Growing up, there were a handful of albums that were always stacked on the record player (I know. So old. Shut up.): Cat Stevens, Simon and Garfunkel, Godspell, Pippin, Sesame Street Fever and Come on and Zoom.
Remember Zoom? I was never really into the show (it skewed older. I was--and still am-- a Sesame Street kid) but, man, I loved that album. The cover opened up like a book and had the lyrics to the songs printed inside. I spent hours listening to the music while studying the words and pictures (as I recall, the illustrations were amateurish and somewhat disturbing).
One of my favorite songs was a riddle called Fannee Doolee. Fannee Doolee hates to read, but she loves a good book. She hates to bake, but thinks it's fun to cook. And on and on. What's Fannee's deal? Why is everything about her a contradiction? It's revealed in the reprise: Fannee only loves things with double letters.
I found myself thinking about Fannee Doolee the other day when forced to recognize the pervasiveness of a major contradiction within myself: I won't back down from any argument but I shy away from confrontation. Or, in Fannee's terms, I hate to pick a fight but I do love to battle.
This is not a revelation. What was surprising was the ridiculous way in which my little quirk manifested itself this past week. The last time I was at our town's library (my favorite place in town), they told me I had two overdue books.
Impossible.
I take out at least twenty books for me and the kids each week, which-- as someone who hates to lose things-- I've always recognized as a potential disaster. In order to keep tabs on the books in the house, the kids and I long ago established a system. Okay, "system" is overstating it-- it's really just a reusable grocery bag (the library bag). If a book is not being read, it is in the bag.
I checked to see if maybe they reshelved the books without checking them in. Nope. Hmmm. A shadow of doubt crept in. I scoured the house and car but no books. Where could they be? It didn't make any sense.
Unwilling to admit defeat or face the circulation desk, I renewed the lost books online. And then.... I stayed away from the library.
So lame! Is a lost book even a conflict? What, exactly, was I avoiding? Finally, today, I went back to the library, checkbook in hand. But first I swung by the children's room one last time to check the shelf. And there were my missing books. Hah!
I hate to gloat but I do so love being correct.
Showing posts with label quirks. Show all posts
Showing posts with label quirks. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Only I Can Criticize Me!
I absolutely HATE making mistakes. As a child, if I were told off, I would recede into what my family called my "black mood" for hours at a time, unable to forgive myself or the messenger for calling attention to (gasp!) my faults. I have somewhat mellowed over the years but by a disappointingly small degree.
Last week I drove into the city (with all three children, during rush hour) to pick up my mother-in-law from the train station. Approaching a major intersection I found myself having to sneak between two city buses, the one on my right stationary and the one on my left moving. Realizing it was too narrow for me to comfortably squeeze through I stopped. Well! Cars behind me started sitting on their horns and the traffic cop at the intersection was blowing his whistle furiously and stamping his foot so STUPIDLY I drove through.
The next thing I knew there was a loud bang and my wing mirror flipped up (insert colourful language). So I pulled around the corner to inspect the damage and saw that happily the mirror was unscathed! I snapped it back into place and drove off to collect my mother-in-law.
The next day my husband came in from his run and asked me what the heck I had done to my car. What?!!! The entire right side was slightly scraped. At the time of the accident, in my relief over the state of the wing mirror,it didn't occur to me to check for other damage or file an accident report. Still, the damage wasn't so bad, just superficial. "It'll probably buff right out!" I assured my husband.
Long story short, the damage will cost almost $5000 to repair. Yes, that's three 0s. My husband sends me an email with the quote from Geico and quips, "Guess it WON'T just buff right out."
We've been married for 17 years. He REALLY should know better.
Last week I drove into the city (with all three children, during rush hour) to pick up my mother-in-law from the train station. Approaching a major intersection I found myself having to sneak between two city buses, the one on my right stationary and the one on my left moving. Realizing it was too narrow for me to comfortably squeeze through I stopped. Well! Cars behind me started sitting on their horns and the traffic cop at the intersection was blowing his whistle furiously and stamping his foot so STUPIDLY I drove through.
The next thing I knew there was a loud bang and my wing mirror flipped up (insert colourful language). So I pulled around the corner to inspect the damage and saw that happily the mirror was unscathed! I snapped it back into place and drove off to collect my mother-in-law.
The next day my husband came in from his run and asked me what the heck I had done to my car. What?!!! The entire right side was slightly scraped. At the time of the accident, in my relief over the state of the wing mirror,it didn't occur to me to check for other damage or file an accident report. Still, the damage wasn't so bad, just superficial. "It'll probably buff right out!" I assured my husband.
Long story short, the damage will cost almost $5000 to repair. Yes, that's three 0s. My husband sends me an email with the quote from Geico and quips, "Guess it WON'T just buff right out."
We've been married for 17 years. He REALLY should know better.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
One a Day
That's how many stink bugs I find in my house. Granted, one a day is way, way preferable to 50 all at once; but it is a little freaky to me that each day brings exactly one bug face off.
It's gotten to the point that I count on it. Like waiting for the other shoe to fall. If the kids have gone off to bed B.S.B (before stink bug), I know that one of them-- a child, not a bug-- will be downstairs before I can fast-forward through most of The Voice to tell me that they have spotted my foe in their room.
I think I've established that I don't like bugs. I'm not one of those chill, crunchy types who can take note of a bug in the house and then do nothing about it. And yet, paradoxically, I feel bad about killing them. Killing them myself, that is. I'd have the exterminator here weekly if I weren't worried about the cumulative effects of the chemicals on my kids and my dog. (There's a parallel to be drawn between that mental disconnect and how troops get sent into battle....)
Just stay out of my house, I beseech all of bugdom telepathically. I never even consider killing bugs that are outside. That's shared territory. It's when they come in and threaten to creepy crawl (or fly!) their way into our hair or our ears.... Well, that's when I feel compelled to act.
And then feel bad about it. The daily battle waged between my neuroses and irrational fears on the one side and my empathy for living creatures and fear of bad karma on the other is taking it's toll on me.
I don't know who said it first but, seriously, if the outdoors is so great, why do the bugs keep trying to come inside?
It's gotten to the point that I count on it. Like waiting for the other shoe to fall. If the kids have gone off to bed B.S.B (before stink bug), I know that one of them-- a child, not a bug-- will be downstairs before I can fast-forward through most of The Voice to tell me that they have spotted my foe in their room.
