Try Walking in My Shoes – Why Don’t You?

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As I said last Monday – I will not be all shmoopy and serious about my topic for this Monday’s post. In fact – I probably never will be again since I’ve decided to call it “Materialistic Monday” and devote my subject matter to the stuff that I like, but don’t really need. [Gwen – I know you are thinking, “What is this ‘Materialistic Monday’ BS? My suggestions were so much better!’ And you are right. They were – but they were in fact just a little too clever – and in effect seemed to promise a bit more than I think I can deliver. I mean – seriously, look at what I’m writing about today…]

Today – I want to tell you how much I love my shoes (remember – I said I would talk about my shoes). Now DON’T go anywhere! I know this sounds kind of boring – but I promise it won’t be. And there will be nudity. Okay – that’s not true…and I’ve used that trick already, so I doubt anyone will fall for it again.

The only nudity involved is a pictorial of sandals and therefore exposed toes. So I guess if you are one of those creepy foot fetish people, this might be considered nudity. But for the rest of you that have no interest in shoes (like every man in my family), I will understand if you decide to pass on this one. Everyone else – glad that you decided to stick with me (except for you foot fetish people – I’m just tolerating you.)

I do not own 150 pairs of shoes and the ones I do own are not necessarily what many would consider expensive (meaning I do not own one pair of Manolos, Jimmy Choos or Louboutins). But I take my footwear choices pretty seriously. I think that I’ve made some very good investments over the years and I am willing to pay for something that I think will last far longer than a single season.

I buy my shoes in various boutiques and department stores, but the brand that never ceases to surprise me is Ann Taylor. Growing up in conservative DC, Ann Taylor has always been a bit of a go to for me. I know what I’m going to get there, and I can usually find what I need. Not that it’s the only place I shop – but it’s a great resource for basics and they always have some kind of sale going on. I rarely go in looking for accessories – but inevitably the shoe section catches my eye. I have made some of my best shoe investments there.

Here are a few shots of some sandals I own that are SEVEN YEARS OLD:

Now – I don’t know about you – but I think that’s a pretty long life span for shoes that get a lot of wear and tear. I break these babies out the minute temperatures rise to 60+ degrees and continue to wear them through Indian Summer.

[An aside: Those are actually my feet and I took all three pictures this morning at work. Two things should be noted: 1. It is really hard to take pictures of your own feet and 2. I wanted to mention that I was at work so that no one would think that I have industrial carpet or “bone” white paint in my home.]

I bought these sandals from Ann Taylor as part of a bridesmaid outfit for an afternoon wedding in October 2001. Some of the other bridesmaids opted for a less expensive version at another store – but I saw the potential in the slightly pricier pair… And how right I was.

I don’t know what it is about the style – but it has of yet to look outdated. Maybe it’s a lack of full commitment to style (strappy but not too strappy…high heel but not stiletto…). Either way – it works for me. They are in great condition and I think I’ll be wearing them for another seven years. Of course I recognize the fact that we ALWAYS think that we own something so great and basic that will last forever and never go out of style until one day we look in the mirror and say, “Oh my god – I’m wearing a tapestry vest!” But I think I’ve got a few years before I look at these shoes and think they’ve become mules overnight.

I have numerous other Ann Taylor shoes and boots. All of which have lasted for years AND have been incredibly comfortable (never to be taken off under the desk where no one can see). I felt a tribute was in order for my first materialistic post. For those of you who are still with me – thank you for sitting through the longest blog post about mid-price range shoes EVER.

As a disclaimer – I have to admit that the current collection doesn’t really grab me. But I never tire of animal prints, and I do think I could wear those Cinara Giraffe Flats with jeans all weekend long. I’ll have to keep an eye on them to see if they go on sale…

As the Crow Flies Around in Circles

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For this week’s Friday Confession, I’m admitting to a trait often attributed to women. I have no sense of direction.

