that??!!!! And then I’ll have to get my combat boots polished up and SWING into action as a FIGHTING MAN when I return!!
Another day in the life…
Ruby
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Lex Lutheran (Patty)
I am throwing stones from a glass house a little, regarding the older kids in the household being in charge in the kitchen. Zeke is in this grueling summer program as you know, leaving the house by 8:30AM and returning around 10 or 11PM most nights. I have been basically packing food for him this entire summer. He'll say something like "Just put 2500 calories in a bag" which I hear as "Thank you for providing breakfast, lunch and dinner". Right when I thought my sandwich-making days were over...on any given day I might pack a muffin, a couple of sammys, 3 bananas, leftover pasta, a chocolate bar,cookies...he's eating me out of house and home! Could he make his own lunch? Of course, but I feel like we are getting through this architecture stuff together...just 2 more weeks!
There are 35,000 Lutheran teens in town doing various charitable works. They all have matching T-shirts, and it's quite funny to see a streetcar full of Lutherans go by, or a hotel lobby full of lime green shirted Lutherans, or just a pack of them coming down the sidewalk.
We have been The Poche Hotel recently. This week our visitors include John's childhood friend, Azby (great name!) who is visiting from Japan with his 14 year-old son, Max. Max is quite brooding, he has long, highlighted hair that completely covers his eyes...he occassionally takes a quick peak out into the world but then he goes right back behind his hair...Azby is a perfect guest; he teaches Architecture at the University of Kyoto and I have an Archie student in the house, so that's a great connection. He is also involved in translating movies into Japanese, and one day this week, John went with him to view The Impostor, a Ben Affleck movie that will be released in September. They got to see it in a private theatre located in a secret warehouse building, this is like summer camp for John and he will be sad when it ends. Last night, we had a dinner party (more like a barbeque technically...) for Azby's friends, who over the years, are becoming our friends, too. Madison and Zeke showed up towards the end of the evening, and after John and I went to bed, they stayed up another hour or two with the grown-ups. That was a first and another little step toward complete adulthood!
Inner beauty is overrated. Yeah, yeah, I know it's whats inside a person that counts, but a porcelain complexion certainly wouldn't hurt!! I pick BEAUTY!
Patty
There are 35,000 Lutheran teens in town doing various charitable works. They all have matching T-shirts, and it's quite funny to see a streetcar full of Lutherans go by, or a hotel lobby full of lime green shirted Lutherans, or just a pack of them coming down the sidewalk.
We have been The Poche Hotel recently. This week our visitors include John's childhood friend, Azby (great name!) who is visiting from Japan with his 14 year-old son, Max. Max is quite brooding, he has long, highlighted hair that completely covers his eyes...he occassionally takes a quick peak out into the world but then he goes right back behind his hair...Azby is a perfect guest; he teaches Architecture at the University of Kyoto and I have an Archie student in the house, so that's a great connection. He is also involved in translating movies into Japanese, and one day this week, John went with him to view The Impostor, a Ben Affleck movie that will be released in September. They got to see it in a private theatre located in a secret warehouse building, this is like summer camp for John and he will be sad when it ends. Last night, we had a dinner party (more like a barbeque technically...) for Azby's friends, who over the years, are becoming our friends, too. Madison and Zeke showed up towards the end of the evening, and after John and I went to bed, they stayed up another hour or two with the grown-ups. That was a first and another little step toward complete adulthood!
Inner beauty is overrated. Yeah, yeah, I know it's whats inside a person that counts, but a porcelain complexion certainly wouldn't hurt!! I pick BEAUTY!
Patty
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Skin Deep (Ruby)
I’d pick MONEY. And I think we know why; cute just isn’t that cuddly when you’re scraping by…
Besides, you know those women we’ve all seen who are technically unattractive but who make so much of their looks that, in a pulled together kind of way, they are just stunning? I don’t think you have to be “beautiful” to have a great look…I think of it as very European – the perfect haircut, stylish clothes, unique accessories, dynamic makeup, impenetrable confidence but with a face that would never be called “pretty” by any standards. There is this all-American look that’s cute in a predictable way – it was so apparent to me when I lived in London as a kid - the perfectly straightened teeth, blonde-ish hair, possibly dimples…and while it always looks good, like the Land's End line of clothing or a cute bunny rabbit does, there is something about “strategic” beauty that is more interesting BY FAR – to me – than “natural” beauty, in all its perfection...because it’s all about good design and drama, really. But no matter how you slice it, the age thing appearing on a face isn’t even about beautiful or not beautiful…it’s about “tired”…we were out last night with the kids at a funky restaurant and I was seated in an odd place where I would catch my reflection in an adjacent window all too often and my one thought was that suddenly my eyes look exhausted and my eyebrows appear to be on crooked…what’s up with that? Did I ever have balanced eyebrows? All the eyeliner in the world won’t poof me into some magically fresher time in my life, which is fine…you just have to laugh at it…and you have to get really good at smoothing a few lines on your face in photoshop if you’re in the mood for a good picture. Enough said : )
Inner beauty is a whole different topic…this has nothing to do with a face, tired eyes or great style, obviously, but something to do with being at peace vs. in pieces. Back to that another time.
