Tag Archives: Me Before Kids

To Mommy Blog or Not To Mommy Blog…What Was the Question Again?

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When I started my blog in the summer, I had no idea what direction it would take. But I was pretty sure that the only people reading it would be my friends.

Then I got a comment from a blogger that I had just started reading on my SECOND post. Of course, she was like my only commenter… But it made me think that just maybe other people, people that I didn’t actually know might want to read what I have to say. How exciting! But then I had to think about what I had to say.

I started out just writing for myself and about whatever happened to be on my mind that day. And it wasn’t always about my family or my children. So I thought that I wasn’t a mommy blogger.

And I was fine with that. I read lots of mommy blogs, but I didn’t necessarily feel like I, personally could really represent. In fact I said as much in that second post. I often feel like I’m still the high school babysitter trying to decide if I can get away with letting my kids have as many cookies as they want because it’s easier than fighting with them (and because I probably want another cookie too). So who am I to wax poetic about my parenting experiences and the miracles that happen every day in my house? Because really – I find it miraculous that they are all dressed and fed (that is if Goldfish crackers count) in time for me to load them up in the car to go to daycare. And that doesn’t do much for my mommy street cred.

Then as I continued to write about this and that, I got a comment from another blogger who wasn’t actually a mom. I found that as I read her posts, I related to her more than some of the moms I was reading. So it was suddenly clear – I didn’t have to be a mommy blogger. It wasn’t necessary for me to chronicle every setback in potty training or to report every milestone. If I got bored writing about it, then people would probably get bored reading about it. Instead I just wrote about my kids when I felt like it and didn’t when I didn’t.

I found several other blogs written by women who aren’t mothers (most younger than me) and was beginning to feel very well rounded in my social networking (I was even learning blogger lingo). But here is the problem. While I could enjoy reading stories about their fabulous travel plans, wild nights out, commitment to fashion and personal style, and even their scandalous pasts – any relating that I did was in retrospect (except for the scandalous past part since I’ve always been pretty PG-13). Sadly, I was starting to feel like the once cool older sister, realizing that her younger sisters are the cool ones now (disclaimer: I have never actually been cool, and I don’t have little sisters – but you know what I mean). While I still continued to read, comment and relate – I had to admit that I only had a visitor’s pass to the club. Eventually, I’d have to go home and change some poopie diapers.

So I’ve emerged from this online identity crisis with the realization that in fact I am a mommy blogger. A rather inconsistent mommy blogger – but a mommy blogger nonetheless. And it’s time to commit. I’m signing up for a lifetime membership. I can continue to visit the other clubs. I mean they ARE online – no intimidating bouncers to make me want to slink away in my virtual mom jeans. But I do have those poopie diapers to get back to…

And really – who decides what a mommy blogger writes about anyway? Just because some women establish their blogs as virtual scrapbooks or journals that their children can read and cherish in years to come, that doesn’t mean that I can’t write about pseudo-celebrity stalking. And as time goes on, I’m starting to realize that there are more mommy bloggers like me anyway. Not everyone is writing reviews on the latest and greatest developmental toys (although I’m very appreciative of those that do since I hate doing my own research). I’m not sure where I got the idea that the mommy blogging genre was a internet sorority for perfect mothers. In fact, I suspect that the ones that seem perfect to me would beg to differ.

I spent so much time assuming that I didn’t fit into this group, that I completely missed the fact that no one is setting any rules. I’m a mom and I have a blog. So that automatically makes me a mommy blogger right? Although I suppose that if I wrote about monster truck rallies or swinging in the suburbs it would be a different story. But that’s neither here nor there since I don’t. Clubs are created for people who have something in common, not everything in common. So why should I be afraid of being blackballed?

I’m not. At least not anymore. “Hello, my name is Kate and I’m a mommy blogger.” [This is where the other mommy bloggers should respond “Hi Kate.”]

I’m also going to try to get more involved in my local mommy blogging community. My friend Nicole has informed me that DC Metro Moms is currently taking applications for new writers. So I sent the contact an e-mail. Now I just live in fear that she will somehow miss my touching family focused posts (like Is Nothing Sacred? and Insecurity Blankets) and instead read all of the weird random ones (like I Hate This Chair and Mormons are Funny). Either way – wish me luck.

Even if DC Metro Moms decides that I’m not DC metro mommy blogger material, I’ll still feel secure in my new identity. I love who I was and will continue to enjoy all of those wonderful writers who provide daily reminders with their hilarious anecdotes and musings. But I’m also proud of who I am now and all of things I AM doing right as a mother. And one of those things is keeping a sense of who I am aside from the responsibilities that come along with motherhood. Because I’m more than just a mom. And sometimes I write about that too.

Sleeping in Beauty

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There isn’t much that I miss about my life before marriage. I’m content to just reminisce, and feel no need to revisit those days of staying out until dawn and wondering “if he’s going to call.” But there is one thing that I do long for with great nostalgia. One sigh-inducing memory that I will most likely carry with me for the rest of my life…the girl bedroom.

You see, I ALWAYS had a pretty bedroom. From the time I was old enough to have my own big girl bed to my years as a twenty-something, too poor to afford more than a closet that accommodated a twin-size mattress – my room was girly. I grew up with a love of delicately patterned textiles and soft colors. And I like nothing better than to sink into a cloud of down pillows. In fact, if I had to pick the one room of a house in which decor is of the utmost importance, I would choose the bedroom. And of course, my current bedroom is the ONE room in my house that ISN’T painted, ISN’T decorated, and IS generally a big mess.

