I do lost. I do it brilliantly. It is, in point of fact, one of my greatest skills.
My sister has complained that after living in and around a certain major metropolitan area since, oh, say, the day I was born, I probably ought to know where its neighborhoods lie and how they connect to each other.
I do not. I get lost. Even in the city of my birth.
And gee, that's fun.
On Saturday I dragged my two youngest kids to the biggest mall in our area. A great big outlet style mall. Big, big parking lot. So big, in fact, that it features valet parking at three different entrances.
I know my own deficiencies. So whenever I go anywhere - work, the grocery store, the colossal mall with 87 movie theaters - I park in the same place. Always. I pick one favorite row. I know where it is. I walk down it until I find my car.
Brilliant, right? It works every time.
Unless, of course, said mall has decided to do massive construction on its parking lots. Hence the valet parking. Because there is no parking. None.
I don't pay to park at the mall. There's a sort of ridiculousness in paying to park when you're paying to shop. So we avoided the valet and, after driving around for 15 minutes, lucked into a little, hard-to-find space as someone else was leaving it. The space was not in my row. It was in the unfamiliar hinterlands. I made a mental note that the car would not be where I expected it to be. I studied landmarks. I asked my kids to help. Then we bravely left our little car to fend for itself.
In the mall, I dropped insane amounts of money on child-sized fall clothes. I'm not sure why my kids keep growing out of stuff. Possibly it's because they're kids. Oh, but I found a pair of dress pants I could wear to work, to replace all the ones I don't have anymore. And they were a size 4. 4! I'm not even kidding.
But I digress.
I got a text at that point to come pick up my oldest from his playdate. So we trucked back around the mall loaded down with our big bags of stuff, exited ... and spent 40 minutes trolling the parking lot for our red minivan that looks just like every other red minivan in this part of the world. Ours wasn't there. I pressed my panic button. No answering honk. I pressed it again. And again and again and again. Still no honk.
So we went back in the mall. Where we realized we'd come out the wrong door.
When we went out the right door, we found the car, right where we left it. So we got in it and drove straight home.
Or we would have. Except I got lost doing that too.
That'll teach me to leave the GPS at home.
Showing posts with label lessons learned. Show all posts
Showing posts with label lessons learned. Show all posts
September 29, 2011
November 18, 2010
Lice, the Universe and Everything
There is a certain, very specific brand of ooginess that washes over you when you're brushing your hair and notice that the little gray speck that just floated down to your shoulder, and which you thought might be a dandruff flake or bit of dust, is moving. All on its own. In fact, the damn thing has legs. Six teeny tiny oogy little legs.
We have lice. And that speck was a nymph.
I squished it. And I flushed it. And then I dragged my itchy, scratchy kids upstairs and bathed them in pyrethrum.
Did you know that stuff is made from chrysanthemums?
You learn a lot when you start a war on blood-sucking parasites. To wit:
Hey, the good news? At least we don't have the swine flu.
We have lice. And that speck was a nymph.
I squished it. And I flushed it. And then I dragged my itchy, scratchy kids upstairs and bathed them in pyrethrum.
Did you know that stuff is made from chrysanthemums?
You learn a lot when you start a war on blood-sucking parasites. To wit:
- My diva has the patience of a saint. As long as I put the Wizards of Waverly Place on an endless loop, she will sit still for up to three hours at a pop while I comb and pick and pull individual hairs out of her head by the root. She's my hero.
- Redheads have less hair. Little known fact. (Ignore the picture on the link. It's really kinda gross.)
- ADHD really does mean you cannot sit still. Even with the aid of a Nintendo DS primed with relatively new birthday games. Given that my kids get only 30 minutes of screen time a day and that nitpicking screen time is a full-on freebie, that's saying something.
- My kids have waaaaay too many stuffed animals. All 8 million of them are now bagged, thanks to my au pair, and waiting for any little lice babies to die a sad and lonely death. Many of them will not be coming back. I mean the stuffed animals. And, of course, the dead lice babies, too.
- Reading glasses also make good nitpicking glasses and are a vital part of the home war arsenal.
- So is a flea comb. If you pick one up, buy one labeled for dogs. They're cheaper - and not a whit different - than the ones labeled for cats.
- Cats can't get lice. Maybe that's why they need pricey flea combs.
- Apparently, neither can au pairs.
- Moms can, though. Yay for that. And yay for my au pair. This would be another one of those times that I wonder what the hell I'd do without her. Because it's not like I can pick nits from my own head.
Hey, the good news? At least we don't have the swine flu.
August 21, 2010
Mind Your Money, Honey
Once you're out of limbo - that odd and occasionally cathartic period between separation and divorce, which in my case lasted an excruciating 469 days - well, you're supposed to be done. Divorced and fairly angst-free. You indulge in occasional conversations with the ex that run along the lines of, "Hey, can we trade weekends this month," and "Dude, sorry I forgot to pack pants for the five-year-old." But that's it. Free and clear and living your own life, footloose and ex-free.