And speaking a smidgeon more of looks, your comments about the folks who work in health food stores having a certain “look” reminded me that I’ve certainly thought about the fact that we’ve dubbed healthy eaters “health-food-NUTS” or “health-FREAKS” (I too have been called these approximately a million times); the naming alone implies a touch of craziness, something unleashed about any behavior that would make someone actually like Tofu…something that spills out beyond the norm when you choose sprouts over gristle. The act of making the planet a better place, from careful food choices to an earthy approach to hair-care, from the politics of freedom to the nurturing and perpetuating of all things local, the tie-dye joie de vivre is all about individual choices, and dreadlocks, body piercing and tattoos fit well within this niche of creative expression. 
I’m too much of a hybrid to pull off the health-food-store-hippy look myself; while I live fairly religiously on organic nuts and produce, fresh juices, and nothing that has a mother (cows, pigs, chickens, sheep, fish…you get the picture) I have never wanted to stop wearing leather (hats, boots, bags), or start wearing shoes that are higher in the front than the back for optimal spinal (or spiritual?) alignment, I don’t consistently shop with my own cloth bags, have no plans to give up my eyeliner and lipstick…and have actually found some PLASTIC toys throughout my years of childrearing that I believed to be superior to their wooden counterparts, I refuse to use a netty pot for my sinus annoyances and keep forgetting to compost. All this, I suspect, keeps me OUT-OF-THE-CLUB when it comes to being able to think of myself as pure enough to be called: earthy, tree-hugging (this would bug me, anyway), “green”, except when I am sick, although I think I do fine for someone who isn’t trying to be perfect at it…just haven’t gone down the path (yet) of twisting and back combing my tresses into dreads (although I was VERY close to a burning desire for white/bleached dreads in my 20’s but didn’t know where to start).
Your description, by the way, of the waitress being all “hummused up” is too dang funny…the next time I see you I’ll have to turn you on to Goji Berries (so you can say that you “did some Goji” or “got Goji’d up”)…these have been gaining in popularity over recent years but, between you and me, I have been eating these things for so long I’m pretty sure I invented them. I may have led you down the wrong path with the “Target Brand” yogurt; the Target’s store brand I was referring to is called “Archer Farms”. The graphics are very clean and they’re in many segments of the store, from soap to hot dogs…give it another try before we go blaming the sweet, limping city of New Orleans for not stocking those Target shelves competitively. Enjoy it if you can find it…or you could always buckle up your Birkenstocks and invest in a Yogurt Machine like the one I had years before I invented the Goji Berry : )
FYI (and keep in mind that if you find the price of OIKO yogurt off-putting, Goji Berries are the equivalent of buying chunks of GOLD at Health Food Stores – I once bought a 10oz bag for $15.00):
The goji berry, a sweet red fruit native to Asia, serves as both a botanical medicine and a food, and has a very pleasant taste - somewhere between a cherry and a cranberry. It has been used as a medicinal food for thousands of years, and has been studied extensively in modern times to substantiate its health benefits. With over 15% protein, 21 essential minerals, and 18 amino acids, as well as lycium barbarum polysaccharides (LBP), goji berry is a nutrient-dense superfood in a class all its own.
Here are just a few of the many benefits you get from eating goji berries:
Strengthens the immune system
Provides antioxidant and anti-aging effects
Protects the liver
Builds strong blood and promotes cardiovascular health
Supports eye health and improves vision
And finally – I will add that I made no new friends as a result of my Goji habits but I fully enjoyed that 10oz bag. Very empowering if you enjoy a tough chew! Chomp…chomp!
