Fortyfide

Getting Old Really Stinks!

2009-10-20T15:10:00.000-07:00

Getting old really stinks. I mean that literally. Have any of you other over-forty types noticed that your deodorant just doesn't cut it anymore? It used to be you could shower in the a.m., apply the old deodorant and call it a day. That is until you hit forty, or in my case, it seems 42.

Now I find that the once a day deodorant generally doesn't cut it. I am not alone in this and it isn't just a female thing. After passing by hubby a few times lately, I noticed a definite "aroma" coming off of him as well. I finally pulled him aside at one of our parties and mentioned it to him. Being the better spouse as usual, he wasn't in the least offended by this and thanked me for telling him.

In my own pre-wafting days, after my sister was diagnosed with breast cancer, I went on a "cull out the chemicals crusade." I began with the deodorants, vaguely remembering some chain email that fingered the stuff. So, I turned to "natural" deodorants, specifically crystal sticks. Well, though they may contain crystal, alas they are no magic balm and they can't perform the way the chemical brands do. So, I grudgingly dove back to Dove.

I have my own theory of why we seem to "ripen" with age like stinky cheese. My theory is that just as wrinkles mean we are slowly shriveling up, the odor we emit is evidence that we are slowly drying up ourselves, becoming more concentrated, more potent. Now if only that potency could translate to other arenas...

I Look Just Like I Did Ten Years Ago, Only On Steroids

2009-09-01T16:10:00.001-07:00

I went to physical therapy the other day and found myself in front of a three way mirror, diligently doing my rotator cuff exercises. I would blame the rotator cuff tendinitis on getting old, but there were a bunch of high school and college aged kids in there with me with the same injury. I will leave alone the fact that they are varsity athletes and I am a vintage athlete.

Anyway, there I was with nothing to look at but me, pretty much everywhere I turned and I couldn't help but notice that I looked like a puffed up version of my original self. Now, back when I was my original self (read before I turned forty), I always thought I would take this aging thing quite gracefully. Now that I am actually a victim of it, I must say it is rather disgraceful.

Like most things, it is easy to say and harder to do. So what of it? As Nora Ephron suggests, one can simply try to avoid mirrors, but that is a little hard to do (especially when one injures herself and ends up in front of a three way mirror...). As much as I don't like being Puff Mommy, I wouldn't become a botox pin cushion or worse. So, there is nothing to do to except accept that this is the new me. Puffy and proud. Well okay, not proud, but strong, healthy (except for the rotator cuff, which is coming along) and pretty much too busy to care too carefully what I look like...most of the time.

Full Disclosure

2009-08-24T11:56:00.000-07:00

Last week I had two medical appointments at places I hadn't been a patient of in several years. So, I had to fill out all of their forms again. When I got to the checklist of symptoms/experiences parts of these forms, I found myself laughing.

Both sets of forms stated something along the lines of "Are you experiencing now or have you ever experienced any of the following?" And so began the list with items such as: forgetfulness, dizziness, loss of memory, weight gain, weight loss, sleeplessness, difficulty sleeping, etc., thus the laughter.

Who hasn't suffered from all of the above at least "ever." If you actually took the form literally, you would think there was a lot more wrong with you than why you made the appointment in the first place. I was particularly puzzled by the question as to forgetfullness when at the orthopedic surgeon's office. I was there for my sore rotator cuff. What would that have to do with forgetfulness? Sure it is a standard medical form and none of the doctors bother to customize it, but part of me couldn't help wondering if they didn't leave that question on there so they could decide whether to keep me as a patient. I mean, would my forgetfulness cause me to forget my booked appointments?

As for weight gain and weight loss, most of us don't check those boxes (though I did check the box for weight gain recently and put next to it "due to overindulgent vacation"), but show me the person who honestly can say they have never experienced any weight gain or loss in their life and I will be pretty jealous of that person.

Now Ear This

2009-08-19T14:37:00.000-07:00

Hubby thinks I have a hearing problem. I think he mumbles and only gets the urge to speak to me when loud music is playing in the background or when (like usual) Thing 1 is screaming at Thing 2 or vice versa.

Though I hate to admit it, he might have a wee bit of a point. While on a ferry from Seattle to Vancouver recently, I was quite puzzled by the captain's announcement. I thought he had told us that "occasionally we may pass a log with deer around it." My mind was filled with an image of a log floating in the water and several deer, also in the water, doggy paddling (deer paddling?) around it. I could see instantly why one would want to make a special announcement about that. However, I was still mystified as to why deer would be attracted to a log in the water (other than trying to hang on for deer (spelling error intended) life).