Some people picture driving directions as an aerial view or a map. They see a line snaking from point A to point B. I on the other hand stand firmly at point A, seeing only as far as the first fork in the road. And I only know what to do next once I get to that fork. I’ve recently discovered that half of the routes that I use for driving through DC are completely inefficient. They meander around obvious cut-throughs and are often selected for their scenic views rather than actual convenience.

This suited me when I was a teenager with all the time in the world to get from point A to point B. Even on a school day, a late pass was always available. And missing homeroom wasn’t a major loss since I had little interest in student council announcements and morning prayers. So my guess is that my formative years as a new driver greatly contributed to this deficiency.

As a result, I never really got the hang of being able to identify the direction of anything “as the crow flies.” If I’m asked to point toward the nearby Starbucks from my front steps, I will most likely point to the road that takes me out of my immediate neighborhood. Meanwhile, that Starbucks may be in a neighborhood directly behind me. And it should come as no surprise that I’m incapable of locating the direction of North or South.

This can pose a bit of a problem for me when I emerge from a Metro station downtown. I don’t usually drive into the city since parking is often hard to find and the parking lots are outrageously expensive. If I’m going somewhere new, I’m usually faced with the dilemma of which direction to take once I am above ground. More often than not, I will take the wrong one and only realize my error once I’m a full city block away, and can see that the numbers or letters of the street signs are going down as opposed to up.

At that point, all you can really do is turn around and walk back in the correct direction. BUT having grown up in the city, I have a horror of looking like I don’t know where I’m going. That is like an invitation to the creepy guy on the corner to steal my purse or stick his hand up my skirt (both of which have happened to me before). So instead of taking the logical time saving approach, I usually keep going as if this was what I had planned all along, and either cross the street before turning back or just walk around the block.

And if I’m really lost and find that I have to turn around AGAIN (which has also happened to me before….many times), I may end up adding an extra mile of walking to my trip. I don’t know if I’ll ever shake this habit. Even if I found myself in a Maybury-like small town holding a giant aerosol can labeled “mace” in front of me, I’d still worry about appearing vulnerable to predators. No – I’d prefer to appear deranged rather than confused.

So if I’m ever running late for a meeting or lunch date with you – don’t worry. I didn’t forget. I wasn’t in an accident. I didn’t confuse the time or place. I’m probably just taking the scenic route or charging purposefully around in circles.

Like Cats and Dogs

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NOTE: This post has been edited to exclude a paragraph (and one last sentence) that were pointed out as unnecessarily harsh by a respected friend. I don’t want to have a mean spirited blog – so if you are wondering why I made some cuts…well, that’s why. This post is now less funny – but it’s also less cruel. A good trade off as far as I’m concerned.

For the past week, we’ve had an unofficial pet cat squatting on our front lawn. Actually – in all fairness, it is a pet we share with our next door neighbors since he spends half of his time on their lawn (and they put out the food and water).

We have no idea where this cat came from, but have heard that he’s been around the neighborhood for a while now. He was definitely someone’s pet. He loves people too much to be feral. Whenever I walk out the door, there he is rolling onto his back as if to say, “pet me please! I need love!”

He has also gotten into the house – much to my children’s delight. Since I was late for work and trying to get the kids out the door and into the car (it’s like herding cats, I tell you!), I was not delighted. But it does break my heart to leave him outside. The truth is, we just can’t take on a pet right now. More importantly, we can never have a cat because both my mother and brother are hideously allergic.

So far – this post has been pretty boring. Especially for people that don’t like cats. But the reason I bring up Arthur (one of the neighbors he used to stalk named him Arthur) is that he’s like the poster child for why people who love cats….well, love cats. He is the antithesis of everything cat haters claim to be their bad qualities. He’s lovable, he’s friendly, he follows you around, he appears in the window at night mouthing “let me in” and scares the bejeezus out of you (okay – that’s not exactly a good thing, but it does discount the idea that cats could care less about people…or maybe they just want to be inside…okay – strike that third one).

Arthur reminds me that if I didn’t have relatives with allergies (and if I was a bit more handy with the vacuum), I would probably be a cat person. I’m like a cat myself. I am independent, I like to be clean, I don’t barrel into a room demanding attention, I prefer to let people come to me, I like to be warm, I don’t like to be wet and I demand to be taken seriously. If I don’t like my situation, I retreat – but if you attack me, I am well able to defend myself.