Except it doesn't work that way.
And it's not even about the kids. Because once you get into a routine, you can handle the kids. Most of the time.
No, it's about the money.
You'd think it would be easy. Shared marital assets? Sell them and split the proceeds. Or divvy them up fair and square. Shared debt? You can't sell it. So you do your best to divvy. You each take responsibility for your own bits and pieces and write it all down on paper, neatly notarized and approved by the judge.
Except the banks disagree. Once you co-sign something that isn't a mortgage and therefore can't be settled and sold, you are apparently co-signed for life. Or at least for the life of the loan. Which means that even if your divorce decree states: "Do you, Mr. Ex-Husband, take this debt, to love, honor and cherish till death do you part?" and he completely agrees that yes, he will take that debt, the bank says, "Uh, no way man. That debt's still married to your ex-wife."
Your debt ties you to your ex as much as your children do. You brought it into the world together, so you share responsibility for it until it's fully grown and able to live on its own. Until then, it gets to eat you out of house and home and keep you from getting the great, low-rate refi you so richly deserve.
I just hope I don't have to send the damn thing to college.
Lesson learned: Mind your money, honey.
Except it doesn't work that way.
And it's not even about the kids. Because once you get into a routine, you can handle the kids. Most of the time.
No, it's about the money.
You'd think it would be easy. Shared marital assets? Sell them and split the proceeds. Or divvy them up fair and square. Shared debt? You can't sell it. So you do your best to divvy. You each take responsibility for your own bits and pieces and write it all down on paper, neatly notarized and approved by the judge.
Except the banks disagree. Once you co-sign something that isn't a mortgage and therefore can't be settled and sold, you are apparently co-signed for life. Or at least for the life of the loan. Which means that even if your divorce decree states: "Do you, Mr. Ex-Husband, take this debt, to love, honor and cherish till death do you part?" and he completely agrees that yes, he will take that debt, the bank says, "Uh, no way man. That debt's still married to your ex-wife."
Your debt ties you to your ex as much as your children do. You brought it into the world together, so you share responsibility for it until it's fully grown and able to live on its own. Until then, it gets to eat you out of house and home and keep you from getting the great, low-rate refi you so richly deserve.
I just hope I don't have to send the damn thing to college.
Lesson learned: Mind your money, honey.
May 2, 2010
Eight Years
You ever think of your life in eight-year chunks?
It's an odd thing to do. Most of the time you're thinking two years ahead. Or five years. Or 10.
But eight years. Enough time to be interesting, right? But not so dramatic as a whole decade.
And really it's not that long.
You know how I know?
Eight years ago, I had a three-year-old son starting preschool. I had a 12-week-old daughter who had just started sleeping through the night. The redhead was not even a twinkle in my eye. And the ex and I had just quit our marriage counselor, against her advice (gee, wonder how that went).
I blinked. That's all I did. I blinked, and eight years went flying by.
In eight more years, that three year old will be 19, finishing his second year of college and waiting, patiently and with all due respect for the law, through the 17 months between him and legal beer. That 12-week-old will be driving and dating, and I'm honestly not sure which of those is more startling. And my twinkle will be 12, almost 13, and driving the girls to distraction in middle school.
They're growing up on me, you know. And eight years, it's just a blink away.
Guess there's a lesson in there somewhere: Don't blink.
It's an odd thing to do. Most of the time you're thinking two years ahead. Or five years. Or 10.
But eight years. Enough time to be interesting, right? But not so dramatic as a whole decade.
And really it's not that long.
You know how I know?
Eight years ago, I had a three-year-old son starting preschool. I had a 12-week-old daughter who had just started sleeping through the night. The redhead was not even a twinkle in my eye. And the ex and I had just quit our marriage counselor, against her advice (gee, wonder how that went).
I blinked. That's all I did. I blinked, and eight years went flying by.
In eight more years, that three year old will be 19, finishing his second year of college and waiting, patiently and with all due respect for the law, through the 17 months between him and legal beer. That 12-week-old will be driving and
They're growing up on me, you know. And eight years, it's just a blink away.
Guess there's a lesson in there somewhere: Don't blink.
January 4, 2010
Kissing 2009 Good-Bye
It's a new year. A new me. A whole new name. Well, an old name, but since I haven't used it in 13+ years, it feels new. New "About Me," over there on the right, too. Kinda had to change it now that I've officially left the limboverse between separation and divorce and entered single motherhood.
Felt all that merited a new template, too. Old one was nice and green. This one is not green, but it's far easier to read, and that's considerably more important. I wish I had the time and the talent to make my own beautiful green blog layout. I don't.
And so, a new year. I'm tickled pink to have kissed 2009 good-bye. Much crap in 2009. Much. Crap.