I think I've established that I don't like bugs. I'm not one of those chill, crunchy types who can take note of a bug in the house and then do nothing about it. And yet, paradoxically, I feel bad about killing them. Killing them myself, that is. I'd have the exterminator here weekly if I weren't worried about the cumulative effects of the chemicals on my kids and my dog. (There's a parallel to be drawn between that mental disconnect and how troops get sent into battle....)
Just stay out of my house, I beseech all of bugdom telepathically. I never even consider killing bugs that are outside. That's shared territory. It's when they come in and threaten to creepy crawl (or fly!) their way into our hair or our ears.... Well, that's when I feel compelled to act.
And then feel bad about it. The daily battle waged between my neuroses and irrational fears on the one side and my empathy for living creatures and fear of bad karma on the other is taking it's toll on me.
I don't know who said it first but, seriously, if the outdoors is so great, why do the bugs keep trying to come inside?
Friday, January 20, 2012
Can You Heal Me Now?
I'm the anti-Ziggy-- I can't function well with any kind of black cloud hanging over my head. A parking ticket at a (reported) broken meter? I have to drive straight to the police station to deal with it. An unacceptable Explanation of Benefits from the insurance company? I must immediately call the doctor's billing department to ensure that the proper codes are being resent.
If I can't fix (or at least try to fix) a problem it weighs on me, the noise of it filling my head like I've held my ear to a conch shell (*cough* Mental! *cough*). One Saturday last fall I received a jury summons to appear on a date that was unworkable and nearly ground my teeth to bits waiting for the court to open on Monday so I could talk to somebody about changing it...
... which explains why I simply had to call Verizon last night as soon as I realized that my blackberry was no longer able to send emails-- even though it was 5:30pm, the most consistently chaotic time of day in our house. Last night was no different. Worse even.
There was no quick fix for my phone, unfortunately, so while the Verizon Guy (VG) and I ran through diagnostic tests, I started to make dinner. Test email #1: Fail
One of my son's friends was an unexpected addition to our table and I was psyched that the meal I had planned was not only quick and easy to make but also picky-kid-friendly: BBQ chicken, garlic bread and salad. While VG walked me through the initial steps, I took out two baking sheets, lined them with foil, threw the marinated chicken under the broiler and spread garlic butter on the french bread. Smooth.
While I removed the battery and waited for the phone to reboot, I flipped the chicken and prepared the salad. Multitasking Master. Test email #2: Fail.
VG needed me to log in to the email settings function on my blackberry. I asked him to hold on a second while I gave the kids the five minute warning. Chicken out. Bread in.
What's my password? I took a stab at it and failed so VG had to reset the password as I typed it. That was tricky. Oh crap! The bread!
Keeping my cool with VG, I grabbed the charred bread and put it out on the porch so it wouldn't set off the smoke alarm. Two hungry boys materialized in the kitchen. Time to wash hands, I pantomimed, gesturing that my son should tell his sister to do the same. Test email #3: Fail.
VG decided that we should delete and reset the whole email account. I started to boil water for mac & cheese (to replace the bread), plated the chicken and salad, and poured three glasses of water. The kids took their seats and started to eat. Then my son's friend realized that my dog, who he is scared of, had escaped my room. I tried to entice the dog out from under the table. No dice. VG was amused. I finally managed to get her outside. Where I had put the burnt baguette. Whoops! I quickly went back outside and grabbed the (now cold) bread before her old nose could sniff it out.
While my blackberry started to synchronize, I threw in the mac and cheese. The dog barked to be let in. Holding the landline and the blackberry I went out on the porch, scooped up the dog and carried her back to my room. Still synchronizing....
The mac and cheese was ready just as VG wanted me to try another test. I needed a colander first. As I was about to pour out the pot I realized that I shouldn't use my usual colander because my son's friend is allergic to strawberries and there could be some risk of cross-contamination. Whew. That was a close one.
I doled out the pasta, dropping some on the still-hot burner where it sizzled menacingly, as VG and I waited for Test email#4: SUCCESS!
No more black cloud. And the kids all cleaned their plates. Sweet.
Clear Skies, Full Bellies, Can't Lose.
If I can't fix (or at least try to fix) a problem it weighs on me, the noise of it filling my head like I've held my ear to a conch shell (*cough* Mental! *cough*). One Saturday last fall I received a jury summons to appear on a date that was unworkable and nearly ground my teeth to bits waiting for the court to open on Monday so I could talk to somebody about changing it...
... which explains why I simply had to call Verizon last night as soon as I realized that my blackberry was no longer able to send emails-- even though it was 5:30pm, the most consistently chaotic time of day in our house. Last night was no different. Worse even.
There was no quick fix for my phone, unfortunately, so while the Verizon Guy (VG) and I ran through diagnostic tests, I started to make dinner. Test email #1: Fail
One of my son's friends was an unexpected addition to our table and I was psyched that the meal I had planned was not only quick and easy to make but also picky-kid-friendly: BBQ chicken, garlic bread and salad. While VG walked me through the initial steps, I took out two baking sheets, lined them with foil, threw the marinated chicken under the broiler and spread garlic butter on the french bread. Smooth.
While I removed the battery and waited for the phone to reboot, I flipped the chicken and prepared the salad. Multitasking Master. Test email #2: Fail.
VG needed me to log in to the email settings function on my blackberry. I asked him to hold on a second while I gave the kids the five minute warning. Chicken out. Bread in.
What's my password? I took a stab at it and failed so VG had to reset the password as I typed it. That was tricky. Oh crap! The bread!
Keeping my cool with VG, I grabbed the charred bread and put it out on the porch so it wouldn't set off the smoke alarm. Two hungry boys materialized in the kitchen. Time to wash hands, I pantomimed, gesturing that my son should tell his sister to do the same. Test email #3: Fail.
VG decided that we should delete and reset the whole email account. I started to boil water for mac & cheese (to replace the bread), plated the chicken and salad, and poured three glasses of water. The kids took their seats and started to eat. Then my son's friend realized that my dog, who he is scared of, had escaped my room. I tried to entice the dog out from under the table. No dice. VG was amused. I finally managed to get her outside. Where I had put the burnt baguette. Whoops! I quickly went back outside and grabbed the (now cold) bread before her old nose could sniff it out.
While my blackberry started to synchronize, I threw in the mac and cheese. The dog barked to be let in. Holding the landline and the blackberry I went out on the porch, scooped up the dog and carried her back to my room. Still synchronizing....