So, I decided to ask Hubby what the guy had said about deer. Hubby said "what deer?" I then explained what I thought I had heard the captain announce.
Hubby, after laughing hysterically, pointed out that the captain had actually said "occasionally we may encounter a log but will veer around it." Now why make an announcement about that? I may not be able to hear as well as I used to, but at least my creative juices are overflowing, the circling deer would have been much more interesting and noteworthy.

Zit Happens

2009-08-08T05:07:00.001-07:00

Watching Thing 1 enter the wonderful world of puberty, I would have thought that I would have to have dug back in my mind to remember what it was like to deal with acne.

Turns out, I don't have to dig back at all. Guess who gets to experience acne twice? Moi. Sure, there are worse things that I could be experiencing and part of the reason that I continue to battle this acne thing is that I am suspect of some of the heavy duty meds they prescribed for me. I was given three things, one, a benzoil peroxide medicated wash that I was told would bleach my towels, a topical treatment called Clyndamicin, and Retin-A, which I was informed, would make my skin photosensitive, read: stay out of the sun (ha! as if we had any this summer...).

I dutifully went along with this regimen for maybe 4-5 weeks. Maybe my skin was getting better, probably it was.. However, right around that time, I became more and more uncomfortable about putting all of these things on my skin, including my chest, where of course the acne has decided to flourish. As you may know, my older sister battled breast cancer last year. So, I am not too comfortable with the use of unnecessary chemicals in general, but particularly topically applied to my chest.

In the end, I decided to stop using all but the Clyndamicin. The medicated wash was not only annoying, but I noticed it contained parabens. Parabens have been shown to be estrogen mimickers, or technically, endocrine disruptors. My sister's breast cancer was disruptive enough, thank you. I chucked the Retin-A too, for similar reasons. I am suspicious of the chemicals, and when I used it, due to the photosentive thing, I started getting darker spots on my face, despite the pronounced lack of sunshine this summer as opposed to most summers.

So, here I am alone with my acne. I am okay with it. At least the zits come and go and I know they won't leave lasting consequences or toxic buildup in my body. Zit happens, and if that is the worst of it, I'll be fine.

Killer Aerobics

2009-08-05T16:49:00.001-07:00

So I heard this morning while at the gym that a gunman outside of Pittsburgh had rampaged an LA Fitness aerobics class, killing four women and injuring others. What is wrong with this country?

Are we safe no where? How many shooting rampages do we have to read about on a weekly basis until we say enough is enough? Time for another Million Mom March I suspect.

It is bad enough that it takes a lot of motivation to get thee to a gym to stay fit and healthy. You shouldn't have to risk your life to get healthy. I think some of these gyms will rethink some gym class titles such as Killer Core, etc.

Seriously, it will be a lot easier to make it a lot harder for these looneytunes to buy guns than it will be to build virtual prisons everywhere we go-the gym, our schools, our work, is Wal-mart next? Actually, that one would be super difficult considering they sell guns...

I am tired of hearing how the NRA is such a strong lobby and how the Constitution provides the right to bare arms. Well, we should all have the right to bare arms at the gym and work out safely. Without the fear of a crazed gunman coming into mow us down...

Car-Toon

2009-07-21T11:48:00.000-07:00

I've been meaning to call "Click" and "Clack" from "Car Talk" on NPR for a while now. You see, "my" 2005 Honda Pilot mysteriously won't start every once in a while. Yes, it has been to the Honda dealer-numerous times. Each time they either say there is nothing wrong with it that they can find, or they decide to order expensive and distant parts such as a new relay system, or in another visit, a new VTM-Lock thingy. Well, I am pretty sure that was the technical term.

Whether we use technical terms or not, the bottom line is, the car is NOT reliable. Not only does it not start, but on two occasions, it stalled out on my while driving along. For anyone who has experienced this, including the accompanying obscene hand gestures and glares from motorists who are forced to go around the dead car with me in it, you can relate.

It got so bad that the last time it went into "the shop" (now I think I know why they call it that, while you are awaiting to reclaim your clunker for the umpteenth time, you start thinking of buying one of the shiny new working cars on the floor so you don't have to spend as much time in the dealership), I told my husband that either we got me a different car, or else I took the other car for all time and "the next time it breaks down, we sell it, no argument."