It isn’t painted because we ran out of time before the twins were born (we moved into this house just three weeks before they arrived). It isn’t decorated beyond a few paintings on the walls because I don’t see the point until we actually paint the walls. And it is generally a big mess due to my husband’s inability to put his things away or get out of bed in time for me to make it in the mornings. But I won’t go into a big story about what a slob my husband is. I’ve already done that.

And not having a girl bedroom really goes beyond the decor. It’s the overall atmosphere. Now that I share a room with my husband, guy stuff can be found on every surface area and piles of newspapers and sports magazines languish in corners (until I can’t take it anymore and throw them out). When I retire for the night, I slip into bed, carefully lifting the corner of the sheets. My roommate prefers to rip the sheets out of their neatly tucked corners and kick off the bedding because it’s “too hot.” When Chris is away for work, I wake up in a bed almost as tidy as it was when I fell asleep. When he’s home, I wake up in a nest. And let’s be honest. I miss waking up in a room that smells the same as it did when I turned in for the night.

So yes – I do yearn a bit for the pretty girl rooms of my past, and I do a little drooling when I page through catalogs and magazines featuring pretty bedrooms with pretty colors and pretty objets strategically placed on the pretty dressers and side tables. But mostly I lust after pretty bedding since it’s really the cornerstone of the girl bedroom. So this week’s Materialistic Monday is devoted to images of princess worthy beds. Here are some of my current favorites:

from Anthropologie

from Pincone Hill

from Serena & Lily

from Anthropologie

from Pincone Hill

from Serena & Lily

And here is a bonus picture of the crib that I would want if I was a baby:

Okay – so one more bed-related story. Once on a business trip to Beijing (this was rare so don’t be too impressed), I had the MOST disappointing bed experience of my life. I can honestly say that I LOVE hotel beds, and most of the hotels I patronized at that time, were competing with each other for status of “best bed.” I had become accustomed to Heavenly Beds, Suite Sleepers, and the like.

After 24 hours of travel time and an arrival at what felt like 6 a.m. EST, my colleague and I were pooped. We arrived at our fabulous luxury hotel (I know – dream trip) ready to fall into bed and sleep for as long as possible. And when I walked into my bedroom, I saw exactly what I was hoping for: a big white marshmallow of a duvet with about 87 fluffy white pillows. Like a little girl, I took a running leap into the cloud-like arrangement. Only to hit what felt like a park bench. What the hell?! It was the hardest bed I’ve ever encountered in my life. I emotionally deflate just thinking about it. What a let down. And to add insult to injury, I found a listing for BED BOARDS in the hotel services brochure. I don’t think a sidewalk could be firmer than that mattress from hell. It just goes to show that there are different cultural expectations for sleeping comfort everywhere you go… Here at Chez Hood, the beds may not be girly – but they’re definitely softer than concrete.

Is Nothing Sacred?

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In a word? No.

I have entered a phase of motherhood that can only be described as a complete breakdown in reason, order and sanity. I really do feel like I live with three asylum escapees sometimes. And I saw it coming the minute I found out that I was pregnant with twins. It was right about that time that my oldest son turned one. He became a toddler, and apparently a crazy person.

And that’s exactly what I said to Chris: “it’s like living with a crazy person.” The tantrums over nothing – the mood swings – the manic activity. It was exhausting. And then we found out I was pregnant again. And then we found out that I was having twins. And then I realized that within just a couple of years, there would be three crazy people in my house. Actually five since Chris and I would undoubtedly be insane by then.

But of course, like all mothers, I adapted fairly quickly and found much of this unhinged behavior adorable. I readily admit that I do tend to find bad behavior amusing, and I often have a hard time addressing it appropriately (i.e. not laughing and saying “do it again! do it again!”). This would explain a lot about my children.

I don’t want to give the impression that I have bad kids. Absolutely not. They are very sweet and considerate demon spawn. And not one of them has a mean bone in their little bodies. Their daycare provider is raising them right! Just kidding about that last part of course (sort of). But my point is that they are just being their ages (three and two). And that involves a level of chaos that not even a team of Navy SEALs could suppress. And this translates into losing time that was once spent on personal priorities like reading, exercising, showering, picking socks up off the floor…

If you have toddlers, I suspect that I am describing your current home life. If you had toddlers a long time ago, you are laughing at me and saying, “just wait until they are teenagers.” If you don’t have children, you are thinking that you may just want to get a dog instead. Either way, I’m too busy fishing poop out of the bathtub to be affected by your validation, condescension or horror.

The way I see it is like this. You have a baby. You bring that baby home. And after a few weeks or months of feeling like you have entered a never-ending twister in the tornado of new parent hell, you miraculously wake up in Munchkinland. You marvel at how the world suddenly became technicolor and can’t wait to see what lies ahead as you continue down this sparkling yellow brick road. Little did you know that it would be flying monkeys.

Once you get used to being a parent to a baby and really start to enjoy it, you see your baby like this:


Then your baby becomes a toddler – and they become this:


And I don’t mean that they become hideously ugly. Quite the opposite. They become even more mogwai-like in their cuteness. It’s just that they can’t help but wreak havoc in your life as a matter of course. It’s programmed into a toddler’s DNA to be a little gremlin in the house. And when you have multiple toddlers, you have multiple gremlins (thank god throwing them into a bathtub doesn’t create more).

How many times have I left a neat and orderly room for five minutes, only to return to what looks like a war zone? Um – pretty much every time I leave the room. Chris thinks we should just give up and never put things away. But guess what? I’ve tried that, and they manage to make an even bigger mess out of the original one. How does one manage to take a room that is completely ripped apart and make it worse? I have no answer for this, you’ll have to ask a toddler.