The mac and cheese was ready just as VG wanted me to try another test. I needed a colander first. As I was about to pour out the pot I realized that I shouldn't use my usual colander because my son's friend is allergic to strawberries and there could be some risk of cross-contamination. Whew. That was a close one.
I doled out the pasta, dropping some on the still-hot burner where it sizzled menacingly, as VG and I waited for Test email#4: SUCCESS!
No more black cloud. And the kids all cleaned their plates. Sweet.
Clear Skies, Full Bellies, Can't Lose.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Why I Overtip the School Bus Driver: Reason #437
I'm trying to break my son of a bad habit: he's starting to preface things with "No offense, but..." I first took note of this little verbal crutch while driving him and a couple of his friends to practice the other night.
"At recess I scored the winning touchdown because [the quarterback] saw that I was being covered by [another one of his classmates]. No offense, but he stinks and so I was basically wide open."
and then,
"No offense, but he's a total liar. He was definitely tagged."
On the spectrum of bad habits, this new one is not as disfiguring as nail biting (which he dabbles in) or as disgusting as nose picking (which, thankfully, to my knowledge, he does not) but it is way up there in terms of being-- for lack of a better word-- offensive.
I explained to my son and the other boys that saying "no offense" doesn't get you off the hook for whatever follows. In searching for an example that would illustrate the lesson without singling any one of them out, the best I could come up with was "What if I said to Lady Gaga 'No offense, but I don't think you are very pretty.'?"
Missing my point completely, one of the boys piped up "But she isn't pretty." He then started singing along to the radio, loudly changing the words of the Maroon 5 hit to "Boobs like Jagger." Hilarity ensued.
Third grade boys are so painfully lowbrow. No offense. (Ha! None taken. As if! They revel in it. Little buggers.)
"At recess I scored the winning touchdown because [the quarterback] saw that I was being covered by [another one of his classmates]. No offense, but he stinks and so I was basically wide open."
and then,
"No offense, but he's a total liar. He was definitely tagged."
On the spectrum of bad habits, this new one is not as disfiguring as nail biting (which he dabbles in) or as disgusting as nose picking (which, thankfully, to my knowledge, he does not) but it is way up there in terms of being-- for lack of a better word-- offensive.
I explained to my son and the other boys that saying "no offense" doesn't get you off the hook for whatever follows. In searching for an example that would illustrate the lesson without singling any one of them out, the best I could come up with was "What if I said to Lady Gaga 'No offense, but I don't think you are very pretty.'?"
Missing my point completely, one of the boys piped up "But she isn't pretty." He then started singing along to the radio, loudly changing the words of the Maroon 5 hit to "Boobs like Jagger." Hilarity ensued.
Third grade boys are so painfully lowbrow. No offense. (Ha! None taken. As if! They revel in it. Little buggers.)
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Feeding into the Crazy
I hate owing. Whether it be money, play dates or even simply borrowing books from the library, I am on a heightened sense of imbalance until I have exactly repaid my debt. Yes, I know, I'm crazy.
I've actually had to restrain myself among very close friends because it seems ridiculous not to let someone buy you a frappuccino on your birthday or host the play date two times in a row because it simply worked out that way. But even just writing this I can feel my back teeth grinding together in anxiety.
So IMAGINE my distress when my first grader lost 3 books from the book bag she brings home from school every week! Granted these books were the size and width of birthday cards so I'm willing to accept that they may have gone out with the recycling, but even being super careful the next week she lost two more! I felt physically sick. I searched high and low, knowing that they were in the house somewhere. I have never lost a book in my life, but this teacher is new to us; she doesn't know that!
Eventually I gave up and told Minx to return the remaining 5 books and we would replace the rest. Guess what?! When she got to school the teacher only found 4books in her bag! Aaaaaaaarghh!!! WTF? Seriously, if someone is playing a practical joke on me, stop right now! The men in the white coats are already knocking down my door.
I've actually had to restrain myself among very close friends because it seems ridiculous not to let someone buy you a frappuccino on your birthday or host the play date two times in a row because it simply worked out that way. But even just writing this I can feel my back teeth grinding together in anxiety.
So IMAGINE my distress when my first grader lost 3 books from the book bag she brings home from school every week! Granted these books were the size and width of birthday cards so I'm willing to accept that they may have gone out with the recycling, but even being super careful the next week she lost two more! I felt physically sick. I searched high and low, knowing that they were in the house somewhere. I have never lost a book in my life, but this teacher is new to us; she doesn't know that!
Eventually I gave up and told Minx to return the remaining 5 books and we would replace the rest. Guess what?! When she got to school the teacher only found 4books in her bag! Aaaaaaaarghh!!! WTF? Seriously, if someone is playing a practical joke on me, stop right now! The men in the white coats are already knocking down my door.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Zen, baby!
I just finished reading this excellent book called, "Buddha's Brain." It's written by a neuropsychologist and a neurologist and it basically explains how thoughts can physically shape your brain. Apparently, breakthroughs in modern neuroscience support the insights of people who have spent their lives meditating (like Buddha)so that you can actually re-program your brain to have a greater sense of well-being. Cool, right?!
I know it sounds a bit hippy but I am tired of always being angry about something. I actually have permanent frown lines. I'm tired of not sleeping. I'm tired of feeling restless and worrying about everything. Maybe this will help.
So I'm trying very hard to be present, to take deep breathes, throw back my shoulders and mediate for 5 minutes each day on something that happened that made me feel happy: Talking to my mom on the phone, the spontaneous hug Minx gave me when I made her breakfast, laughing over coffee with Weaselsnark (at someone else's expense - does that count?), the smell of rain ... I don't want to become the next Dalai Lama, I just want some peace of mind.
If you see me at the airport wearing a saffron robe and waving a marigold, you'll know I've taken it too far.
I know it sounds a bit hippy but I am tired of always being angry about something. I actually have permanent frown lines. I'm tired of not sleeping. I'm tired of feeling restless and worrying about everything. Maybe this will help.
So I'm trying very hard to be present, to take deep breathes, throw back my shoulders and mediate for 5 minutes each day on something that happened that made me feel happy: Talking to my mom on the phone, the spontaneous hug Minx gave me when I made her breakfast, laughing over coffee with Weaselsnark (at someone else's expense - does that count?), the smell of rain ... I don't want to become the next Dalai Lama, I just want some peace of mind.