My husband on the other hand, is a dog person. And what a surprise – his personality better reflects the qualities of dogs. He is incredibly social and requires little time by himself. He’s also a bit of a ham and likes nothing more than to be the center of attention. He has no problem laughing at himself. He is a swimmer (cats are not known for a love of water) and likes to run and fetch things (okay – that last one is not true, but he is awfully good about bringing me glasses of water at night). If he senses danger, he will come out swinging. He doesn’t let anyone push him around but is very cognizant of who holds the title of alpha male (but then again, don’t all men?).

So why do we get along so well? We don’t. Or more accurately, we have had to learn to understand and respect each other. And I think we’ve done a pretty good job of it. I know when he really needs my attention and he knows when I prefer to be left alone. And I think that we’ve helped each other grow up and get over ourselves a bit. I’ve made him lighten up with the alpha male stuff – and he has encouraged me to stop taking myself so seriously.

So big happy family of cats and dogs right? Not really what I had initially planned on writing. What I was really thinking about was how people tend to like one animal more than the other, and often have heated debates over which pet is better. This was actually the subject of this week’s All Mediocre “Topic Tuesday” (every Tuesday a topic is up for discussion – one that is not particularly serious, one that might actually be considered “mediocre” in relevance). And as usual – I can see both sides.

There is no question about it. Cat people can be pretty weird. But the cool ones will readily admit it. I was recently laughing with an old friend about how one day in eighth grade I found a stack of polaroids on her desk that featured all of her cats in different positions and locations in the house. When I asked her about them, she started shuffling through and saying, “look at this one of Gatsby – he’s such a clown…and then look at Fluffy’s expression in this one. She’s such a snob.” Meanwhile, all I was seeing was a cat on a chair, a cat on a porch, a cat on a counter… Of course the fact that she is able to see the humor in this, makes it much less weird. Sort of… And for the record, she’d totally agree with me.

The really bizarre cat people don’t have a sense of humor about themselves give a bad name to the others. And as a result, smug dog lovers feel justified in cultivating a healthy disdain of their feline loving nemeses. They sneer at the idea that a cat can provide as much love and affection as a dog. And I must admit, they make some valid points. I mean cats DO tend to be very independent and they can be shy with new people when a dog would be leaping all over the visitor, pleading for attention. But the dog lovers lose me when they start talking about how cats are “mean.” Everyone has heard at least one ardent cat hater insist that cats are “sneaky” and “selfish” and “mean.” These are all very human traits and really don’t apply to the animal kingdom, making for a somewhat ridiculous argument. And let’s be honest – at the end of the day, you never hear a news report about someone being viciously attacked by cats.

Another strike against dogs is the whole picking up dog poo thing. I can’t think of anything that I’d rather do less. Four years of changing diapers will be enough poop for me thank you very much. And ironically enough, many dog owners who chose not to have children will often make comments about the horrors of diaper changing. But they have no problem going for a three mile walk with their dog, carrying a bag full of poop. I may change a lot of diapers – but I don’t throw all of the poop in a plastic bag and carry it around the neighborhood.

Why do I always end up talking about poop? And how did I manage to write such a long post about cats and dogs and not even have a point? Let’s see if I can reel this in.

Everyone is different, and as a result we’ll all have varied preferences including the pet that suits us best. And some even like both – or neither. But there is no reason to be nasty about it. Arthur (who is unnervingly absent from our front lawn at the moment – making me wonder if he’s hiding somewhere in the house) is a great cat. Even my dog lover husband says so. So how can you say that cats are “mean?” Maybe we spend too much time making blanket statements and not taking these animals on a case by case basis. Maybe we also do this with each other far more than necessary. MAYBE instead of fighting like cats and dogs (there’s the tie in!), we should just respect each other for our differences and get over it already. We all have flaws – but we also have our good points.