Lots of joy too, though. And since I'm a rose-colored glasses kind of gal, I thought it best to wrap up the year with a Done List of the good stuff.
In the past year, I have ...
Felt all that merited a new template, too. Old one was nice and green. This one is not green, but it's far easier to read, and that's considerably more important. I wish I had the time and the talent to make my own beautiful green blog layout. I don't.
And so, a new year. I'm tickled pink to have kissed 2009 good-bye. Much crap in 2009. Much. Crap.
Lots of joy too, though. And since I'm a rose-colored glasses kind of gal, I thought it best to wrap up the year with a Done List of the good stuff.
In the past year, I have ...
- Introduced my kids to 35 members of my immediate and extended family, all of whom love them to pieces just because they were born.
- Hugged my dad. In person even.
- Successfully baked cakes from scratch. Martha Stewart's Cupcakes is my new kitchen bible, and trust me, the yellow buttermilk cupcakes with fluffy vanilla frosting will put you in a cupcake coma. Pure joy.
- Rediscovered old friends and made some new ones. These friends? They're the kind who, once you've met them, you wonder how you ever thought your life was whole without them.
- Found The Best Side Dish ever - Cauliflower Goat Cheese Gratin, at Bobby Flay's Bar Americain in New York. If you go there, order five servings of cauliflower and a Cosmo. It's all you need.
- Saw Wicked. Lately, my diva's been singing "Defying Gravity" ... and she's doing it well.
Saw the most beautiful place on earth: Paradise on Mount Rainier in August.- Learned several important lessons, one of which I'm currently ignoring (that would be Lesson 3: Get Some Sleep, Stupid)
- Rescued one sorely damaged and dearly treasured cast iron fry pan from kitchen fire. Elbow grease and bacon brought it back. So nice to have an excuse to cook lots and lots of bacon.
- Made 57 blog posts. People actually read them. Awesome.
- Got my kids through an insane number of transitions. Separation. Divorce. Middle school. Preschool. New au pairs. Old au pairs. And realized that, after a full year of change, they are happy. Really, truly, genuinely happy.
- And, of course, made it through Limbo. That's the big one, really.
November 24, 2009
Due North
When I was in college, I took a philosophy course on ethics. Upshot of a semester's worth of learning: There really are no moral absolutes.
I mean, think about it. Even killing - something folks generally agree is bad - is sometimes okay. If you're defending yourself. Or your family. Or your country. But where one draws the line of okayness varies.
That kind of moral ambiguity killed my weekend.
It also probably killed my marriage. Because what I realized this weekend is that the very-very-nearly-ex and I, our moral code is totally, totally different.
Doesn't mean his is bad and mine is good. It just means they're different.
And, of course, I like mine better.
I realized all this while digesting various bits of disturbing information that floated my way last week. And I realized that, because I am who I am, in the end those bits of information didn't matter. I follow my moral compass. I pay attention to what it says and I act accordingly. And I hope, fervently, that this is what everyone does. Because it's this process that puts the demons to rest and lets you sleep at night. (Well, for most people, anyway. I'm still battling insomnia demons that have nothing to do with moral certitude).
Thing is, when you meet a guy, and you think you like him, and you start talking rings and churches and how many kids you want to have, you kind of assume your compasses both point north.
They don't always.
Guess it's another lesson learned. Ask for directions. And make sure everyone's heading north before you get in the car.
I mean, think about it. Even killing - something folks generally agree is bad - is sometimes okay. If you're defending yourself. Or your family. Or your country. But where one draws the line of okayness varies.
That kind of moral ambiguity killed my weekend.
It also probably killed my marriage. Because what I realized this weekend is that the very-very-nearly-ex and I, our moral code is totally, totally different.
Doesn't mean his is bad and mine is good. It just means they're different.
And, of course, I like mine better.
I realized all this while digesting various bits of disturbing information that floated my way last week. And I realized that, because I am who I am, in the end those bits of information didn't matter. I follow my moral compass. I pay attention to what it says and I act accordingly. And I hope, fervently, that this is what everyone does. Because it's this process that puts the demons to rest and lets you sleep at night. (Well, for most people, anyway. I'm still battling insomnia demons that have nothing to do with moral certitude).
Thing is, when you meet a guy, and you think you like him, and you start talking rings and churches and how many kids you want to have, you kind of assume your compasses both point north.
They don't always.
Guess it's another lesson learned. Ask for directions. And make sure everyone's heading north before you get in the car.
September 22, 2009
The Sleep Plan
Since we're on the topic of lessons learned in limbo, I think it's time for the next one:
Lesson 3: Get some sleep, stupid.
Please note, the word stupid is meant to be self-deprecating. And it is stupid, the fact that I can't sleep. Because it's not like I'm in bed, staring at the ceiling for hours on end. Nope, when I go to bed, I'm out cold about 30 seconds later.