If you see me at the airport wearing a saffron robe and waving a marigold, you'll know I've taken it too far.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Someday Is Not A Day Of The Week
There is an article in this month's Real Simple magazine about procrastinating and how to stop. I haven't got around to reading it yet but I plan to. It's very frustrating to know full-well what you have to do, whether it be sending an email to that long-neglected friend or cleaning out your closet of things you haven't worn for five years or more, or putting your family photos in an album, and yet still not be able to bring yourself to do it.
For example, my son really needs a tie for his first Communion. I tried one store, weeks ago, then gave up. He's probably going to end up wearing the Gryffindor tie that was part of his Halloween costume two years ago. Is that offensive? The Church of England refused to allow the Harry Potter films to be set in Canterbury Cathedral because of the witchcraft theme, so I'm assuming the Catholic church isn't too happy about it either.
Mostly I procrastinate when it's something I don't like doing. I would rather do almost anything else but grocery shop, for example, so sometimes we literally have nothing in the way of real food in our house. I'll finally get up the energy to go and then be diverted by the first phone call suggesting a coffee break. I'm not talking 'Glass Castle' here (no one actually goes hungry), but we've had Lean Pockets for dinner. Once or twice.
Other times I put off things that seem like they would require a lot of logistics; going away on a girls' weekend or learning how to play the guitar. I have nothing but admiration for people who know what they want and make it happen. I have good friends who are like that - how can they can stand me?!
So I'm going to read that article and see if I can motivate myself to be a more efficient, organized person. As soon as I've finished folding the laundry. And watching 'Iron Chef'...
For example, my son really needs a tie for his first Communion. I tried one store, weeks ago, then gave up. He's probably going to end up wearing the Gryffindor tie that was part of his Halloween costume two years ago. Is that offensive? The Church of England refused to allow the Harry Potter films to be set in Canterbury Cathedral because of the witchcraft theme, so I'm assuming the Catholic church isn't too happy about it either.
Mostly I procrastinate when it's something I don't like doing. I would rather do almost anything else but grocery shop, for example, so sometimes we literally have nothing in the way of real food in our house. I'll finally get up the energy to go and then be diverted by the first phone call suggesting a coffee break. I'm not talking 'Glass Castle' here (no one actually goes hungry), but we've had Lean Pockets for dinner. Once or twice.
Other times I put off things that seem like they would require a lot of logistics; going away on a girls' weekend or learning how to play the guitar. I have nothing but admiration for people who know what they want and make it happen. I have good friends who are like that - how can they can stand me?!
So I'm going to read that article and see if I can motivate myself to be a more efficient, organized person. As soon as I've finished folding the laundry. And watching 'Iron Chef'...
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Collect Calls
I'm no anthropologist, but there's got to be something primal about collecting stuff.
Whether intended or not, we all have collections-- it might be shoes, cars, jeans, art, tea cups, snowglobes or tsotchkes. Some people pursue their collections (picking up a magnet in each city they visit, say), others have collections thrust upon them (I saw this frog and thought of you since you have so many frog things...).
My weakness is toys. Toy makers are no dummies. They know that the real money is to be made not from the one-time toy purchase but from the repeat customer, the collector. So Snoopy gets a wardrobe. And Matchbox manufactures every make and model. And Hello Kitty-- is there anything you can't get these days with Hello Kitty on it? I wish I could go back in time with a trunk of today's Hello Kitty loot and make my seven-year-old-self's day.
Back when my son was into Thomas the Tank Engine, he played with the wooden trains all the time. And we collected them. I say we because I think I was just as into adding new trains as he was. What collection would be complete without Daisy? Or Spencer? Or Diesel 10? But, man, there was always another overpriced train being released. When I realized that they were using the TV show to introduce this endless parade of new trains my cynicism (finally) took over. Fortunately, at around that time, my son's interests moved on. (Baseball and football cards have yet to draw me in)
My daughter has about 20 active collections. Littlest Pet Shops. Boos. Webkinz. Pandas.
For her birthday last year we gave her one of those Charm-It charm bracelets. I figured it would appeal to her on many levels: jewelry, adorable miniatures, collecting things.... But I think I was just projecting. The other day I was at the toy store and was checking out the spindle of charms. (They always have new ones and some are ridiculously awesome.) And, lo and behold, there it was! Finally! A panda charm. I think I actually squealed. The intersection of two collections? Priceless. Right? Right?
I called my daughter over, figuring she'd go nuts. Eh. Not so much. She used her store credit on (yet another) stuffed animal.
Whether intended or not, we all have collections-- it might be shoes, cars, jeans, art, tea cups, snowglobes or tsotchkes. Some people pursue their collections (picking up a magnet in each city they visit, say), others have collections thrust upon them (I saw this frog and thought of you since you have so many frog things...).
My weakness is toys. Toy makers are no dummies. They know that the real money is to be made not from the one-time toy purchase but from the repeat customer, the collector. So Snoopy gets a wardrobe. And Matchbox manufactures every make and model. And Hello Kitty-- is there anything you can't get these days with Hello Kitty on it? I wish I could go back in time with a trunk of today's Hello Kitty loot and make my seven-year-old-self's day.
Back when my son was into Thomas the Tank Engine, he played with the wooden trains all the time. And we collected them. I say we because I think I was just as into adding new trains as he was. What collection would be complete without Daisy? Or Spencer? Or Diesel 10? But, man, there was always another overpriced train being released. When I realized that they were using the TV show to introduce this endless parade of new trains my cynicism (finally) took over. Fortunately, at around that time, my son's interests moved on. (Baseball and football cards have yet to draw me in)
My daughter has about 20 active collections. Littlest Pet Shops. Boos. Webkinz. Pandas.
For her birthday last year we gave her one of those Charm-It charm bracelets. I figured it would appeal to her on many levels: jewelry, adorable miniatures, collecting things.... But I think I was just projecting. The other day I was at the toy store and was checking out the spindle of charms. (They always have new ones and some are ridiculously awesome.) And, lo and behold, there it was! Finally! A panda charm. I think I actually squealed. The intersection of two collections? Priceless. Right? Right?
I called my daughter over, figuring she'd go nuts. Eh. Not so much. She used her store credit on (yet another) stuffed animal.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Private Practice
My husband has taken the kids on a couple of overnight ski trips recently and I have been left alone for the first time in 10 years. I am not good when left alone: I take liberties. Remember that Saturday Night Live spoof of the movie "Ghost"? Sam's ghost comes back to visit Molly who, because she believes she is alone, is wondering around the apartment in dirty sweats, farting and picking her nose.