A perfect example of a simple daily activity that they manage to turn into a circus is going somewhere in the car. The car was once a zen-like refuge for me. I would quietly sip a coffee from Starbucks and listen to music or a recorded book. Traffic never bothered me because I could just tune it out and enjoy a little time to myself. No work e-mails to answer, no laundry to be done. Just a little peace and quiet. This no longer exists. Now I have an entourage.

Every weekday, I commute with my children. I drop them off at daycare on my way to work. Just getting them to ENTER the car is the first challenge. Inevitably, I find myself chasing them in circles. Then once I finally get them in the car, I have to drag them out of the driver’s seat, the “way back” (we have an SUV) and the space under the seats. I have to rip unidentifiable scraps of old food (at least I hope it’s food) out of their hands before they manage to reach their mouths. I have to force rigid abs of steel back into car seats so that I can buckle harnesses. I have to yell, cajole, tickle and spank them into submission (consistency is my middle name). Then I spend the majority of the drive time answering all 500 of my daughter’s questions, climbing into the back seat to re-buckle my oldest son’s seat belt at stoplights and moving the passenger seat forward so that my youngest son can’t kick the pause button on the DVD player. Once we arrive at our destination I have to replace socks and shoes that have been flung off and retrieve sippy cups from wherever they have been launched. I arrived at work completely exhausted.

Another previously sacred time was my daily shower. I am perpetually cold and like nothing better than to lose that chill in a nice hot shower. It doesn’t even have to be a long one – just five minutes of total warmth. But now the bathroom door is open, and two or three sets of eyes observe me rush through my morning ablutions. A ritual that now involves keeping one foot ready to nudge someone out if they decide to climb in with me (an activity often followed by the task of re-dressing them in dry clothing). The one positive thing about my shower experience is that it’s possibly the only time that I do something without at least one child attached to my body. It is no longer “daily.”

Evenings used to offer some nice, relaxing me-time. I’d have a little dinner, do some reading, maybe even watch some prime time television. Now I’m lucky if I can change out of my work clothes before it’s time to go to turn in for the night. If I do run upstairs to change, I have to answer to a chorus of “Mommy! Where are you?” or keep an eye on them as they open every drawer in the room while I’m pulling on my sweat pants. If they don’t follow me upstairs and I don’t hear any concern for my whereabouts, then I know I’m in trouble. I’ve already related the incident of the black and orange Halloween clings stuck to the playroom ceiling. But there are unlimited others that involve “working together” to create some kind of mess or mayhem. Recently I came downstairs to see my three year old son hand a full, OPEN gallon milk jug to my two year old daughter. Eleanor, who is lucky if she weighs 25 lbs soaking wet, immediately began to fall backward, and I only just made it there in time to grab her before she was taken down by the jug of milk.

So no – none of that is sacred anymore. Not my personal time. Not my personal possessions. Not my personal space. But in spite of all of that, I can’t really complain. I have something far more sacred now: their time – this time. Someday I will have time to read and go to the movies and have leisurely dinners out with Chris. Someday I will go on vacations and actually sleep on the plane. Someday I’ll be able to just get in the car and go without any concerns about forgotten lunch bags or lost blankies. Someday I’ll have alone time again.

But I’ll never again have two little bodies cuddled in my lap as I smell their freshly washed hair and read them Go Dogs Go. I’ll never again have a little boy say, “I wuv you mommy,” as I tuck him in at night. I’ll never again watch three little people dance with wild abandon around the house pretending to be the chimney sweeps in Mary Poppins. So if I have to put up with some mess and chaos and drastically lowered expectations for personal time and appearance? I’ll take it. Because this fleeting moment in my life as a mother is worth it. This time is more precious and sacred than any other I could imagine.

More Celebrity Sightings at The Yellow Rose Cafe

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In one of my memes last week, I mentioned that I once brushed elbows with Tom Cruise without even knowing it. I also told a story about following Brooke Shields into an elevator because I thought she was Hope from Days of Our Lives. Suffice it to say, I will not be hired as an Us Weekly staff photographer anytime soon.

Maybe it’s because they look shorter in person. That’s what people say right? That they always expect celebrities to look taller. But I don’t think that’s the case for me. Everyone knows that Tom Cruise is short and Brooke Shields is an amazon in person. No – I just don’t recognize stars out of context. Maybe they don’t look as sparkly in person.

Since I went to college in New York and have visited “The City” on numerous occasions to visit friends and family, I’ve had plenty of opportunities for celebrity sightings. And I’ve probably had even more than I know of since I haven’t always been with a less oblivious friend to point them out to me.

A few examples that I remember well occurred at my weekend job in college. I worked brunch shifts as a hostess at The Yellow Rose Cafe, a restaurant on the Upper West Side (81st & Amsterdam to be exact). Don’t look for it – it’s not there anymore, but I have fond memories of free pancakes and breakfast burritos. Oh – and flan. I discovered flan there (which I thought of as cold crème brûlée without a crunchy top).

The first time I had a celebrity sighting at The Yellow Rose, I didn’t know it until the unrecognized actor had already left. A huge group came in and we had to create a large table for them in the cocktail area (the restaurant area was roughly the size of a shoe box}. Since they weren’t in the main dining space, I waited on them. It was obvious that one man was the leader of the group. So in an attempt to avoid interrupting the animated conversation taking place, I would check in with him to see if anything was needed. After two hours of chatting with this man as I took orders and refreshed coffee, I waved goodbye to the group and started to clean up. It was only then that one of my coworkers mentioned that it was Jeff Daniels. Not the most exciting of celebrity sightings – but come ON. I’d just seen The Butcher’s Wife, and after two hours I didn’t notice who he was? What’s wrong with me?