I just don't go to bed.
I know how my insomnia started. It started with the birth of my gorgeous redhead, two straight years of 2:00 a.m. feedings, and constantly waiting for the next kid-inspired wake-up call. It started with my wonderfully flexible, full-time, work-at-home-in-my-luxurious-bedroom-office lifestyle. When you work in your bedroom, believe me, it's pretty much the last place you go to relax.
Oh, and you know, the whole not-yet-divorced thing? That doesn't help.
But now, honestly, I swear the sleep gods are out to get me. Because I do try to go to bed early. Well, sometimes. But on the nights I actually get IN the bed ... well, you know the drill. One kid is up at midnight with a cold. Another gets up at 3:00 a.m. with a nightmare. Then the powers that be send road crews to the neighborhood and tell them to jackhammer the crap out of our local streets. At 1:43 a.m.
New roads. Yay.
And yes, this all really happened. In one night. Last week, as a matter of fact.
I read recently that insomnia is a learned behavior. I believe it. After four years of sleep deprivation, I believe it. And now it's my intention to unlearn that nasty behavior and kick the ass of my insomnia demons once and for all.
And so, with the help of a few very dear friends who made time to do the sleep-related legwork, I have developed The Sleep Plan. It works like this:
For 8 weeks, I will follow a rigid routine. (Yeah, stop laughing. I know a routine when I see one and dammit, I can follow one.)
The Plan starts tomorrow. And for the next 8 weeks, I'm generally going to ignore the whole family through food thing and blog about sleep. Well, I won't ignore the foody, family bits altogether; it's just not in my nature. But this is important. Long-term sleep loss is starting to affect my health. It's affecting my levels of grump. It's affecting my brain. I don't dream anymore. I miss appointments. I can't remember the names of my own kids (though that may be hereditary).
Really, not so good.
I cannot imagine I am the only person in the blogoverse who doesn't sleep at night - I'll bet there are insomniacs even in the limited bit of the blogoverse that visits here. So if you get the urge, join me. Make your own Plan. Follow along.
We'll have a sleepover when we're done.
Lesson 3: Get some sleep, stupid.
Please note, the word stupid is meant to be self-deprecating. And it is stupid, the fact that I can't sleep. Because it's not like I'm in bed, staring at the ceiling for hours on end. Nope, when I go to bed, I'm out cold about 30 seconds later.
I just don't go to bed.
I know how my insomnia started. It started with the birth of my gorgeous redhead, two straight years of 2:00 a.m. feedings, and constantly waiting for the next kid-inspired wake-up call. It started with my wonderfully flexible, full-time, work-at-home-in-my-luxurious-bedroom-office lifestyle. When you work in your bedroom, believe me, it's pretty much the last place you go to relax.
Oh, and you know, the whole not-yet-divorced thing? That doesn't help.
But now, honestly, I swear the sleep gods are out to get me. Because I do try to go to bed early. Well, sometimes. But on the nights I actually get IN the bed ... well, you know the drill. One kid is up at midnight with a cold. Another gets up at 3:00 a.m. with a nightmare. Then the powers that be send road crews to the neighborhood and tell them to jackhammer the crap out of our local streets. At 1:43 a.m.
New roads. Yay.
And yes, this all really happened. In one night. Last week, as a matter of fact.
I read recently that insomnia is a learned behavior. I believe it. After four years of sleep deprivation, I believe it. And now it's my intention to unlearn that nasty behavior and kick the ass of my insomnia demons once and for all.
And so, with the help of a few very dear friends who made time to do the sleep-related legwork, I have developed The Sleep Plan. It works like this:
For 8 weeks, I will follow a rigid routine. (Yeah, stop laughing. I know a routine when I see one and dammit, I can follow one.)
- I will work each day from 8:30 to 5:30.
- I will go make dinner, play with my kids, drive them hither and yon, bathe them, and put them to bed.
- Then, if I need to, I work again from 8:30 to 10:30. In my office. Where I'm supposed to be. See, I am realizing that my work can't be portable. It's got to have its own place and time so that, at some point, it does stop so that my brain can shut down and learn to relax.
- At 10:30, even if I'm not finished, I will turn off the computer. Yes, that's right. Turn it off. So I can't work even if I want to. And so the time sink that is Facebook doesn't drag me under.
- Then I will take a melatonin. The melatonin part is only for the first two weeks, though. The point is, after all, to do this on my own. Dependency is not part of the plan.
- I will relax and sit on my sofa and drink something warm and decaffeinated and maybe knit or read and watch something fun. Like Glee. (Watch Glee. It rocks.)
- At 11:30 I will feed the cats. Then I will go to bed. Whether I want to or not.