Why I Worry About My Son

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I need to stop telling people that my three year old is potty trained. Because without fail, he will have an accident within an hour of my boast. He doesn’t even have to be present to hear me say it. He just knows. And then he has to show me how very wrong I am. As a result – I have a hard time trusting him when he tells me that he doesn’t have to “go pee pee.” I have to actually check to see if he’s wet. So in effect, I’m constantly grabbing his crotch. Obviously I have my reasons (to check for pee pee), but I can’t imagine what sort of message this is sending him. I have to try to back off a little since I worry that it may have long term effects on his personality. He could grow up to be an incredibly skittish person…or just have no sense of boundaries.

I also wonder if it’s normal for him to like being naked so much. He’s always stripping down when we’re at home (but not out in public thank god), and I’m lucky if I can get him to keep his underwear on. I really hope that grows out of this. I don’t want him to be “the naked guy” when he’s in college. You know that guy – he can be out at a bar, at a party, just hanging out at his apartment – and somehow by the end of the night, he’s naked. And of course, it’s really funny at the time, “hey – look Oliver’s naked again…Oh don’t mind him, that’s just Oliver. He’s always naked…” Or even better – he’ll be thirty years old, and at a party, and out of nowhere he’ll whip off his clothes and try to get everyone to go streaking with him. And he’ll interrupt Snoop Dog’s performance to announce that everyone is going streaking and to follow him. And then his wife will pull up next to him in her SUV and demand to know why he’s running around in nothing but his sneakers. And he’ll realize that he’s the only one streaking, and get into the car. And then he’ll embarrass his wife by mooning her friends and asking if she thinks KFC is still open. I just don’t see any good coming of this…

And in addition to being naked all the time, he is very handsy. You are probably thinking that he gets this from me with all of my crotch grabbing – but that’s not what I mean. He literally cannot keep his hands to himself. Or his feet. If he is sitting on the floor and you are walking by, you can pretty much guarantee that he is going to try to attach himself to your leg – like a husky baby octopus. I’ve already mentioned that he is freakishly strong. This means that when he does decide to wrestle with you, it’s next to impossible to shake him off. I don’t know how many times I’ve crouched down to pick something up off the floor, only to find that I can’t get back up with the weight of a 50 lb. three year old clinging to my back. I can try to lean from side to side in hopes that he’ll lose his hold – but he’s tenacious. For the most part, all I can do is use all of my strength to stand up so that I can use my arms to peel him off. Of course now his brother and sister have gotten into the act, so I’m usually trying to stand up with Oliver on my back and George and Eleanor on either arm. So I now have to execute this feat supporting approximately 100 lbs. of child. It’s very challenging, and I often think we must look like some bizarre Cirque de Soleil performance.

But I suppose some of his “quirks” could be useful later in life. Maybe his lack of inhibitions will translate into a healthy self confidence. At the very least, “naked guy” was always pretty popular. And physical contact is a good thing! We should feel comfortable with giving and receiving physical affection (even if it’s in a Lenny from Of Mice and Men kind of way…). Nakedness and affection are both perfectly normal, natural things – that I hope to god he never decides to combine while in polite company. Especially not if he has to go pee pee.

Go Ahead and Skim to the Bottom if You’re Looking for a Point to This

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I got a little caught up in life over the weekend and didn’t end up writing a post for today. Since my day job is a complete time suck and then I have this whole family life thing to prioritize (sigh), finding time to keep my blog updated is not always easy. Especially since I tend to write novels for posts. Do any of my loyal commenters actually read them – or is everyone just skimming…? Don’t answer – I probably don’t want to know.

The Friday confession thing has been convenient in that I generally have an idea of what I want to write by Thursday. So I think I’m going to bookend the week with a Monday feature as well. One that HAS to be somewhat short.

Every once in a while I see something that I really like and think, “hey I should blog about that.” But then I feel silly because I’m not a parenting advice blog (unless you’re taking a “what not to do” perspective of course), and I’m not a fashion or design blog (wearing the same five work outfits every week and decorating with hand me downs from the parents does not an expert make). No – I think that many of the blogs that I read (see my sidebar) have most of that covered.