Ruby
Besides, you know those women we’ve all seen who are technically unattractive but who make so much of their looks that, in a pulled together kind of way, they are just stunning? I don’t think you have to be “beautiful” to have a great look…I think of it as very European – the perfect haircut, stylish clothes, unique accessories, dynamic makeup, impenetrable confidence but with a face that would never be called “pretty” by any standards. There is this all-American look that’s cute in a predictable way – it was so apparent to me when I lived in London as a kid - the perfectly straightened teeth, blonde-ish hair, possibly dimples…and while it always looks good, like the Land's End line of clothing or a cute bunny rabbit does, there is something about “strategic” beauty that is more interesting BY FAR – to me – than “natural” beauty, in all its perfection...because it’s all about good design and drama, really. But no matter how you slice it, the age thing appearing on a face isn’t even about beautiful or not beautiful…it’s about “tired”…we were out last night with the kids at a funky restaurant and I was seated in an odd place where I would catch my reflection in an adjacent window all too often and my one thought was that suddenly my eyes look exhausted and my eyebrows appear to be on crooked…what’s up with that? Did I ever have balanced eyebrows? All the eyeliner in the world won’t poof me into some magically fresher time in my life, which is fine…you just have to laugh at it…and you have to get really good at smoothing a few lines on your face in photoshop if you’re in the mood for a good picture. Enough said : )
Inner beauty is a whole different topic…this has nothing to do with a face, tired eyes or great style, obviously, but something to do with being at peace vs. in pieces. Back to that another time.
And speaking a smidgeon more of looks, your comments about the folks who work in health food stores having a certain “look” reminded me that I’ve certainly thought about the fact that we’ve dubbed healthy eaters “health-food-NUTS” or “health-FREAKS” (I too have been called these approximately a million times); the naming alone implies a touch of craziness, something unleashed about any behavior that would make someone actually like Tofu…something that spills out beyond the norm when you choose sprouts over gristle. The act of making the planet a better place, from careful food choices to an earthy approach to hair-care, from the politics of freedom to the nurturing and perpetuating of all things local, the tie-dye joie de vivre is all about individual choices, and dreadlocks, body piercing and tattoos fit well within this niche of creative expression. 
I’m too much of a hybrid to pull off the health-food-store-hippy look myself; while I live fairly religiously on organic nuts and produce, fresh juices, and nothing that has a mother (cows, pigs, chickens, sheep, fish…you get the picture) I have never wanted to stop wearing leather (hats, boots, bags), or start wearing shoes that are higher in the front than the back for optimal spinal (or spiritual?) alignment, I don’t consistently shop with my own cloth bags, have no plans to give up my eyeliner and lipstick…and have actually found some PLASTIC toys throughout my years of childrearing that I believed to be superior to their wooden counterparts, I refuse to use a netty pot for my sinus annoyances and keep forgetting to compost. All this, I suspect, keeps me OUT-OF-THE-CLUB when it comes to being able to think of myself as pure enough to be called: earthy, tree-hugging (this would bug me, anyway), “green”, except when I am sick, although I think I do fine for someone who isn’t trying to be perfect at it…just haven’t gone down the path (yet) of twisting and back combing my tresses into dreads (although I was VERY close to a burning desire for white/bleached dreads in my 20’s but didn’t know where to start). 
Your description, by the way, of the waitress being all “hummused up” is too dang funny…the next time I see you I’ll have to turn you on to Goji Berries (so you can say that you “did some Goji” or “got Goji’d up”)…these have been gaining in popularity over recent years but, between you and me, I have been eating these things for so long I’m pretty sure I invented them. I may have led you down the wrong path with the “Target Brand” yogurt; the Target’s store brand I was referring to is called “Archer Farms”. The graphics are very clean and they’re in many segments of the store, from soap to hot dogs…give it another try before we go blaming the sweet, limping city of New Orleans for not stocking those Target shelves competitively. Enjoy it if you can find it…or you could always buckle up your Birkenstocks and invest in a Yogurt Machine like the one I had years before I invented the Goji Berry : )FYI (and keep in mind that if you find the price of OIKO yogurt off-putting, Goji Berries are the equivalent of buying chunks of GOLD at Health Food Stores – I once bought a 10oz bag for $15.00):
The goji berry, a sweet red fruit native to Asia, serves as both a botanical medicine and a food, and has a very pleasant taste - somewhere between a cherry and a cranberry. It has been used as a medicinal food for thousands of years, and has been studied extensively in modern times to substantiate its health benefits. With over 15% protein, 21 essential minerals, and 18 amino acids, as well as lycium barbarum polysaccharides (LBP), goji berry is a nutrient-dense superfood in a class all its own.