The Plan starts tomorrow. And for the next 8 weeks, I'm generally going to ignore the whole family through food thing and blog about sleep. Well, I won't ignore the foody, family bits altogether; it's just not in my nature. But this is important. Long-term sleep loss is starting to affect my health. It's affecting my levels of grump. It's affecting my brain. I don't dream anymore. I miss appointments. I can't remember the names of my own kids (though that may be hereditary).
Really, not so good.
I cannot imagine I am the only person in the blogoverse who doesn't sleep at night - I'll bet there are insomniacs even in the limited bit of the blogoverse that visits here. So if you get the urge, join me. Make your own Plan. Follow along.
We'll have a sleepover when we're done.
September 8, 2009
Lawnmower Men
Yesterday, my friends mowed my lawn.
Now, granted, these are my friends in Limbo, the folks with whom I and my kids now frequently share wine and pie and cupcakes. On Labor Day Sunday, those of us who could came together for a meal and a little beach time on the river. The gathering was at my house, and I'd had grand plans about getting up early (yeah, right) and depooping and mowing the lawn.
Lots of kids in attendance means a need for a clean and navigable yard. Right?
But I woke up late. And I woke up to a disaster. Two of 'em, actually.
My redhead, who has an unquenchable thirst for what he calls "cow milk" (note the cow on the label), had helped himself to a carton from out of the pantry. He left the pantry door open. This is never smart with a Black Lab in the house. This dog, who is now so old she cannot manage stairs unassisted, somehow made her way to the pantry, pulled out six cans of cat food, chewed her way into each and every one of them, and left bits of crushed can and puddles of chicken and liver dinner all over the house.
It took me an hour to clean it all up. Longer for the stench of cat food to dissipate.
Then, my dryer broke. So I spent lots of time carting wet clothes upstairs and laying them all out in the sun in the vain hope that they'd dry before company came.
Upshot? Lots of poop, very long grass, and an explosion of laundry on my deck.
My friends, who get that Limbo is a challenge of time as much as anything else, took one look at my shambles of a backyard and just stepped in. They grabbed plastic bags. They pulled the mower out of the shed. And in no time - well, it would have been no time except that crabgrass is a bitch to cut - they had my yard in playable shape.
And in doing so, they taught me another one of those Lessons Learned in Limbo.
Lesson 2: Ask for help.
Most of us, we just keep on swimming, despite the tsunami doing its best to drown us. But if you ask for help, shockingly, you might just get a life preserver, a helicopter, and someone trained to use both.
Pretty incredible, that.
Of course, asking for help is easiest when you don't actually have to ask. My friends made it very easy.
Once the lawn was mowed, we had a fun dinner - potluck as usual - of faked barbecue chicken, nearly browned potatoes, curried wheatberries and a signature salad of savoy cabbage and home-roasted crunchies. Oh, and brownies so fabulous that the children managed to devour every one of them before the grown-ups even noticed they were gone.
The food vanished. The lesson, though - that will stick.
Now, granted, these are my friends in Limbo, the folks with whom I and my kids now frequently share wine and pie and cupcakes. On Labor Day Sunday, those of us who could came together for a meal and a little beach time on the river. The gathering was at my house, and I'd had grand plans about getting up early (yeah, right) and depooping and mowing the lawn.
Lots of kids in attendance means a need for a clean and navigable yard. Right?
But I woke up late. And I woke up to a disaster. Two of 'em, actually.
My redhead, who has an unquenchable thirst for what he calls "cow milk" (note the cow on the label), had helped himself to a carton from out of the pantry. He left the pantry door open. This is never smart with a Black Lab in the house. This dog, who is now so old she cannot manage stairs unassisted, somehow made her way to the pantry, pulled out six cans of cat food, chewed her way into each and every one of them, and left bits of crushed can and puddles of chicken and liver dinner all over the house.
It took me an hour to clean it all up. Longer for the stench of cat food to dissipate.
Then, my dryer broke. So I spent lots of time carting wet clothes upstairs and laying them all out in the sun in the vain hope that they'd dry before company came.
Upshot? Lots of poop, very long grass, and an explosion of laundry on my deck.
My friends, who get that Limbo is a challenge of time as much as anything else, took one look at my shambles of a backyard and just stepped in. They grabbed plastic bags. They pulled the mower out of the shed. And in no time - well, it would have been no time except that crabgrass is a bitch to cut - they had my yard in playable shape.
And in doing so, they taught me another one of those Lessons Learned in Limbo.
Lesson 2: Ask for help.
Most of us, we just keep on swimming, despite the tsunami doing its best to drown us. But if you ask for help, shockingly, you might just get a life preserver, a helicopter, and someone trained to use both.
Pretty incredible, that.
Of course, asking for help is easiest when you don't actually have to ask. My friends made it very easy.
Once the lawn was mowed, we had a fun dinner - potluck as usual - of faked barbecue chicken, nearly browned potatoes, curried wheatberries and a signature salad of savoy cabbage and home-roasted crunchies. Oh, and brownies so fabulous that the children managed to devour every one of them before the grown-ups even noticed they were gone.