The next Yellow Rose celebrity sighting that I remember was that of a famous musician. The way that the restaurant was set up was kind of like a horseshoe. There were two doors into the space, and they were placed on either side of an entrance to the apartments upstairs. The first door, on the left opened into the bar. Up a few stairs behind the bar were the cocktail area and the office. A small hallway connected the cocktail area to the kitchen and wait station, and then a few steps down was the dining area. The second door, on the right opened into the dining area. To avoid chaos, we had a sign in the door on the restaurant side that said “please use other door.” This was pretty self explanatory, and you would think that patrons would see that sign and move on to the other door. You would be wrong. People CONSTANTLY walked in the wrong door, and as the hostess (and as a self absorbed college student), I found this endlessly annoying. And this was obvious since much huffing and puffing and eye rolling would commence every time someone walked in the wrong door. And yes – I did this in front of the customers. I was the best hostess ever.

Sorry for the detailed floor plan description – but it’s kind of important to the story. Back to the story… One Spring day, I was hanging out in the wait station, staring listlessly down at the three people sitting in the restaurant and wondering when the rush would begin. And of course hoping it wouldn’t. As the hostess, I didn’t make tips and would much rather sit in the cocktail area watching a Real World New York marathon on MTV. Just as I was thinking that it might be time to order myself a second plate of pancakes, a very tall, skinny man walked in THE WRONG DOOR. People in Central Park probably heard my huffing and puffing. At the very least they could hear me stomping down the short aisle of tables to intercept yet another blind customer.

In my defense, the door was open so the sign was literally dangling at eye level and swaying in the warm breeze from the street. And I saw him put his hands out in front of his haggard face to move the sign out of his way. He actually touched the sign and blatantly ignored it. I was incensed. As I “greeted” him, I asked in my best bitchy New York hostess tone how many people would be in his party. He just pointed to the back of the restaurant. I assumed that he was pointing to the table where he wanted to sit. So I started to lead him in that direction. I asked if a table for two would be okay and again, he just pointed. I was outraged. He couldn’t be bothered to open his mouth and answer me? It was unbelievable. Then after some passive aggressive eye rolling I put menus down on a table that seemed to be in the trajectory of his finger. Without one glance in my direction, he walked past me and sat down with a woman at the next table.

When I returned to the wait station fuming, I told Kevin Bone, one of the waiters about the rudest man on the planet that was currently seated in his section. Kevin looked down at the table, squinted and said, “hey – that’s Lou Reed.”

The last celebrity sighting that I’d like to relate would be using the term “celebrity” very loosely. But it’s also my favorite. It was 1992ish and I had been working at The Yellow Rose for a couple of years. One of the waiters that worked the brunch shifts with me was named Eddie. He was an actor (of course) and never failed to make me laugh with his deadpan comments and observations. I also knew that Eddie’s dad was a successful TV actor. Meaning he had small supporting roles on TV shows and would look familiar to me if I saw him (in theory of course since we’ve already established that I don’t recognize actors).

One weekend that Eddie was out of town, a man came in and asked for him. When he heard that Eddie wouldn’t be back for several days, he was very disappointed. Apparently he was just visiting New York and would be leaving the next day. I don’t remember all that much about this part of the conversation because I was too busy thinking about how many nanoseconds were left before my shift ended. But I did muster up enough consideration to suggest that he leave a message. As he was writing his message on the paper I provided, he started to explain how he knew Eddie. Again – since I wasn’t particularly interested, I didn’t catch most of the details. But I did start to think that there was something kind of familiar about him. He was talking about how he knew Eddie’s father, that they had been on a television show together….blah, blah, blah. At this point, I was thinking, “this guy really wants me to recognize him from TV – who the hell is he?” Then he said, “you may have seen it – it was a show called Newhart.” And it finally came to me. He was Larry. As in, “hi – I’m Larry – this is my brother Darryl and this is my other brother Darryl.” Awesome.

Anyone under the age of 32 (and some possibly older than that) might not have any idea what I’m talking about – but if you ever watched Newhart, you would have to agree. He was by far the best celebrity sighting I had at The Yellow Rose. And god love him – he managed to walk in the right door.

At the end of the day, that’s what really counts with me. I think that I don’t recognize celebrities because I’m not impressed by celebrity. Aside from devouring Us Weekly…well, weekly – I don’t have that much interest in seeing actors. They’re far more interesting when they’re styled and airbrushed on the glossy pages of magazines. In person, their averageness falls kind of flat. So being famous will never endear you to me. But if you respect the sanctity of a “please use other door” sign? I may be willing to give you a second glance. Or at least a free plate of flan.

Twilight Time

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*Don’t forget to enter my giveaway from Angelina’s Beautiful Cards and Paper Boutique! Click here for details. Send me an e-mail letting me know that you’ve posted about my December giveaways on your site and I’ll give you a second chance to win! This one ends on Sunday – so comment soon!

This is going to be a short Friday Confession. Doing two memes in two days sucked me dry. Too many topics to cover for someone who doesn’t know how to be brief. I’m exhausted.

But I do have to confess that I have finally fallen prey to the Twilight obsession currently sweeping the country. I had heard of the books, and have now seen all of the hype surrounding the movie. And it inevitably sucked me in. The vampires beckoned, and I’ll be damned (yes – that was supposed to be a vampire joke). I couldn’t put Twilight down. I read it in two days.

Now, I’m not saying that it’s the best book I’ve ever read. Far from it. The writing is pretty bad and melodrama is at an all time high – but there is just something about the story… My aunt put it best when she said, “you just want to know what happens next.” It’s true – I had to keep reading.