Here are just a few of the many benefits you get from eating goji berries:
Strengthens the immune system
Provides antioxidant and anti-aging effects
Protects the liver
Builds strong blood and promotes cardiovascular health
Supports eye health and improves vision
And finally – I will add that I made no new friends as a result of my Goji habits but I fully enjoyed that 10oz bag. Very empowering if you enjoy a tough chew! Chomp…chomp!
Ruby
Monday, July 20, 2009
Hitting the target (Patty)
It is not my place to judge, but (do you sense judgement’s arrival?)....it is not OK for a 20 year old man to leave butter and cheese and things strewn about, you need to walk in to wherever he is sleeping and have him get up and clean up. That’s the only way the behavior will change. It can be different with a husband, a lot of times it’s a marital agreement: if he keeps the roof overhead or provides other services like home repair or child-rearing, it’s more than fair for the wife to do the cooking and cleaning. It’s also different with a 9-year-old child; if they “bake cookies”, you have just signed up to bake cookies, too! But by the time they are 20, the rules need to change!
I went to Target specifically to check out the yogurt that you had so strongly recommended, but our Target doesn’t carry it’s own brand of yogurt…boo hoo! There is America, and then there is New Orleans. By U.S. standards, this city should not even exist, not much of a “bigger is better!’ attitude, no real emphasis on monetary success, often stores are simply “Closed Today” or “Closed for Amy’s graduation” and you just get used to it. It is quite possible that all Targets nationwide carry Target brand. But our Target simply does not…whatever! My favorite brand is Oiko from Whole Foods, but it’s double the price of regular yogurt…
Speaking of healthy food, it’s so weird the way employees of health food stores always fulfill the stereotype: tattooed, facial jewelry, nose rings, tie-dye, etc. I don’t understand why all kinds of people aren’t drawn to a vegetarian lifestyle. Why doesn’t anyone preppie or conservative ever seem to work there? Anything you read supports the idea of better quality of life through plant-based meals, beans, soy, I’m not telling you things you don’t already know… There is one vegetarian restaurant in New Orleans, and they are so hippy-dippy, that I can’t go there much. If all 5 of us go, one of the meals just doesn’t show up at all and the server, who is always cute and petite, is just too hummused up to refill the water glasses and the experience is awful, but you can’t even get mad at the waitress because she’s so sweet, like “Sorry about that other meal! We are NOT even going to THINK about charging you for that!” Why can’t vegetarians be restaurateurs? Why can’t restaurateurs be vegetarians? Life’s unanswerable conundrums.
Of course, Medusa is gorgeous, it’s in the genes! Who has it better, you or me? (How many question marks can I put in one blog?) Whether you admit it or not, you must know deep in your heart that you were overserved in the beauty department. I feel that I was overserved in the money department. If you put 100 women in a room and made them choose between way above average on beauty for life OR way above average financially for life, one or the other, black or white answer, gun to your head, you have to pick one…what do you think the results would be?
I think a lot of the women would be shot; they would insist on discussing the grey area!
But seriously, I really am getting scary-looking, I probably need to move under a bridge soon, but I’ll bring my laptop with me for sure, so I can stay in touch.
Patty
I went to Target specifically to check out the yogurt that you had so strongly recommended, but our Target doesn’t carry it’s own brand of yogurt…boo hoo! There is America, and then there is New Orleans. By U.S. standards, this city should not even exist, not much of a “bigger is better!’ attitude, no real emphasis on monetary success, often stores are simply “Closed Today” or “Closed for Amy’s graduation” and you just get used to it. It is quite possible that all Targets nationwide carry Target brand. But our Target simply does not…whatever! My favorite brand is Oiko from Whole Foods, but it’s double the price of regular yogurt…
Speaking of healthy food, it’s so weird the way employees of health food stores always fulfill the stereotype: tattooed, facial jewelry, nose rings, tie-dye, etc. I don’t understand why all kinds of people aren’t drawn to a vegetarian lifestyle. Why doesn’t anyone preppie or conservative ever seem to work there? Anything you read supports the idea of better quality of life through plant-based meals, beans, soy, I’m not telling you things you don’t already know… There is one vegetarian restaurant in New Orleans, and they are so hippy-dippy, that I can’t go there much. If all 5 of us go, one of the meals just doesn’t show up at all and the server, who is always cute and petite, is just too hummused up to refill the water glasses and the experience is awful, but you can’t even get mad at the waitress because she’s so sweet, like “Sorry about that other meal! We are NOT even going to THINK about charging you for that!” Why can’t vegetarians be restaurateurs? Why can’t restaurateurs be vegetarians? Life’s unanswerable conundrums.