I’ve decided that my Monday posts will now be devoted to “stuff I like.” This is wonderfully vague and can cover anything from my new shoes to an artist I found on Etsy. I probably won’t do much in the way of baby products since my mission in life is to have as few pieces of plastic in the house as possible. And those wood toys are so expensive! My children play with spatulas and the TV – and I don’t think there is much readership potential for those reviews…

So my inaugural Monday’s Stuff post (still working on that title – let me know if you have better suggestions – maybe I’ll give a prize for the one I use…) will be about something that I’ve been thinking about all week.

For those of you who decided to skim – here is the short version of the past several paragraphs: I didn’t get around to writing anything for today until now – and from now on I’m devoting my Monday post to “stuff I like.” Oh – and I may or may not give a prize to whomever renames my “Monday’s Stuff” title. Since it currently sucks – a prize is looking pretty likely.

So today? I like the community aspect of blogging. I really enjoyed the whole Nie Nie silent auction effort. I brought in over $500 in donations and actually won a lovely necklace. This is what first got me thinking about community and how it may be the foundation for why we are here. Why we’re both writing and reading what others have to say. In addition to all of the fame and money of course.

Seriously though, the fact that this diverse community pulled together to raise over $100,000 in one week for a family most did not personally know is pretty inspirational. I was honored to be a small part of that. [As a side note – you can find information on ongoing auctions etc. on the “benefit blog” page of the Nie Recovery site – AND I know that if you make a donation and e-mail your receipt to Emily of Acte Gratuit, she will mail you “Japanese treat” – from Japan, I mean.”]

Since the auctions took place, I’ve been more mindful of the general blog community support that I continue to observe. From something big like the Nie Nie fundraiser, to something small like prayers, positive thoughts, voodoo, etc. for individuals going through hard times. There are all of these virtual shoulders being offered out there – and I can’t imagine that any of it has gone unappreciated.

Just today, Neil from Citizen of the Month noted that he appreciated the condolences he received regarding a death in his family and proposed yet another community building idea:

Here’s my idea. Tell me if you think this could work. We set up some new Twitter account and call it something corny like BloggerCares, BloggerNews, or LifeEvents. Whenever one of us reads about a blogger with a big event — a death, a birth, a major surgery, a wedding — even if he is someone we don’t know personally — this information could be sent to this account, and then re-tweeted to hundreds of peoples at once, sort of a personal bloggers AP service. Then each receiver of the tweet could act however they wanted to — sending a message to this blogger acknowledging this happy or sad event, trying to be as personal as they could with someone they don’t really know, posting a comment on the person’s blog, or writing an email showing support. If it all worked well, we would be closer to a blogosphere where every blogger who needs it — can receive a few nice messages from the community, without any thought to who he is or what religious, color, political entity — or clique – he belongs to, or whether he is A-list or C-list.

How can you not love Neil? I think it’s a lovely idea. And even if nothing comes of it, the fact that people are out there having these ideas gives me the warm fuzzies. And I’ll leave it at that before breaking into a round of Kum-bye-ya. So I’ll look forward to seeing you at next week’s installment of Monday’s Stuff…when I will most likely sing the praises of my favorite shoes.

People DO that?

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I’m feeling a little tapped out on confessions at the moment. Really – yesterday’s post included a couple. So I’m going to just to tell a quick, somewhat embarrassing story about myself.

I have always been a little…well, naive isn’t really the word…but something like that. Maybe innocent? Probably more like clueless. At any rate – I’m the last one to pick up on innuendo and I was a VERY good girl in high school. My experience with boys was pretty limited and I found out just how clueless I was when I got to college.

My first school (I transferred after first semester freshman year) was Eugene Lang, a small college in New York City that’s part of the New School. For the most part, no one I talk to has ever heard of it. One of the reasons that I chose it was that it’s affiliated with Parsons School of Design (where I had done a summer art program) so I knew that I’d be able to take classes there as well.