There were two things about the book that kind of bothered me though. One was an ongoing theme and the other was a specific scene. The theme that tended to get under my skin was the way that Bella acted SO SUPERIOR. I know that she was riddled with teenage angst and dealing with a daily forecast for rain. But really – it’s like she’s SO much better than all of those shallow townies. She fit in much better with the aloof vampires than sickeningly wholesome Todd and Jessica. I also thought her moodiness got a little tedious. Of course, I probably just described myself as a teenager, minus the vampire friends. Maybe that’s why she got on my nerves.

The specific scene that struck me as entirely unbelievable (you know – out of all of the believable scenes in the book) was the beach party. Two large cars full of teenagers arrive at the beach, build a bonfire and….explore tide pools. I don’t know what high school you went to, but in my experience, a group of unsupervised teenagers is just a roundabout way of saying “keg party.” Now I understand that the author is Mormon, and Mormons don’t drink. But she didn’t say anything about her characters being Mormon or religious or abstaining from alcohol in any way. So when Bella walks back to the bonfire and finds her friends “passing around food,” I became skeptical. More like a bong I would think. Anyway – as someone who didn’t drink in high school but did go to all of the parties, I have a very clear memory of what teenagers do unsupervised. And I’m not buying the absence of drugs or alcohol.

In general, I’m an easy audience where an engaging story is involved, so I’m sure I’ll read the rest of the series. I’ll also see the movie as soon as it’s available on Netflix. But if Bella is in college by book four, and goes to frat parties where the brothers pass around “food” to their guests – then I’m officially labeling the series a vampire fairytale.

Do You Remember Redneck Neighbor?

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*Don’t forget to enter my giveaway from Angelina’s Beautiful Cards and Paper Boutique! Click here for details. Send me an e-mail letting me know that you’ve posted about my December giveaways on your site and I’ll give you a second chance to win!

Years ago, I came across a website that in retrospect, I now recognize as a blog. But back in 2002ish I didn’t know what blogs were. So I just thought of it as a website devoted to the various bizarre home projects of the blogger’s “redneck” next door neighbor.

Here are some highlights:

First, let me say that my redneck neighbor is not destitute or under-privileged. The guy owns a business, drives VERY nice new cars, he just doesn’t care about his house. In order to protect the ignorant, we’ll call him John Doe # 8 or JD8 for short.

October 1997 – They are here!

Well, it should have been a sign of things to come but my neighbors move into their brand new house. Inventory: 1 artificial Christmas tree, clothes, stereo system, TV, no furniture). The Christmas tree is nicely decorated (remember, it’s October). We can tell what the tree looks like because the windows have no miniblinds so at night, you can see right into the house as you drive up. They have also decided to wrap some strands of Christmas lights around their front porch railing. I guess there’s no electric outlet nearby because they never turn these lights on.

The Structure

In case you have not noticed by now, JD8’s favorite hobby is to build things poorly. His next project is yet unnamed. All my friends call it the chicken coop. There are several theories as to what this building really is. The theories include: chicken coop, two-story deck, two-story chicken coop, work shop, shed, etc. It would be easier for you to see it [link to picture] than for me to describe it. Once thing is certain, it is HUGE. Unfortunately for JD8, I called the city and he has been asked by the fine folks at “code enforcement” to stop building whatever that is. He needs to get a building permit. Luckily for the neighborhood, that thing will not meet building code regardless of what it is.

Neighborhood thugs

In case you don’t remember, long ago, JD8 had placed a basketball goal right outside our bedroom window. Unfortunately for JD8, some neighborhood thugs put a couple bricks through the back-board. Unfortunately for me, the same bricks also took a chunk off the side of my house.

JD8 decides to move the basketball goal to the curb to be picked up by our city’s waste disposal specialists (garbage men). Well, from the look of JD8’s house, the garbage men aren’t sure if it’s really garbage so they never pick it up. The broken basketball goal sits by the curb for several months when JD8 decides to put it back on his driveway. He does not use it again. Here is a picture [link to picture] of the basketball goal. See the Christmas lights in the background? This picture was taken in the summer.

A few years later, I tried to pull up the site to forward the link on to a friend – only to find that he had decided to pull it from the web. Maybe the redneck neighbor discovered the site? There were no details provided about the decision, but I’m sure that many cyber tears were shed over it.

You are most likely asking yourself how I was able to include these samples of the hilarity that was “Redneck Neighbor.” I can do it because I FOUND IT AGAIN! It’s not the site I remember, so it must be a different version – one that the blogger never got around to deleting or destroying or whatever it is you do to make a blog disappear (having never done it before, I don’t know the lingo). Anyway – pretty much everything I remember is there, so I’m thrilled. And in the spirit of the season of giving… I give you…the gift…of Redneck Neighbor. No thank you notes required – seriously, I just like to make people happy.

Note: If you are my mom, and didn’t realize that “I FOUND IT AGAIN!” was a link to the website, here is that link: http://www.joespc.com/carlos/redneck.htm. Love you mom!

UPDATE (1/5/09): Chuck from Beyond the Cheddar Curtain commented with the following:

I read somewhere that Carlos’ neighbor eventually sold his house and moved, and Carlos later did the same thing himself, so he took the site down, but someone archived his old entries, which he is cool with.

I believe his neighbor stopped acting quite so rednecky after a while (perhaps the police visits had something to do with this) but I’m not sure.

Then he e-mailed me the link: http://fuzzycats.com/redneck.htm. Thanks Chuck!

Chain of Fools

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This week’s Friday confession will be a story. But first, I need to provide a little background information (which in itself is somewhat of a confession). I have a bit of an aversion to big chain restaurants. Don’t get me wrong – I love P.F. Chang’s and Maggiano’s as much as the next person. But when I think of a really special night out, I prefer the idea of a restaurant that you can’t find in all major metropolitan areas. Or at least one that you can’t find at your local shopping mall.