Of course, Medusa is gorgeous, it’s in the genes! Who has it better, you or me? (How many question marks can I put in one blog?) Whether you admit it or not, you must know deep in your heart that you were overserved in the beauty department. I feel that I was overserved in the money department. If you put 100 women in a room and made them choose between way above average on beauty for life OR way above average financially for life, one or the other, black or white answer, gun to your head, you have to pick one…what do you think the results would be?
I think a lot of the women would be shot; they would insist on discussing the grey area!
But seriously, I really am getting scary-looking, I probably need to move under a bridge soon, but I’ll bring my laptop with me for sure, so I can stay in touch.
Patty
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Life in America: donettes, sore fannies & Pink Flamingos (Ruby)
Here’s my first scary thought of the day, completely random, just drifting through my head as I tidy up (attack) the endless pieces of the midnight-snacking puzzle that my hungry-at-strange-hours 20 year old has left for me to deal with as I enter the early morning kitchen…with eager fantasies of peace and solitude (open bread bag on counter, mayonnaise left out, 2 bags of Hostess Mini donettes tumbled on their sides and left open in the closet where I hid them so they would be here for the other children’s breakfast today, the zip-lock feature of the baggie of ham broken so that it no longer closes – but miraculously in the fridge vs. out on the counter, cheese out of the cheese drawer, all the cupboards in the kitchen left in various states of “open”, a knife left in the butter, crumbs on the floor that were not there when I went to bed, etc.)…yep, here’s my scary thought: I will never have a job again because I cannot break free from the constant onslaught of assignments in my kitchen, my personal straight-jacket. I think I stood at that sink for four straight hours yesterday. I got up at 6:00am this morning to write and am finally sitting down almost 2 hours later, after an over dose of speed-laundry-dog-duty-kitchen-patrol.Then I get my footing again as the scary thought passes; ahhhh, my first sip of coffee is delicious, pleasing…and at this particular moment, no one else is up. Triumph. I have nothing to complain about…I may even find a job someday. Directly to my right are the 2 recovered bags of donettes that I have placed on the counter; one bag is chocolate frosted, the other is powdered sugar and there should still be enough for the ravenous ones who will scurry in like desperate looters trying to score in their own kitchen …any minute now.
And like I just said, nothing to complain about, really...except that I can relate all too well to your comments about having a sore butt. For years now I have wanted to get us all to fess up about the fact that nothing hurts like a woman’s fanny. I remember being at focus groups a handful of years ago with a group of women I worked with, no men. We’d had time to get a little shopping in before the groups started on the second day and when I wandered into a fabulous store with every imaginable massage item, I could not pass up the “Thumper”, a small-but serious thumping and vibrating gizmo for my sore back, neck and butt. It turns out we were all so damn sore already from one full day of sitting and observing consumers (and life in general) that not one more minute went by when one of us wasn’t thumping ourselves or each other in the back room and I’d be naïve to think that this doesn’t sound a little lewd, but rest assured, this was simple, innocent, pain management. And this is when I heard the confession for the first time: every one of us had a seriously sore butt…admitting that we’d often ask our husbands for “backrubs” but what we really wanted was for someone to squeeze all that pain out of our frikkin’ fannies; I don’t know what to make of this, I have no idea why we have such tender tushies but it’s the facts-Jack!! I lied, there was ONE MAN in the room with us – the guy who was running the video streaming of the groups for the folks who could not attend and he was a silent, almost invisible presence…until one faint snicker came out of him and he divulged, without looking any one of us in the eyes, that he had to rub his wife’s sore butt all the time….before returning to his invisible man status again. So before I got up this morning to write - I mean, clean the kitchen – I was lying in bed, so sore, thinking of you and your sore fanny (the word fanny makes me laugh, so I am going to just repeat it until I get it out of my system) and then I just HAD to get up to get a hot water bottle against my lower back, aka – “FANNY”, which I have finally just done, as I have my 2nd (Yay!!!) cup of coffee. So maybe the pain comes from the whole birthing thing, who knows…but I will say one thing here with certainty: IT IS NOT FROM SITTING ON OUR BUTTS in a lazy way, God NO…I wanted to share more “observations from nature / the outside world according to Ruby”, with you this morning, after our first camping trip ever as a family…I will try to keep this brief (HA!) …
Let’s just say that I should have read the many helpful hints at campingearth.com BEFORE we went camping because I would have read this nifty tidbit of info and avoided one of my panic attacks on Tuesday night: “Raccoons are even more crafty and often develop sophisticated ways to beg or find their ways into your food. They can open coolers and get into protected areas…”.