During all of the orientation hoopla, we received packets of information on the city, as well as the school, and some pamphlets that they thought would be of interest to us as new college students. One of these pamphlets was on safe sex. Now as innocent as I was, I certainly knew the basics and I wasn’t thrown by the condoms that were included. It was obvious what those were. But in actually skimming through the rest of the information, I came across products and terms that were completely unfamiliar.

There were two that stand out in my memory as being particularly mystifying. Since my new roommates were sitting with me going through their packets – I figured I’d ask them for further clarification. I’m not afraid to admit that I don’t know something about sex. Go ahead – laugh at me… Slut.

Anyway – the first question I had was “what is a dental dam.” Dental dams kept coming up in tandem with condoms and I couldn’t understand what teeth had to do with anything. I’m not going to bother including the explanation that I received, but if you have never heard of this product before (you never know), I’ve included a link. So that cleared things up. I had never really thought about safe sex from that perspective before – but of course the pamphlet featured pictures of different couples: boy/girl, boy/boy, girl/girl….so that was relevant.

The second thing that confused me was a third option for sex. As far as I knew there was regular intercourse (including the boy/boy alternative) and oral sex. But the pamphlet kept referring to “intercourse, oral sex and rimming.” I had never in my life heard the word “rimming.” I mean, none of my friends had mentioned it and I couldn’t think of anything that I had seen in a movie that implied something other than the first two…

Like I said – I’m not embarrassed to admit ignorance, so I asked, “what is rimming?” [Again – I’m not going to provide the exact answer I was given – but I’ve added a link for anyone that would like one.] The reaction I got ranged from snickers to incredulity. But they all knew what it was. And they told me. And my response? A horrified, “people DO that?!?”

I don’t think I’ll look at my key word searches for awhile… But I’m sure I’ll be getting a lot more hits from Thailand…

If I Could Take it Back

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If I could take it back, I would never have:
*See update below regarding margaritas.

Watched The Ring.
This was the scariest fucking movie I’ve ever seen in my life. That’s right, I said “fucking.” I rarely say it and never write it – but I really have to make this point. The point being that this is the SCARIEST FUCKING MOVIE I’ve EVER seen. When that black and white girl climbed out of the television, my face actually contorted in the same Silent Scream that that marked the faces of her victims. I have never been so horrified in my entire life. The people that created this movie are sick, sick geniuses. I hate them.

Watched The X-Files episode about the inbred Peacock family.
Oh. My. God. That’s right – I have to resort to an overused blogger’s writing device to communicate just how incredibly scarring this experience was. I watched this episode with a friend and I actually called her at work the next day to find out if she too was thinking of lighting her hair on fire and jumping out of her office window. I spent the day masochistically reliving the entire program in my head. Every small detail – from the moment that the kids playing baseball discover the newly buried monster baby, to the end when the last living brother climbs OUT OF THE TRUNK of his car where he was having a quiet heart to heart with “Mama.” If I even think about the scene in which “the boys” feed Mama chewed up bread, I immediately curl up in the fetal position and begin to weep. Who came up with this idea? The fact that someone actually had this in their brain makes me fear for their sanity. If armless, legless old women that have sex with their mutant sons regularly pop into their heads in a burst of inspiration…Well, I don’t know how they sleep at night.

Read Salem’s Lot.
Noticing a theme here? I don’t like the scary stuff. I will cut myself some slack regarding The Ring which I had thought was “a thriller” when we rented it. And I can usually take the creepy themes of The X Files. But I have had a reccurring vampire nightmare since I was a toddler – so I don’t know what pod person took over my body when I decided to buy this particular paperback. Once I opened the book, I only put it down to sleep or go to work. I read it in two days. On the second day I walked into the apartment after work, picked up the book and didn’t put it down until I finished it. When my husband tried to talk to me, I reacted as if he was interrupting my attempt to deactivate a bomb. Only when I finished reading the last page could I return to the reality of holding conversations with my husband and using the bathroom. Then I proceeded to sleep with a light on for three nights straight. And shades had to be drawn lest I look out the window and see one of the undead scratching on the window pane and asking to be let in.