The food vanished. The lesson, though - that will stick.
June 16, 2009
One Crazy Summer
A friend reminded me today that I need to get back to the meat and potatoes of this blog ... Get it? Meat and potatoes? Since this blog is meant to be, at least a little bit, about food.
I do love food. Thing is, though, I'm really not a foodie. So mostly this is about family and the ever-changing nature of life in limbo, viewed through the window of a few happy meals (not Happy Meals, but actual happy meals) - hence, the rosemary-colored glasses.
Problem is, I'm not cooking. Or even consuming much beyond coffee, Cheerios and the occasional nectarine. I'm far too busy managing the insanity of my first summer in a single-parent household.
The most obvious problem is the logistical nightmare that is getting everyone from Point A to Point B. See, I signed the kids up for track and field, sponsored by the local rec league. It's cheap, it's something to do, and it gets the kids out of the house and moving. It's also three evenings a week. Combine that with Boy Scouts and swimming, free movies and play dates, mom's busy job and our one-and-only car ... well, let's just say that an iPhone with a nice scheduling app might come in handy. (Mostly because I'm drooling over the new iPhones. I buy the hype and believe an iPhone will change my life. But that's beside the point.)
The bigger issue? Summer means far, far less time for me.
It sounds horribly selfish, doesn't it? But here's the thing. Remember lesson number one? You've got to make time for you. I've made a commitment here.
Well, I looked at my schedule today and realized that, outside of a solo weekend trip to Connecticut ('cause that one really is - almost - all about me), every single weekend between now and mid-August has been spoken for by someone else. And September is starting to fill up, too.
A lot of this is incredibly good stuff that I'm truly and deeply excited about: a first-ever family reunion to celebrate my dad's 70th birthday, visits from our adored former au pairs, and a whole two weeks in the Pacific Northwest with the kids. And in September not one but two reunions - one for high school (25 years - egad!) and one for a group of close friends from college.
That's all good, and I'm over the moon about it. I really am. It's my kids and my family, and it's old friends, and these are far and away the most important things in my universe.
But part of me still thinks summer is a time for easy evenings in the backyard with good friends, a glass of wine, and something grilled & yummy to nibble on. Laughter and crickets and conversation, sprinkled with a little time on your own, a good book and a knitting bag full of yarn. Unscheduled. Unhurried. Peaceful.
That part of me is a little cranky right now.
I know the peace is in there, in this overplanned summer. And I'll find it, in the friends, in the family, and even in my loud, crazy, beautiful kids. And I will find some time for me.
Right now, though, I'll spend some time wallowing in the cranky. I'm glad it's there. Because this bit of crank? It means I've finally learned my lesson.
I do love food. Thing is, though, I'm really not a foodie. So mostly this is about family and the ever-changing nature of life in limbo, viewed through the window of a few happy meals (not Happy Meals, but actual happy meals) - hence, the rosemary-colored glasses.
Problem is, I'm not cooking. Or even consuming much beyond coffee, Cheerios and the occasional nectarine. I'm far too busy managing the insanity of my first summer in a single-parent household.
The most obvious problem is the logistical nightmare that is getting everyone from Point A to Point B. See, I signed the kids up for track and field, sponsored by the local rec league. It's cheap, it's something to do, and it gets the kids out of the house and moving. It's also three evenings a week. Combine that with Boy Scouts and swimming, free movies and play dates, mom's busy job and our one-and-only car ... well, let's just say that an iPhone with a nice scheduling app might come in handy. (Mostly because I'm drooling over the new iPhones. I buy the hype and believe an iPhone will change my life. But that's beside the point.)
The bigger issue? Summer means far, far less time for me.
It sounds horribly selfish, doesn't it? But here's the thing. Remember lesson number one? You've got to make time for you. I've made a commitment here.
Well, I looked at my schedule today and realized that, outside of a solo weekend trip to Connecticut ('cause that one really is - almost - all about me), every single weekend between now and mid-August has been spoken for by someone else. And September is starting to fill up, too.
A lot of this is incredibly good stuff that I'm truly and deeply excited about: a first-ever family reunion to celebrate my dad's 70th birthday, visits from our adored former au pairs, and a whole two weeks in the Pacific Northwest with the kids. And in September not one but two reunions - one for high school (25 years - egad!) and one for a group of close friends from college.
That's all good, and I'm over the moon about it. I really am. It's my kids and my family, and it's old friends, and these are far and away the most important things in my universe.
But part of me still thinks summer is a time for easy evenings in the backyard with good friends, a glass of wine, and something grilled & yummy to nibble on. Laughter and crickets and conversation, sprinkled with a little time on your own, a good book and a knitting bag full of yarn. Unscheduled. Unhurried. Peaceful.
That part of me is a little cranky right now.