OK, I'm not THAT bad, but standards are definitely slipping. Tonight I ate a nutritionally suspect dinner. At 5:45. In front of the TV. Wearing my pajamas. I planned to watch a dreadful chick flick until I remembered I don't like chick flicks, so I watched "The Social Network" instead. Still, my husband didn't want to see it (it doesn't involve either the mafia or Clint Eastwood)so it's a victory. It was actually pretty good.
These experiences have given me a fairly accurate insight into what my life might look like if I were single. Not sure I would appreciate this lack of structure on a long-term basis. So now I'm going to go to bed early and tomorrow I'll get up late. Then, I guess I'll get my festively-plump self to the gym. Before I'm tempted to buy a cat.
OK, I'm not THAT bad, but standards are definitely slipping. Tonight I ate a nutritionally suspect dinner. At 5:45. In front of the TV. Wearing my pajamas. I planned to watch a dreadful chick flick until I remembered I don't like chick flicks, so I watched "The Social Network" instead. Still, my husband didn't want to see it (it doesn't involve either the mafia or Clint Eastwood)so it's a victory. It was actually pretty good.
These experiences have given me a fairly accurate insight into what my life might look like if I were single. Not sure I would appreciate this lack of structure on a long-term basis. So now I'm going to go to bed early and tomorrow I'll get up late. Then, I guess I'll get my festively-plump self to the gym. Before I'm tempted to buy a cat.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Wait a Minute Mr. Postman
Before we firmly shut the door on the idea of baby #3, I spent an inordinate amount of time weighing the pros and cons of adding to our brood. I'm somewhat ashamed to admit that some of the "pros" I gave considerable weight to were purely silly, superficial things-- like getting to come up with a name for the new baby and that small window of time after the baby is born during which you feel like you have real news and people send you lots of presents.
I do so love getting mail.
With each of my kids, it felt like something new arrived every day. Until he could read, my son called the UPS truck "the Present Truck," because UPS brought something for his then baby sister practically every day for like two months (okay, it was probably only a few weeks--infant months are like dog years).
You get spoiled. I remember feeling more than a little dejected as the flow of gifts started to trickle.... and then stop. It was Post-partum depression (see what I did there? Post, like mail? I'm here all week).
Which brings us to the New Year. It's happening. It's over. The boom days are behind us.... not a single holiday card in the mail today. And no more packages from Amazon left by my garage (it doesn't matter that all those packages arriving daily in December were things purchased by me, they were PACKAGES!).
Talk about winter doldrums.
I do so love getting mail.
With each of my kids, it felt like something new arrived every day. Until he could read, my son called the UPS truck "the Present Truck," because UPS brought something for his then baby sister practically every day for like two months (okay, it was probably only a few weeks--infant months are like dog years).
You get spoiled. I remember feeling more than a little dejected as the flow of gifts started to trickle.... and then stop. It was Post-partum depression (see what I did there? Post, like mail? I'm here all week).
Which brings us to the New Year. It's happening. It's over. The boom days are behind us.... not a single holiday card in the mail today. And no more packages from Amazon left by my garage (it doesn't matter that all those packages arriving daily in December were things purchased by me, they were PACKAGES!).
Talk about winter doldrums.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Bare Naked Ladies
I could write a book about the weird things women do in gym changing rooms. Now, in the interest of full disclosure, I have to admit upfront that I am a class-A prude. If I shower at the gym I'll walk into the stall fully dressed, close the curtain and then disrobe. Getting dressed afterwards is always a lesson in "less haste, more speed" as I frantically try to don my ENTIRE ensemble in 0.8 seconds without slipping, tripping or otherwise drawing attention to myself in any way, while simultaneously clutching my towel with one hand.
Most of the other ladies are very free and comfortable with their bodies and to them I say, good on ya, mate! There is a lot of naked toing and froing between lockers and showers and mirrors, whatever the shape and size. Even some who REALLY shouldn't be displaying the Full Monty deserve credit for sheer chutzpah. OK that's a poor choice of words! I just mean that they are fearless.
However, I do object to those who go out of their way to be naked when there's absolutely no need: Example (1) The woman who stood in front of the mirror putting on make-up, wearing nothing but socks; Example (2) The woman who stood with one leg up on the bench and blow-dried (blew-dry?) her private parts; and DEFINITELY example (3) The woman who used one of those paper perfume samples from a magazine to freshen up her scent where the sun don't shine. Ouch.
I wonder if the equivalent goes on in the men's changing room ... Ew.
Most of the other ladies are very free and comfortable with their bodies and to them I say, good on ya, mate! There is a lot of naked toing and froing between lockers and showers and mirrors, whatever the shape and size. Even some who REALLY shouldn't be displaying the Full Monty deserve credit for sheer chutzpah. OK that's a poor choice of words! I just mean that they are fearless.
However, I do object to those who go out of their way to be naked when there's absolutely no need: Example (1) The woman who stood in front of the mirror putting on make-up, wearing nothing but socks; Example (2) The woman who stood with one leg up on the bench and blow-dried (blew-dry?) her private parts; and DEFINITELY example (3) The woman who used one of those paper perfume samples from a magazine to freshen up her scent where the sun don't shine. Ouch.
I wonder if the equivalent goes on in the men's changing room ... Ew.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Shalloween
As a kid, come October 1st, Halloween loomed large. We couldn't wait for my mom to take down the Big Bag o' Halloween Stuff. In addition to the beloved, well-worn (and well scotch-taped) pictures of pumpkins, black cats and bats, there were various dress-up accessories to inspire us in our annual costume selection.
My mother assures me that I was an imaginative child, but for some reason I tended to cling to the same costume ideas over and over. I was a rabbit in feety pajamas (accessory = plush headband with ears) for at least three years in a row. And when I wasn't hippity-hopping, I was almost always a gypsy (gold hoop earring) or a pirate (very cool hook and sword).
My mom was down on store-bought costumes. Fortunately for her, we never really thought to think beyond the realm of The Bag.
This year I could have used The Bag: my daughter just couldn't make up her mind as to what she wanted to be.
First she wanted to be a dog.
Then she wanted to be a dog dressed as a clown.
Now she is going to be her Zumbuddy. A Zumbuddy is a Webkinz butterfly. Sort of. Not surprisingly, there's no store bought option for something practically nobody has ever heard of. And so, I'm making her costume.