The storm was approaching, the wind had picked up dramatically, which was enough to ruffle my feathers…but hearing that damn raccoon in the vicinity of the cooler which we had left next to the firepit – despite concerned suggestions from our daughter, ‘Medusa’, to put it in the car – was alarming. When I aimed my flashlight out of the tent into the black night, I saw that animal poised over the cooler like a guy grabbing a beer at a tailgate party. Scot hissed and banged at the side of the tent to “scare” him away but that raccoon looked back at us with so much attitude, like…”excuse me, I see your lips moving but I don’t believe I hear you SAYING ANYTHING…” (not unlike the warm response I get from my kids these days). Because the storm suddenly picked up and there was torrential rain for the remainder of the night, Rocky only stayed engaged long enough to help himself to my Peach flavored Greek yogurt and an omelet morsel that Scot had saved. The storm scared me silly and this was just one more validation that there is not enough Valium in the world when it comes to my personal nervous system. I left Scot to die in our 'parents-only' tent since he was unmoved by my second source of panic that night, and went to hunker down in the car…where my boys joined me from the kid-tent. Medusa was quite impressive on this trip; not only did she not wear a hint of makeup, she also wore old and almost camp-appropriate attire, let her hair dry naturally and used her time well…never complaining about being bored. She came to the car eventually but declared, in her characteristic deadpan style: “…only because I didn’t feel like being in the tent alone…not because of the STUPID storm…” (sidenote: she is so gorgeous right now that there is nothing she can do to ugly it up, not camping, not nothin’…but I caution myself as I am almost drawn and compelled to look at her sometimes…to AVOID AT ALL COSTS making eye contact…you know…the whole turn-you-to-stone-thing…one cannot be too careful).
Oh, I forgot to mention the hiking extravaganza…I am not a hiker…even my “hiking boots” have a 2 or 3 inch heel…although chunky vs. stiletto, to my credit. I have the startle reflex of an infant and loathe a bird’s eye view of anything…even standing on a step-stool in my kitchen leaves me jittery…so let’s just say that the climb DOWN on that slippery (yet beautifully purple-hued), DIZZYINGLY STEEP rock-cliff-thing was a very hard pill to swallow. I came down the majority of it on my famously sore FANNY, slowly, methodically, with a terrorized look in my eyes.All in all, we loved the trip; it was cozy and refreshing in spite of my panic attacks, and my fire-roasted root vegetables were so undeniably yummy I could have just yelped with pleasure with each bite. Unlike Medusa, I maintained my lipstick and eyeliner routine the whole time and we had enough hand sanitizer to sink a ship; note to self: next time - more fire wood, more warm clothes and blankets, more wine, more meal-planning, possibly less hand sanitizer. I couldn’t look at Ollie without wincing after the first couple of hours; he looked like one of the Lord-of-the-Flies boys…really wild, really dirty, caked in remnants of food and a layer of stickiness…I stopped offering hand sanitizer after I realized it doesn’t work on some people. He and Bowie were business-as-usual as they measured the value of every moment of their day according to how soon they’d be allowed to have to have their next treat from the concession area by the little beach. Favorite items: Snickers Ice Cream Bars, hot pretzels and the usual lure-of-all-lures, SODA…what would any camping trip be without some partially-hydrogentated creature comforts?
For Scot, it was all about his very cute Oberon Pony Keg from Barriques : ) and I had my wine.
And my final observation: there are campers who are so at home in their spot in the woods that they actually decorate. I aspire to be this evolved one day. My favorite was the site right next to the bathrooms. It had electricity, unlike our site, and it was adorned with strings of lights that gave it holiday appeal. There were a couple pop-up campers and tents strewn around the site and the pièce de résistance: an American Flag and 2 Pink Flamingos at its entrance. I wanted to take a picture but didn’t want to act like a tourist in the woods.
Gotta go work out…see if I can get the blood to flow to the vicinity of my fanny today.
Ruby
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