I know the peace is in there, in this overplanned summer. And I'll find it, in the friends, in the family, and even in my loud, crazy, beautiful kids. And I will find some time for me.
Right now, though, I'll spend some time wallowing in the cranky. I'm glad it's there. Because this bit of crank? It means I've finally learned my lesson.
June 11, 2009
Musical Youth
I used to like real music.
This is a revelation, because the last 20 years have turned me into a soccer mom. I know this because iTunes keeps trying to sell me something called the Soccer Mom Mix. It's embarrassing - I do have some musical pride. But it is, sadly, true. My iPod draws rather predictably from American Idol and the soundtrack to Grey's Anatomy, with a handful of tunes picked out by my kids. Soccer mom, to a T.
But it wasn't always this way. In the early '80s, I spent my summers hanging out at embassies in small, over-populated Asian nations with expat kids from all over the world. We danced our feet raw on the weekends. Met a lot of new music that way - especially British music. Developed a taste for punk, new wave, synthpop - a half-step before the stuff really hit in the States. The Clash, Bronski Beat, Yaz, Squeeze, Elvis Costello, Depeche Mode. Even the older, post-punky U2. I've got all these and more on vinyl somewhere in my basement.
I love my iPod. But I do miss my vinyl.
Tonight I went to a Psychedelic Furs concert. Had to be prodded into going. Was very worried that I liked them, back in the day, just because they were British and sorta punky and that was my thing. Figured that my new soccer-mom ears would hate them.
Not so. Apparently I had some taste. Many people - generally those who didn't live through it - think of the '80s and hear Wham! and Whitney Houston in their heads. But there was, in fact, good music back then. And these guys were among those making it. There is no official Furs web site ... but "Ghost In You" on YouTube is one of their more recognizable tunes (slightly dated, with the heavy synthesizer, but still so pretty, and the lyrics resonate for me at the moment).
Now, forgive me if I've gotten some of the terms and timelines wrong. It's been a looooong time since I paid any attention to this stuff, and we all know that babies eat brain cells.
Which actually brings me to my point: another one of those lessons learned in limbo (see "Call Me Couscous" for the first one).
Lesson 2: Remember who you are. Or were.
I lost my music to my kids and the chaos of life and a not-yet-ex who was, quite simply, more into music than I was. I tended to follow his tastes rather than form my own.
My music was just a little tiny bit of my soul. But it was mine, and if you give up enough little tiny bits, you find you've lost a great, big bit somewhere along the way.
It is, fortunately, never too late to get it back.
I know, I forgot the food. Again. It's there - we had dinner at the venue - onion rings with a spicy jalapeno mayo, a fair-to-middlin' entree salad, and a flavorful, richly brewed stout with a hint of vanilla. But the music, and the lesson, were far more important.
This is a revelation, because the last 20 years have turned me into a soccer mom. I know this because iTunes keeps trying to sell me something called the Soccer Mom Mix. It's embarrassing - I do have some musical pride. But it is, sadly, true. My iPod draws rather predictably from American Idol and the soundtrack to Grey's Anatomy, with a handful of tunes picked out by my kids. Soccer mom, to a T.
But it wasn't always this way. In the early '80s, I spent my summers hanging out at embassies in small, over-populated Asian nations with expat kids from all over the world. We danced our feet raw on the weekends. Met a lot of new music that way - especially British music. Developed a taste for punk, new wave, synthpop - a half-step before the stuff really hit in the States. The Clash, Bronski Beat, Yaz, Squeeze, Elvis Costello, Depeche Mode. Even the older, post-punky U2. I've got all these and more on vinyl somewhere in my basement.
I love my iPod. But I do miss my vinyl.
Tonight I went to a Psychedelic Furs concert. Had to be prodded into going. Was very worried that I liked them, back in the day, just because they were British and sorta punky and that was my thing. Figured that my new soccer-mom ears would hate them.
Not so. Apparently I had some taste. Many people - generally those who didn't live through it - think of the '80s and hear Wham! and Whitney Houston in their heads. But there was, in fact, good music back then. And these guys were among those making it. There is no official Furs web site ... but "Ghost In You" on YouTube is one of their more recognizable tunes (slightly dated, with the heavy synthesizer, but still so pretty, and the lyrics resonate for me at the moment).
Now, forgive me if I've gotten some of the terms and timelines wrong. It's been a looooong time since I paid any attention to this stuff, and we all know that babies eat brain cells.
Which actually brings me to my point: another one of those lessons learned in limbo (see "Call Me Couscous" for the first one).
Lesson 2: Remember who you are. Or were.
I lost my music to my kids and the chaos of life and a not-yet-ex who was, quite simply, more into music than I was. I tended to follow his tastes rather than form my own.
My music was just a little tiny bit of my soul. But it was mine, and if you give up enough little tiny bits, you find you've lost a great, big bit somewhere along the way.