We're not talking about any heavy duty pattern making or sewing. There's just a whole lot of felt, fabric glue and purple cellophane. I've actually been having fun. The only problem is that I'm a control freak and my daughter wants to help. She attacked the felt with the craft scissors and actually did a pretty good job (for a five year old) of recreating the emblem that emblazons the chest of her Zumbuddy. But I could do better.
It's like a cartoon with the angel version of me perched on one shoulder, the devil on the other.
Angel: It's her costume! How wonderful that she had a hand in making it! It's not perfect but it's hers!
Devil: Ugh. It looks terrible. It will undermine all the other work you've done. You have to redo it. Throw hers away while she's asleep.
Angel: (sharp intake of breath, aghast)
Devil: MWA-HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
So.... my daughter will be a slightly less than perfect Zumbuddy for Halloween. Until then, I'll be smothering my controlling urges with peanut butter cups and milky ways.
My mother assures me that I was an imaginative child, but for some reason I tended to cling to the same costume ideas over and over. I was a rabbit in feety pajamas (accessory = plush headband with ears) for at least three years in a row. And when I wasn't hippity-hopping, I was almost always a gypsy (gold hoop earring) or a pirate (very cool hook and sword).
My mom was down on store-bought costumes. Fortunately for her, we never really thought to think beyond the realm of The Bag.
This year I could have used The Bag: my daughter just couldn't make up her mind as to what she wanted to be.
First she wanted to be a dog.
Then she wanted to be a dog dressed as a clown.
Now she is going to be her Zumbuddy. A Zumbuddy is a Webkinz butterfly. Sort of. Not surprisingly, there's no store bought option for something practically nobody has ever heard of. And so, I'm making her costume.
We're not talking about any heavy duty pattern making or sewing. There's just a whole lot of felt, fabric glue and purple cellophane. I've actually been having fun. The only problem is that I'm a control freak and my daughter wants to help. She attacked the felt with the craft scissors and actually did a pretty good job (for a five year old) of recreating the emblem that emblazons the chest of her Zumbuddy. But I could do better.
It's like a cartoon with the angel version of me perched on one shoulder, the devil on the other.
Angel: It's her costume! How wonderful that she had a hand in making it! It's not perfect but it's hers!
Devil: Ugh. It looks terrible. It will undermine all the other work you've done. You have to redo it. Throw hers away while she's asleep.
Angel: (sharp intake of breath, aghast)
Devil: MWA-HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
So.... my daughter will be a slightly less than perfect Zumbuddy for Halloween. Until then, I'll be smothering my controlling urges with peanut butter cups and milky ways.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Not That There's Anything Wrong With It
Five telltale signs that I am a housewife:
1. I have three supermarket tags and a gym pass on my keyring.
2. I own a crock pot.
3. I have tendinitis in my right hand, which mysteriously disappeared when we went on vacation (no cooking, laundry, driving - yes, I grip the steering wheel THAT hard) and is now back with a vengeance.
4. In the trunk of my car I have a first aid kit.
5. The highlight of my week was seeing Bill Clinton this morning (why, oh why, wasn't I wearing any makeup???)
1. I have three supermarket tags and a gym pass on my keyring.
2. I own a crock pot.
3. I have tendinitis in my right hand, which mysteriously disappeared when we went on vacation (no cooking, laundry, driving - yes, I grip the steering wheel THAT hard) and is now back with a vengeance.
4. In the trunk of my car I have a first aid kit.
5. The highlight of my week was seeing Bill Clinton this morning (why, oh why, wasn't I wearing any makeup???)
She's a Very Freaky Girl
Newsflash: It turns out I'm a huge control freak.
I guess there were always signs-- I never liked group projects; I thought that, for the most part, meetings were a colossal waste of time; and I nearly always regretted delegating anything that required brain power (if you want something done right...).
But before I had kids I think I was like Sally Albright-- I was the worst kind of control freak: I was high maintenance but I thought I was low maintenance.
Having kids has forced me to recognize how pervasive my need for control is.
A baby is the ultimate enabler-- you have to control practically every aspect of that little thing's life in order for it to survive. So, yeah, I had a chart to keep track of feedings (and diaper changes). And at least six books on how to regulate sleep schedules (ha!). And baby gates. And outlet plugs.
As the baby grows, the control freak muscle adds additional daily workouts-- keeping track of the whereabouts of every resident of the Little People farm, each Sassy pop bead, and that week's must-have lovey.
Spotting danger becomes a full-time job. I'm convinced that most "helicopter" moms are not so much worried about their children getting hurt as consumed by how angry they will be at themselves for having seen the problem ahead of time and not having done anything to avoid it. Or.... maybe that's just me.
But I'm realizing that I have to be willing to relinquish control in order to let my kids grow up. They now live their lives wholly separately from me for hours at a time. And they are just fine. Thriving even.
I still see danger everywhere (watching my five year old learn how to ride a bike without training wheels was tight-shouldered, clenched teeth agony for me, even though she didn't fall once). And I have yet to make my kids assume control of certain aspects of their lives-- packing their schoolbags and making sure they have the right gear/books/etc is a particularly glaring one. But I'm getting there.
I'm even getting a teeny bit better at controlling myself. The other day I wrote a long email to my son's teacher to give her what I considered helpful information about his work, his personality, and how best to motivate him.
And then I realized that I was trying to micro-manage things. That he and his teacher can-- and will-- figure it all out for themselves. I hit discard. It was kind of exhilarating.
I guess there were always signs-- I never liked group projects; I thought that, for the most part, meetings were a colossal waste of time; and I nearly always regretted delegating anything that required brain power (if you want something done right...).
But before I had kids I think I was like Sally Albright-- I was the worst kind of control freak: I was high maintenance but I thought I was low maintenance.
Having kids has forced me to recognize how pervasive my need for control is.
A baby is the ultimate enabler-- you have to control practically every aspect of that little thing's life in order for it to survive. So, yeah, I had a chart to keep track of feedings (and diaper changes). And at least six books on how to regulate sleep schedules (ha!). And baby gates. And outlet plugs.
As the baby grows, the control freak muscle adds additional daily workouts-- keeping track of the whereabouts of every resident of the Little People farm, each Sassy pop bead, and that week's must-have lovey.