This snooty little quirk of mine comes directly from my father who refused to eat at chain restaurants while I was growing up. If we went out for a casual meal, we’d go to a Chinese food place or maybe Mexican. But we never went anywhere like T.G.I. Friday’s. My brother and I didn’t think much about it – but now looking back, it’s very clear. We never went to chains.

Of course I now eat at family friendly chain restaurants all the time with my kids. But I can’t avoid that obnoxious little voice deep down inside mocking me about it. My husband revels in our patronage of these restaurants simply because he knows all about my secret snobbery. But enough about that – onto my story.

A year or two before the kids came along, we took what was to be our last real vacation together. I had accrued a good number American Airlines miles and hotel points through work travel, and we decided to use some of that for a long weekend in London. Since the dollar was pretty bad – this was never meant to be a luxury trip. We talked about it and agreed that we’d be real tourists and keep everything casual with sightseeing as the priority. Thanks to my freebies we had business class seats on the flight and a room at a great hotel in Trafalgar Square – so that would cover any of our needs for “fancy.” All of our dining would be on the cheap (or cheap-er) and we’d try to find dinner spots with character and atmosphere if not world class chefs.

I could write about so many things we did on that trip, but this isn’t a travelogue. It’s a confession. The confession part doesn’t come in until the Sunday after we arrived though. We arrived on a Friday, and with the exception of a little jet lag, we filled our time with sightseeing and walking. No shopping – but window shopping was allowed. Everything went according to plan until it was time to find a dinner spot. We failed to consider the fact that it was Valentines Day, and that it would be next to impossible to find a table somewhere.

We spent at least an hour wandering around the theater district and beyond, leaving our names at various places and wondering if we should just give up and head over to Piccadilly Circus where one of the tourist traps would surely be cranking out the tables. But that just wasn’t what we had in mind. We didn’t need expensive, but we did want a little atmosphere. So we persevered and finally lucked out when a tiny table became available at a little French place called Cafe Rouge.

It was in fact, exactly what we were looking for. It was casual, but had great food (we both had the beef bourguignon on that freezing cold night) and we were even able to find a good AND inexpensive bottle of wine. Mission accomplished! It was by far the most fun night out we had that weekend. The restaurant was quaint and cozy, and while the wait staff was pleasant enough, they left us alone and let us linger over our coffee as long as we liked. We planned to tell anyone we knew going to London about our find.

I think we went out for Indian food the next night – which was another score. Possibly the best Indian food I ever had. But during the day we tried to just grab quick meals and weren’t too particular. In keeping with our lunch time counter service dining, I wanted to check out the food court at Harrods. I had only been to Harrods once before right after college and didn’t remember it being much more than a big department store, but the guide books raved about the selection of cuisines at the food court. So Sunday, we decided to wander over. One thing we didn’t do was to check Harrods hours. But seriously – what American would ever guess that a major department store would be closed on a Sunday? Typical.

So we were disappointed to find that the food court which had been gaining mythical status as our hunger increased, was not to be on option. And of course there didn’t seem to be all that much else around. In desperation, we circled Harrods in hopes of finding at least one restaurant in close proximity. And we found it! And it was open! And it actually looked rather good. A little French bistro….called Cafe Rouge. Which was funny, because that is the same name of that great little French restaurant we went to the other ni… Oh. It’s chain.

SO we basically had a very special Valentines Day dinner in London at La Madeleine (if La Madeleine had a full bar).

After a few seconds of sheepish side glances at each other, we laughed over what fools we were. Then we raced inside to enjoy another wonderful meal with all of the character and atmosphere we could ask for. And then we vowed to never tell anyone about that wonderful little restaurant, Cafe Rouge – ever. Until now.

Dolls from Inside a Black Apple

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Recently, I guest posted on this blog as myself at nine years old. One thing I remember most about that time is how much I still loved my dolls. I was in the end stage of dolls being age appropriate. I didn’t actually see the change coming, but this shift wasn’t lost on me at the time. I knew that it was becoming less common for girls my age to actually “play” with them – and more and more, I had to cloak my love of dolls in the guise of being a “collector.”

Of course, as I grew up, my interests diversified. But I have always just loved dolls. I live in fear that my daughter will be a die hard tomboy and I won’t be able to live vicariously through her as she plays with her own dolls.

So for this week’s Materialistic Monday, you can just imagine how much I covet THIS:

Emily of Inside A Black Apple has long been one of my Etsy favorites. Her whimsical paintings are sweet but always with a bit of an edge. And the little characters she creates are so original and lovable. But she really won me over with her dolls. This new one is probably my favorite so far.

And just when you thought it couldn’t get any cuter…

Ohmygod it just did. I want ten please!

Sadly (for me) this one wasn’t for sale. It was made for a friend’s little girl. Kate Coveny, age nine, is currently writhing in jealously.

Here is another one that charmed me:

Seriously. A bear hat? I love it.

Even more frustrating, her wonderful dolls sell out of the shop within minutes (this seems to be a theme for my favorite Etsy stores…) So the chances of my ever getting a little blond one for my blond little girl – let alone buy one at all – are slim to none.

If I ever learn how to sew, I do have the option to make one. Check out her tutorial with Martha Stewart. Okay – since that’s never going to happen, maybe a friend will make one for me – I mean – Eleanor. So if you feel so inclined, my birthday is in April (come on – of course it’s for me!)

Never Underestimate the Power of a Girl

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As I mentioned in the introduction to my last guest post, Tuesday was a bad day. In fact, I even had a rough outline in my head for the post that I wanted to write about it. I also had a title: Working Mom Hell. But one day later – and one day not all that much better – I haven’t the energy or interest to write about how much Tuesday sucked. I already lived through it and I don’t particularly want to revisit it. My account would end up being all wacky and ironic and highlight the quirky traits of my children and paint me as the hilarious straight man… But that’s not how it felt. It felt bad. And not funny. And now I just want to forget it and move on.