It is, fortunately, never too late to get it back.
I know, I forgot the food. Again. It's there - we had dinner at the venue - onion rings with a spicy jalapeno mayo, a fair-to-middlin' entree salad, and a flavorful, richly brewed stout with a hint of vanilla. But the music, and the lesson, were far more important.
April 28, 2009
Call Me Couscous
On the plus side of separation and divorce is the opportunity to fix a few things and get them right the second time around. Takes a while - a good, long while - to figure out what those things should be, exactly. It's an iterative process, and one I'm going through with some measure of success and a nearly equal measure of failure.
Here's one I'm determined to get right.
Lesson 1: Make time for you.
It’s okay not to be at the top of your list, but you should at least make the top five. A stressed out mom is a grumpy mom, and even the best of us a need a break.
Given the massive changes in my life in the last few months, I needed a big huge gargantuan break. So, last weekend, I took one. Invited a friend to hop a train with me and headed to NYC for food and art and a little Broadway.
Which brings me to couscous.
My part of the world is a quick train ride from NYC. But if you've ever spent much time on Amtrak, you know the food is, well, bleh. And that's being charitable.
So I packed a lunch. A grown-up, not-your-average-lunchbox lunch. No plain Jane turkey sandwiches for me on my grown-up vacation. Went recipe trolling on foodnetwork.com and came up with something that I thought might work: Moroccan Chicken with Apricot Couscous and Green Olive Sauce. Changed it up a bit, because no one in her right mind should ever spend an hour and ten minutes making lunch. Used boneless, skinless chicken breasts and covered them in a very intense, home-ground spice rub ... then rinsed off the rub once everything was cooked and cooled. Used regular old tortillas instead of wasting time hunting down lavosh.
Grown-up food does not have to be exotic. Just has to fake it well.
Couscous in a wrap is not something I'd ever have thought of on my own. I frankly figured the texture would be a little odd in what was basically a sandwich (and if you've read me on couscous before, you'll get that). But it went so well with the other bits, it made that wrap worth eating. Celeb chef Tyler Florence doesn't usually impress me much, but that worked.
So, the wraps were good. Set a nice, adult tone for a nice, adult weekend. Managed to stay away from the giant Toys R Us in Times Square, avoided the M&M store, and even kept my distance from the world-renowned Natural History museum. Instead, I toured a grown-up museum full of grown-up art, ate lots of grown-up food, and even had a grown-up drink or two.
Even better, though ... I had two meals worth of phenomenal leftovers waiting for me on my return. The couscous and all its flavors had a chance to meld and soften, the olive sauce settled into salty, tangy comfort, and the chicken found its juicy goodness.
I'll make that again ... then wait two or three days to eat it. Without the tortillas this time.
Here's one I'm determined to get right.
Lesson 1: Make time for you.
It’s okay not to be at the top of your list, but you should at least make the top five. A stressed out mom is a grumpy mom, and even the best of us a need a break.
Given the massive changes in my life in the last few months, I needed a big huge gargantuan break. So, last weekend, I took one. Invited a friend to hop a train with me and headed to NYC for food and art and a little Broadway.
Which brings me to couscous.
My part of the world is a quick train ride from NYC. But if you've ever spent much time on Amtrak, you know the food is, well, bleh. And that's being charitable.
So I packed a lunch. A grown-up, not-your-average-lunchbox lunch. No plain Jane turkey sandwiches for me on my grown-up vacation. Went recipe trolling on foodnetwork.com and came up with something that I thought might work: Moroccan Chicken with Apricot Couscous and Green Olive Sauce. Changed it up a bit, because no one in her right mind should ever spend an hour and ten minutes making lunch. Used boneless, skinless chicken breasts and covered them in a very intense, home-ground spice rub ... then rinsed off the rub once everything was cooked and cooled. Used regular old tortillas instead of wasting time hunting down lavosh.
Grown-up food does not have to be exotic. Just has to fake it well.
Couscous in a wrap is not something I'd ever have thought of on my own. I frankly figured the texture would be a little odd in what was basically a sandwich (and if you've read me on couscous before, you'll get that). But it went so well with the other bits, it made that wrap worth eating. Celeb chef Tyler Florence doesn't usually impress me much, but that worked.
So, the wraps were good. Set a nice, adult tone for a nice, adult weekend. Managed to stay away from the giant Toys R Us in Times Square, avoided the M&M store, and even kept my distance from the world-renowned Natural History museum. Instead, I toured a grown-up museum full of grown-up art, ate lots of grown-up food, and even had a grown-up drink or two.
Even better, though ... I had two meals worth of phenomenal leftovers waiting for me on my return. The couscous and all its flavors had a chance to meld and soften, the olive sauce settled into salty, tangy comfort, and the chicken found its juicy goodness.
I'll make that again ... then wait two or three days to eat it. Without the tortillas this time.
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