Spotting danger becomes a full-time job. I'm convinced that most "helicopter" moms are not so much worried about their children getting hurt as consumed by how angry they will be at themselves for having seen the problem ahead of time and not having done anything to avoid it. Or.... maybe that's just me.
But I'm realizing that I have to be willing to relinquish control in order to let my kids grow up. They now live their lives wholly separately from me for hours at a time. And they are just fine. Thriving even.
I still see danger everywhere (watching my five year old learn how to ride a bike without training wheels was tight-shouldered, clenched teeth agony for me, even though she didn't fall once). And I have yet to make my kids assume control of certain aspects of their lives-- packing their schoolbags and making sure they have the right gear/books/etc is a particularly glaring one. But I'm getting there.
I'm even getting a teeny bit better at controlling myself. The other day I wrote a long email to my son's teacher to give her what I considered helpful information about his work, his personality, and how best to motivate him.
And then I realized that I was trying to micro-manage things. That he and his teacher can-- and will-- figure it all out for themselves. I hit discard. It was kind of exhilarating.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Keep Your Sniglets to Yourself
The kids go to school for six hours a day. I go for one, sometimes two.
[It turns out that getting a new empty-nester to over-commit to the PTA is easier than beating a five year old at Scrabble.]
So... I sit through lots of committee meetings. Aside from the Type A(holes), the only part I actually mind is that the meetings are generally held in the school's cafetorium. {shudder}
You see, sometimes it's the cafeteria, sometimes it's the auditorium. Hey, I know! Let's give it a name that drives that point home. Cafetorium! It's like Bennifer! Or Brangelina! Ugh. I simply can. not. stand. the. word. I don't like saying it and I don't like hearing it. And I've been hearing it way too much lately.
So, it goes on the list-- right between phlegm and moisten.
And, also, jeggings.
Why are there leggings that look like jeans anyway? And, furthermore, why are there pajamas that look like jeans? Who wants to wear jeans to bed?
[It turns out that getting a new empty-nester to over-commit to the PTA is easier than beating a five year old at Scrabble.]
So... I sit through lots of committee meetings. Aside from the Type A(holes), the only part I actually mind is that the meetings are generally held in the school's cafetorium. {shudder}
You see, sometimes it's the cafeteria, sometimes it's the auditorium. Hey, I know! Let's give it a name that drives that point home. Cafetorium! It's like Bennifer! Or Brangelina! Ugh. I simply can. not. stand. the. word. I don't like saying it and I don't like hearing it. And I've been hearing it way too much lately.
So, it goes on the list-- right between phlegm and moisten.
And, also, jeggings.
Why are there leggings that look like jeans anyway? And, furthermore, why are there pajamas that look like jeans? Who wants to wear jeans to bed?
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Blog, Featuring Extreme Wit
You know what word I love? "Featuring". It has replaced it's homely and uninspiring cousin, "with". "Featuring" gets added to product descriptions in order to boost gravitas and it has all sorts of applications. Musicians use it: "Eminem featuring Rihanna", "Jay-Z featuring Alicia Keys". It's a selling-point for DVDs: "with extras featuring cast interviews!". I went out to dinner the other night and all the evening's specials were [meat] "featuring" a balsamic vinegar reduction, picked radishes, raspberry coulis, etc. I even discovered a Cold Stone ice cream concoction that "features" M&Ms (not to be confused with Eminem -NOT tasty). I was only at Cold Stone for empirical purposes btw.
I wonder what would happen if I started adding the word to my everyday vocab to spice things up a bit. "Today's schedule will feature a mid-afternoon nap."
"What's for lunch, mom?" "Turkey roll ups, featuring baby carrots and drinkable yogurts."
"Please excuse my appearance. I'm featuring a giant pimple in the middle of my mono-brow at the moment. You can leave if you're grossed out or stay and feel better about your own face."
It's risky - like "awesome" it may become diluted with overuse - but I think I'll give it a spin.
I wonder what would happen if I started adding the word to my everyday vocab to spice things up a bit. "Today's schedule will feature a mid-afternoon nap."
"What's for lunch, mom?" "Turkey roll ups, featuring baby carrots and drinkable yogurts."
"Please excuse my appearance. I'm featuring a giant pimple in the middle of my mono-brow at the moment. You can leave if you're grossed out or stay and feel better about your own face."
It's risky - like "awesome" it may become diluted with overuse - but I think I'll give it a spin.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Watching You Watching Me
We took the kids to a water park today. It turned out to be the best place to spend a 100 degree day. We all had a great time.
Part of the fun for me--as is always the case when I go to any amusement park-- was the people watching. Bathing suits only add to the fun.
I remember going to Hershey a few months after I had my little one. We left the baby at home with her grandparents so that we could make the trip something special for the new big brother. I was still wearing maternity pants and just felt all loose and gross and doughy. Because the baby wasn't with me, I was worried that nobody would know why I was all squishy.
[Remember, we've already established that I'm crazy and think people are actually paying attention to me and the things I do.]
To my post-partum delight, at Hershey my not-quite-fighting weight still qualified me for "lookin' good!" status.
There's not a lot of middle ground at amusement parks from what I've observed. Generally, people seem to fall into one of two camps-- either they are a Jack Spratt-type or they look more like his wife.
But it's not the relative sizes that are interesting. It's the pairings. And the ink. And the piercings. And the clothing choices. And the children (or are they siblings?). There are so many stories going on. As I wait on line I try to figure them all out. Sometimes I just try to take it all in and enjoy the show.
And, like I said before, throwing bathing suits into the mix takes the whole thing to another level.
We left all our dry stuff in a locker near the entrance to the park, which meant we spent the whole day in our suits. Evidently, I do not have the self-esteem that some park-goers have: I wore a simple one-piece with a rash guard over it so as not to actually catch on fire.
Because everyone is in a bathing suit you get used to being in one pretty quickly. We even ate our lunch--inside, at a table-- in our wet bathing suits. As we were leaving the restaurant, a large table near the door burst into laughter. The crazy me assumed for a second that they were laughing at me. Wait, that can't be, I reassured myself, because I'm practically wearing a burka and, besides, all the parts that are showing are my best parts.
Not so fast Private Johnson.
Turns out my inventory of parts was incomplete. A minute later my husband came out and informed me that my bathing suit had split up the back. ACK!
All the SPF and rash guards in the world couldn't save me from the color red I turned. I can only hope that it happened at lunch and not earlier (as in before I had climbed into inner tubes and onto water slides). Fingers crossed that all phones and cameras were safely tucked away in lockers.