Agreed to share a pitcher of margaritas with a friend one night in Hoboken.
I have overindulged on occasion. And I have paid for it in unpleasant ways. But I have never before (or since) had the pleasure of puking all over a popular bar town. I’ve seen others do it, and I’ve felt pity for them (poor wretches). I always assumed that they were pathetic degenerates or stupid teenagers. But a 30 year old woman who can kill a couple of bottles of wine with her husband and suffer little more than a headache the following day should be able to have a few margaritas without fear of alcohol poisoning. Nancy (my friend) and I never did figure out how that happened. The waitress at the scene of the crime suggested that we just order a pitcher since it would be cheaper if we each planned to have a couple of drinks (sadistic bitch). So we assumed that they must not be unusually strong. And maybe they weren’t (Nancy didn’t puke her brains out) – maybe I just didn’t eat enough that day. I don’t know, but it was quite possibly one of the most humiliating experiences of my entire life. No matter how fucked up (god – there is that word again – so I must be serious) I was, I knew exactly how awful I looked and the only two words that came out of my mouth were “I’m sorry.” Over and over and over again as I puked over and over and over again all the way from that evil hell hole posing as a Mexican restaurant to the train station (and in the train station and on the train and oh my god if only I had just ordered a diet coke). I think about this often and I always cringe. I really really really wish I could take it all back. But I guess it could have been worse. At least it was just Hoboken.
*Note to eveyone that seems to think that I drank a pitcher of margaritas by myself – I DIDN’T. I shared the pitcher with a friend – which made for about 2 1/2 each. I am stupid – but I’m not crazy. Hope I didn’t scare any of my Mormon friends away…

Told my mother that I DIDN’T want to do a semester in Paris my senior year of high school.
I can’t even write about this without wanting to go back in time and shake that stupid girl senseless. Okay – so I KNOW that I was a bit of a late bloomer and leaving the country for an entire season was a little outside of my comfort zone… But honestly – why couldn’t I have had more self confidence back then? Why couldn’t I have mustered up just a smidgen of adventurous spirit? I have it now. NOW I want to go to Paris for a semester. I’m ready NOW, Mom. And I have no concern that I’ll be missing out on anything going on at home. You know – since I actually stayed home and experienced a whole lot of nothing that semester. Fun nothing of course – but not once in a lifetime, change your perspective of the world SOMETHING. Oh well – I would also go back and rethink those white tights with the jeans skirt – but hindsight is 20/20.

Read The Notebook.
I know – everyone LOOOVED this book, and cried and marveled at a love so strong that it could endure blah blah blah blah blah…this is where I may as well have gone back to Hoboken for satanic margaritas since the whole thing just made me want to puke. I did hear that the movie was great – and maybe I’d prefer that medium for the story. But my distaste for the book has left me with little desire to see it. Years ago when I was talked into reading that syrupy snore festival, I honestly didn’t see what the big deal was. Maybe I was just going through a cynical phase, but I couldn’t get into it. It was SO BORING. And what was the deal with all of those references to how they lived a life “full of love and laughter?” All of that laughter was puzzling to me. I read the whole book and I can promise you, no one ever said anything funny. What could they possibly be laughing about? Anyway – I should have made this one of my Friday Confessions since I will most likely be dragged out of my house and stoned to death for blaspheming the eternal love of what’s her name and don’t remember his either. If I have a few last dying breaths, I’ll be sure to tell everyone what I really think about Dirty Dancing, Atlas Shrugged and Eyes Wide Shut.

This is What Crazy Looks Like

22 Replies

Parents
Kate (36*)
Chris (35*)

Children
Oliver (almost 3 1/2)
George (almost 2)
Eleanor (almost 2)

*I included the ages of the children as a frame of reference and then decided to do it for all of us. Just like Us Weekly and People Magazine. They always do that. I don’t know about you – but I find something very reassuring about knowing how old people in magazines are. So what the hell – we’re old.

A Little Background:
It’s Sunday. The day started at 7:30 a.m. (which is a miracle since it usually starts at 6:00 a.m.). Chris left on Saturday for a business trip. I am alone with the kids for the day – and while it’s sunny, it’s also too muddy to play outside.