And the way I get past the bad is to focus on the good. I am proud of this coping mechanism. It’s one that I worked hard to cultivate, having been prone to martyrish ways in my youth. But my usual “go to,” my kids, wouldn’t work this time. I was still feeling the shame of my bad mommy day, and thoughts of my angels would just lead me back to the same feelings of guilt that I was trying to put to rest.

Instead, I read my Aunt’s story about lying in bed at night and talking to her big sister. And I found myself remembering a time in my life when I was really happy. Carefree and full of hope and unapologetic for flaws that I didn’t yet recognize as faults. I was a senior in high school and for the first time ever, I felt comfortable in my own skin. And I had a great job: I was a big sister to girls. I wasn’t a biological big sister and I wasn’t a volunteer Big Sister – I was just a babysitter.

When I first met Margaret and Julia, I knew that they wouldn’t be like the toddlers and younger kids that I usually took care of. Margaret was ten and didn’t actually require supervision in those hours between the end of school and her mother’s return from work. But Julia was only seven, and Margaret wasn’t quite old enough for the responsibility of monitoring her little sister. I was hired to keep an eye on them, to make sure they did their homework and to put together something resembling dinner (usually fish sticks – not much has changed).

As I said, I had never taken care of kids their age before, and I was immediately struck by two things. First that it was EASY! I didn’t have to chase them around or carry them, and when I asked them to do something, they just did it without any boundary testing or power struggles. The second realization was that I was never bored. Not for a minute. Even when we were sitting around doing nothing, it was like spending time with friends. They liked to hear about my personal dramas and the scandalous gossip of my social circles. And I liked to hear about their younger version of the same.

Kate: “Did I tell you that I found my dress for prom?”

Margaret: “I want to see pictures. I just got a new mini skirt for the birthday party on Saturday.”

Kate: “Are you still going? I thought that you were in a fight with her.”

Margaret: “We made up. Did all of your friends get asked to prom?”

Kate: “Since I only have girls at my school, we don’t have to worry about getting asked to prom. We do the asking.”

Julia: “Look at the picture I drew of you in your prom dress. I gave you a crown and wings.”

Never a dull moment. At least as far as we were concerned. I loved my girls and probably spent half of my earnings on candy at the drug store that was a few blocks away (remember when we went to the “drug store” and not CVS, Rite Aide, etc.?) We would usually walk over and buy chocolate bars and sodas. Diet Coke for me and Coke Classic for them. Or maybe Mountain Dew or Dr. Pepper. They were still experimental about their treats.

I also took each of them out on dates a couple of times. Margaret and I went to see Joe Versus the Volcano and ate huge boxes of movie theater candy before the previews were over. Then Julia and I went to Swensons for ice cream sundaes. Now that I think of it – I was a very bad influence on them with the junk food (again – not much has changed).

Julia was still very much a little girl and would crack me up with her odd little ways and sayings. She loved to have her arms tickled while we watched TV and would say that it made her “all hotted up.” I asked her not to say that anymore – it just didn’t sound right. We were all too young to worry very much about embarrassing each other. Everything was taken in the way it was intended. Intentions were always good.

Margaret came home one day with this t-shirt she had decorated. She used glittery fabric paint to spell out “Never Underestimate the Power of a Girl.” Underneath were two stick figures, one pink and one blue to represent a girl and a boy. And between them was an “equals” sign (girl figure = boy figure). Julia and I agreed that the equals sign looked more like lasers that the stick figures were shooting at each other. Margaret couldn’t decide if she liked that idea better than her original vision.

I have a picture of the three of us. I’m sitting down with Margaret and Julia on either side of me. Margaret is wearing the t-shirt. I love that picture and I always look at that t-shirt: Never Underestimate the Power of a Girl. It reminds me of the girl that I once was – both at their age and at seventeen. I remember so much of my childhood, and how I felt. Maybe that’s why I enjoyed spending time with my young charges so much. I knew how they felt – I had been there.

Margaret and Julia kept me connected to the little girl that was still inside of me. I was leaving for college the next year, but I wasn’t really ready. I would rather have spent another year braiding Julia’s hair and telling Margaret about the parties I went to that weekend. Growing up was never easy for me. And it still isn’t. Being a good big sister is a lot more fun than being a bad mommy.

And I’m sure that when my kids are in college, I’ll look back and remember this whirlwind of IEP meetings, potty training and trying to balance work and family as a far “simpler time” than it seems to be right now. This is a pattern for me – looking back. But just as I learned to be more positive and not dwell on my shortcomings, I’ve also learned to look forward more. And to have a little faith in my ability to do well by myself and the people I love. My intentions are always good. And I never underestimate myself anymore.

Guest Post from Kate Coveny, Age Nine

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*Don’t forget to enter my jewelry giveaway from Lisa Leonard Designs! Click here for details.

My friend Jozette of Regardez Moi was supposed to guest post this week, but she had to postpone due to a busy weekend and an unexpected business trip (translation: she was too drunk/hung over this weekend and is using a business trip excuse to give her vague “too busy” plea a bit more credibility). Hi Jozette!

So you will have to wait a couple more weeks to hear from her. But it will be worth the wait. Aside from her obvious lack of priorities (I guess she didn’t get the “Kate is #1” memo), she’s a doll and I’m looking forward to seeing what she sends me.