Sigh. I'm going to be wincing about this for months.
Of course this only feeds the crazy. You're not paranoid if it turns out people actually are talking about you.
Part of the fun for me--as is always the case when I go to any amusement park-- was the people watching. Bathing suits only add to the fun.
I remember going to Hershey a few months after I had my little one. We left the baby at home with her grandparents so that we could make the trip something special for the new big brother. I was still wearing maternity pants and just felt all loose and gross and doughy. Because the baby wasn't with me, I was worried that nobody would know why I was all squishy.
[Remember, we've already established that I'm crazy and think people are actually paying attention to me and the things I do.]
To my post-partum delight, at Hershey my not-quite-fighting weight still qualified me for "lookin' good!" status.
There's not a lot of middle ground at amusement parks from what I've observed. Generally, people seem to fall into one of two camps-- either they are a Jack Spratt-type or they look more like his wife.
But it's not the relative sizes that are interesting. It's the pairings. And the ink. And the piercings. And the clothing choices. And the children (or are they siblings?). There are so many stories going on. As I wait on line I try to figure them all out. Sometimes I just try to take it all in and enjoy the show.
And, like I said before, throwing bathing suits into the mix takes the whole thing to another level.
We left all our dry stuff in a locker near the entrance to the park, which meant we spent the whole day in our suits. Evidently, I do not have the self-esteem that some park-goers have: I wore a simple one-piece with a rash guard over it so as not to actually catch on fire.
Because everyone is in a bathing suit you get used to being in one pretty quickly. We even ate our lunch--inside, at a table-- in our wet bathing suits. As we were leaving the restaurant, a large table near the door burst into laughter. The crazy me assumed for a second that they were laughing at me. Wait, that can't be, I reassured myself, because I'm practically wearing a burka and, besides, all the parts that are showing are my best parts.
Not so fast Private Johnson.
Turns out my inventory of parts was incomplete. A minute later my husband came out and informed me that my bathing suit had split up the back. ACK!
All the SPF and rash guards in the world couldn't save me from the color red I turned. I can only hope that it happened at lunch and not earlier (as in before I had climbed into inner tubes and onto water slides). Fingers crossed that all phones and cameras were safely tucked away in lockers.
Sigh. I'm going to be wincing about this for months.
Of course this only feeds the crazy. You're not paranoid if it turns out people actually are talking about you.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Less is Less (or is it fewer?)
When my son was a baby and first started using bottles, I dug up a three-pack that someone had given me. The whole supplementing with formula thing took some pressure off, but I was always washing one or drying one or matching up the pieces (all to the soundtrack of my son wailing). Eventually, I realized that this was a stress I could relieve and that the solution was both easy and obvious: buy more bottles.
Then we moved on to solid food. But before I could serve dinner I'd have to wash the Thomas the Tank Engine plate by hand because the Elmo plate (our only other) was in the dishwasher. It took me a month or so, but I eventually had the same epiphany: buy more plates.
Evidently, I am not a quick study. I've had to relearn the "sometimes more is more" lesson over and over again: wipes, sippy cups, drinking cups, washcloths, underwear, reusable lunch containers, running clothes, and, most recently, socks.
But, what's this? Is it possible I may be getting slightly better at identifying a problem (or my problems)? After a mere two days of our summer schedule-- camp in the morning and pool in the afternoon-- I'm thinking I may need a few more rash guards. And maybe some extra bottles of sunscreen.
You know, so far I've been lucky: the things I've needed to make my life easier and less stressful have all been available in bulk or at a reasonable cost. Well, except babysitters. And masseurs.
Then we moved on to solid food. But before I could serve dinner I'd have to wash the Thomas the Tank Engine plate by hand because the Elmo plate (our only other) was in the dishwasher. It took me a month or so, but I eventually had the same epiphany: buy more plates.
Evidently, I am not a quick study. I've had to relearn the "sometimes more is more" lesson over and over again: wipes, sippy cups, drinking cups, washcloths, underwear, reusable lunch containers, running clothes, and, most recently, socks.
But, what's this? Is it possible I may be getting slightly better at identifying a problem (or my problems)? After a mere two days of our summer schedule-- camp in the morning and pool in the afternoon-- I'm thinking I may need a few more rash guards. And maybe some extra bottles of sunscreen.
You know, so far I've been lucky: the things I've needed to make my life easier and less stressful have all been available in bulk or at a reasonable cost. Well, except babysitters. And masseurs.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Food Court
I don’t keep a lot of junk food in the house, but it’s not for any of the reasons you’d suspect.
Sure, I aspire to a healthy lifestyle for my whole family. And, yes, I want to avoid sweet (and salty) temptations.
But, as I realized recently, the main reason my pantry is so paltry is that I think other people at the grocery store judge me by what’s in my cart. What kind of crazy is that? Narcissism? Paranoia?
It’s not like I care, or even notice, what other people have in their carts. (Although I will admit that I like to pass my time in line by trying to guess—from the items on the conveyor belt-- what someone is making for dinner.)
So… want to know where my virtuous, whole grain, no HFCS, rainbow coalition of organic fruits and veggies-filled cart gets me? Desperate for a chocolate fix, I’ve been reduced to scrounging through baking supplies for a handful of semi-sweet morsels. And, more pathetically (or-- a better spin-- more ingeniously!), I’ve now stuck some of those same morsels into a spoonful of peanut butter for an ersatz Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup.
Would it be weird to ask my neighbor for a cup of cookies?
Sure, I aspire to a healthy lifestyle for my whole family. And, yes, I want to avoid sweet (and salty) temptations.
But, as I realized recently, the main reason my pantry is so paltry is that I think other people at the grocery store judge me by what’s in my cart. What kind of crazy is that? Narcissism? Paranoia?
It’s not like I care, or even notice, what other people have in their carts. (Although I will admit that I like to pass my time in line by trying to guess—from the items on the conveyor belt-- what someone is making for dinner.)
So… want to know where my virtuous, whole grain, no HFCS, rainbow coalition of organic fruits and veggies-filled cart gets me? Desperate for a chocolate fix, I’ve been reduced to scrounging through baking supplies for a handful of semi-sweet morsels. And, more pathetically (or-- a better spin-- more ingeniously!), I’ve now stuck some of those same morsels into a spoonful of peanut butter for an ersatz Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup.
Would it be weird to ask my neighbor for a cup of cookies?
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