Oliver: Play Doh please!

Kate: Okay – let’s all play at the table. Sit in chairs. No Play Doh on the floor.

Eleanor: Pway Doh!

George: (Drags a chair over to the TV to play with the buttons.)

Oliver: Snakes!

Kate: Okay – let’s make snakes.

Eleanor: Nakes!

Kate: Oliver – put your Play Doh back on the table. George – that’s too loud. Come back to the table.

Eleanor: Tay-boo!

Kate: (Moves both George and his chair back to the table as he shrieks like he’s being dipped in a vat of boiling oil.)

Oliver: More snakes please!

Kate: Okay – let’s make more snakes.

Eleanor: Nakes!

Kate: George, I said stop it. Come back to the table. That’s too loud. (Moves both George and his chair back to the table.)

George: (Emits a sound that bursts dog eardrums throughout the neighborhood.)

Kate: Okay – who poopied? I smell poopie.

Oliver: Candy please!

Eleanor: Caddy!

Kate: No candy. George did you poopie? Hey – Play Doh stays on the table!

[Omit approximately 30 minutes of more of the same.]

Kate: Okay – that’s it! No more Play Doh. Oliver – do you have to go potty?

Eleanor: Potty!

Oliver: No…

Kate: Let’s go try. George and Eleanor, you come too.

Eleanor: Too!

Kate: George – I said that’s enough. Stop playing with the TV. Let’s all go upstairs.

Eleanor: Dairs!

[Omit the 15 minutes that it actually takes to get everyone upstairs.]

Kate: Okay Oliver – come on, lets go potty.

Eleanor: Potty!

Kate: Pee Pee first.

George and Eleanor: Pee Pee!

Oliver: (Stands at the potty and pees.)

George and Eleanor: (Try to position heads directly under the “flow” in hopes of getting the best view.)

Kate: Hey – that’s too close! Okay Oliver, let’s go potty now.

Eleanor: Potty!

Oliver: (Sits on the potty.) Candy please!

Eleanor: Caddy!

Kate: No candy.

George: (Muffled shrieks of delight from another room.)

Kate: George! Where did you go?

[Everyone moves from bathroom to master bedroom where George is jumping on the bed.]

[Phone rings.]

Kate: (Answers the phone.) Hello? George get off the bed!

Chris (on the phone): Hi! It sounds a little crazy over there.

Kate: Oh – you know, the usual. Eleanor get down!

Eleanor: Down!

Kate: So what are you up to? Oliver? Where did you go?

Chris: I’m looking for Starbucks but it’s not here. They said I should go to…

Kate: OLIVER! Get out of the shower! Put that down! Oh my god – it’s all over the place….NO! Don’t do that – you’re going to slip…

Chris: What happ….

Kate: Oliver just spilled soap all over the shower stall and now it’s all over his legs and all over the floor and…OLIVER! Get off the bed – you’re getting soap everywhere!

Chris: Okay – it sounds like you’re busy, so I’ll let you…

Kate: Okay bye! (hangs up)

Eleanor: Bye!

Kate: Okay Oliver (back to being calm Mom) let’s get that soap off of your legs so it doesn’t get all over the bed. George and Eleanor, get down (takes George off the bed and puts him on the floor).

George: (Screams and flails – then hits a note so high that glassware can be heard shattering throughout the house.)

Kate: Eleanor (puts Eleanor on the floor), you too.

Eleanor: Too!

Kate: I smell poopie. Eleanor – did you poopie? Oliver! What did I say? No jumping on the bed – get down!

Eleanor: Down!

Kate: George! (Lunges for George as he starts to climb back up on the bed, but trips and bangs head on the corner.) Ow! Shit!

Eleanor: Sit!

Kate: (Takes a minute to recover and then looks up to see all three kids now jumping on the bed.) Okay – everyone get down NOW. I said NO JUMPING!

Eleanor: Dupping!

Kate: (Changing tactics.) Hey – who wants to watch Curious George?