Since Kate Coveny Hood isn’t feeling all that inspired… I thought I’d ask someone else to do a last minute guest post for me. Welcome to Kate Coveny, the nine year old I used to be. As I’m typing this I have no idea what she is going to say, but I’m fairly certain that it will be incredibly embarrassing for Kate Coveny Hood. Because you know – I was odd.


(Weird sepia tinted effect courtesy of the scanner at my office.)

Hello! Kate Coveny here. Before I tell you a little bit about myself, I’d like mention that I’m being translated into “thirty-six year old woman.” We felt that this would be more appropriate for the given audience. Plus – at nine years old, my vocabulary is limited and my spelling is atrocious.

That out of the way, I will now attempt to write a “blog post.” I have no idea what a blog is of course, but it sounds like the pen pal letters that we sometimes write in school. You tell me a little bit about you, I tell you a little bit about me…that kind of thing. I’m hoping that you don’t decide to tell me anything about [whispers] s-e-x because I just found out about that in the recent past and I’m still recovering from the shock. Please – there are some things that nine year old girls just don’t like to think about.

What I DO like to think about includes my dolls (yes – I still play with dolls, what of it?), art projects, cute small animals, and my favorite books. I love to read, and at the moment I particularly like anything written about “the olden days.” This would include All of a Kind Family, Betsy-Tacy, Little Women, anything illustrated by Tasha Tudor, and the Laura Ingalls Wilder “Little House” books. There are so many more – but these are at the top of my list right now. I found most of these books during “Library” at school while the boys were looking up dirty words in the dictionary (they are gross – feel free to talk to them about s-e-x).

At the moment, I have two best friends. I met both of them at my school, Annunciation. My first friend at Annunciation was Sheridan. Sheridan’s mom and my mom met at a school function shortly after we moved to DC last year. They set up a play date for us which is great for me since I’m really shy. Sheridan doesn’t like to play with dolls, but she does like cute small animals. Actually, her favorite animals are not small. Sheridan rides for the Rock Creek Park show team and knows EVERYTHING about horses. She is teaching all of this to me. Sometimes at recess, she quizzes me on horse anatomy and riding terminology. She is a strict teacher – but she says that I’m learning very quickly. Then we play horses using a jump rope for “reigns.” She likes to be the horse, which is fine with me because in my head I pretend that I’m Laura Ingalls Wilder. We play other things too, but right now, horses figure prominently in our friendship. We decided that we were best friends right away – even though I have a lot to learn about horses.

The next best friend I made at Annunciation was Madeline. She was new this year, and Sheridan is in a different classroom. When Madeline’s mother saw that I lived a few blocks away, she invited me over for a play date. Madeline is not interested in horses. Which is a nice change of pace. I think that one horse-crazy friend is enough. Madeline likes to play with dolls (like me!) She has two older sisters and two younger brothers and they all eat dinner at 5:00. This is REALLY EARLY! But Sister (the housekeeper – as in “keeper of all things in the house, including children”), is very strict about this rule. Sometimes, I am invited to stay, but sometimes I have to go home since she has enough to deal with already. Madeline’s sisters are teenagers and they’re both really, really pretty. They have lots of boyfriends and get dressed up to go out every weekend. Sometimes when they don’t go out, they put make up on Madeline and me. They say that Madeline will be the most beautiful of all of the sisters. Truth be told, this makes me a little jealous. I want to be the most beautiful of three sisters, but I just have one brother – and he doesn’t talk about which one of us will be the most beautiful.

I am not beautiful. But I have a lot of imagination. Madeline likes to play games with me because I am very good at pretending. At the moment, our favorite game is to pretend that we are The Borrowers, and that we are tiny. There is one tree that we like to climb and pretend it is a flower. Another game that we like to play is that we are orphans looking for our parents. As I write this, I realize that it doesn’t make any sense – but that’s the game. In the game, we both wear lockets that have pictures of our parents so that we will recognize them if we find them. I think that we may have gotten this idea from Annie, but I’m not sure. Sheridan doesn’t have much patience for these games, but she does like to play other pretend games like “School.” Guess who gets to be the teacher?

I like having two different best friends because they are fun in different ways. Someday I hope they like each other more, because it’s hard to have best friends that don’t like each other as much as they like me.*


(sepia tint with new and improved “lipstick” effect – again compliments of the scanner at work.
But I think I would have liked it at age nine – very “old fashioned” no?)

Well, I think that’s enough from nine year old Kate Coveny for now. As you can see she doesn’t really know how wrap it up (not that Kate Coveny Hood is much better). When I started this stream of consciousness inspired exercise, I didn’t plan to focus childhood friends. But it’s a topic that’s still very relevant to me. I have always believed that your friends say a lot about you as a person. I placed a great deal of value on my friendships as a child, and I still do. Instead of getting caught up in the group politics so common to young girls, I preferred to spend more time with individuals and focus on those friendships. The associated groups of friends were simply a byproduct.

I like to think that I had fun back then, but at the end of the day, I was a fairly serious girl. I gave a lot of thought to my choices, and generally chose to surround myself with interesting and amusing people. I’m happy to say that this is something that hasn’t changed. My current daydreams are less fanciful (I can promise you that I’m not wearing a bonnet or a tippet in any of them), but I still have them. And I choose to spend my time with people who help to inspire them. Hi there friends that are reading this! Just want to say that I love you.

*This was an unfounded concern of mine when I was nine. Once we were all in fifth grade together, Sheridan and Madeline became best friends. While I may have lamented my downgraded status at the time, I had some other best friends to fill the void. Relationships are complicated when you’re a nine year old girl. Almost thirty years later, these two women are still very dear to me. I don’t see them often, but they are like the sisters that I never had as a little girl. Those short paragraphs only provide a few details about their own little nine year old lives. I could easily write a book about either of them.