So, wouldn't you know, yesterday, after playing tennis at a public park which was 1.5 miles away (sure, Mapquest says 1.37, but that is in the middle of the park and the tennis courts are of course, farther) we got into the steamy vehicle only to have it not start. We waited. I tried again, it didn't start. Hubby has a theory that the key immobilizer has something to do with it not starting, so, in desperation, I tried locking and unlocking it. A few times. No dice. Finally I called him and asked him what he proposed I do. I could call AAA to tow it, but to where? The last four or five times it was towed to the dealer, didn't seem to do much for its record of reliability. So, we had words, and I told him that I (ok, "we", Thing 2 had a friend over) were just going to walk back home-uphill most of the way...

Sure enough, later that night, I dropped Hubby off to "deal with the car." Wouldn't you know it started right up? Undeterred, I stood my ground and said I had pint-sized witnesses. Hubby blamed my paranoid habit of locking the car doors, for why the car hadn't started earlier. I countered that in fact, it was the one time I hadn't locked the car because it was literally in front of the court we were playing on. Rather than get in it with him, I agreed to drive the unreliable car home so he could get gas in his car, and I told him that if the car died on the way home I would be serving him with divorce papers. Luckily for him and me, I made it home and have the other car in my possession now. I won't be lulled into the fact that the car seems to be working fine for a month or two to make me take it back. I am sticking to my "guns."

How many of you think that Hubby should give in and get rid of this clunker like I do? Never mind my calling "Click" and "Clack" because I won't even trust what they say either now.

Iphoney

2009-07-09T12:32:00.001-07:00

Like a gazillion other folks, I just purchased the new Iphone 3GS. It is my first experience in the world of Iphone. I have to say, so far, I am pretty 'appy.'

That's right. My Iphone finally arrived on Monday morning. It was actually really easy to set up-even I could do it without assistance from Tech support (i.e., The Hubby, who, I think was disappointed to be so dispensible-he kept claiming I shouldn't get the Iphone since he doesn't have one and therefore doesn't know how it works and thus, couldn't help with my inevitable 52 million questions). So far, I have downloaded 12 additional apps. All but two of them were free and the two I paid for were ninety nine cents each. The first one is called Newspapers and allows me access to the top 50 newspapers in the world, constantly updated, all for a onetime fee of ninety nine cents. No wonder all those newspapers are going out of business. I told Hubby I was going to download it, though it cost ninety nine cents. He said "why don't you think about it overnight and decide in the morning?" I said, too late I already downloaded it!" I almost instantaneously started chuckling at all of the Brit Wit I had missed reading from The Guardian's Life & Style page (we lived in The UK for three years).

Today, after reading the New York Times Personal Technology section (yes out of the actual paper I subscribe to, though I now see why the temptation to cancel it abounds...) I read about Grocery IQ which helps you manage and customize a shopping list, including ordering it to reflect the order of products in your local store (as if I only shop at one store for all things, ha!). Of course, I immediately decided I needed to invest the ninety nine cents to get that app. Don't worry, I decided to sleep on the Cardsmart app (or some similar name) that allows you to scan pictures of your store discount cards and then scan your iphone at the store, avoiding carrying a million store discount cards. The sad truth is that I am used to carrying them around on my keychain now, and based on my ability to somehow have a cellphone that dies because I didn't think to charge it, with my luck, my Iphone would die before I got to the register and then no card, no discount...

I even found a free app that supposedly makes a sound that mosquitos don't like but we can't hear. I don't know if it will work, but hey it is free, might as well try it. I will have to remember to make sure that my phone is fully charged. I wouldn't want it to die, leaving me to be a mosquito buffet due to poor planning on my part. That is, if I ever dine out side this summer. So far, the chances have been few and far between. Cold and rainy appears to be here to stay, oh well, I will stay in and play-with my Iphone.

Pudgecicle

2009-06-16T10:52:00.000-07:00

It is June. I am fat and yet, cold. I am a pudgecicle. There, I have admitted it. Now what to do about that?
Well, admitting it was a big deal for me. For a long while, Denial was just a river in Egypt (da Nile). But after having several buttons and clasps pop off, I figured out I had to stop popping so much into my mouth.

So, what to do? Less. Less eating and more distractions. Time for the weapons of mass distraction. Social media, really good reads, instead of books I am reading out of a sense of obligation to get to the end and say I've read them. Oh, and of course, massages, facials and pedicures-other ways to treat myself that don't involve calories. All these within reason and an eye towards the shrinking wallet and recession.

There is that word again, recession. It seems for me that the recession has been one long sugar craving. Let's hope it stops soon. Let's also hope it warms up sometime this summer. I am tired of being a pudgecicle.

Remember When A Text Was A Mere Noun?

2009-06-08T12:06:00.000-07:00

I enjoyed a fabulous Reunion weekend at Trinity. It was great to meet up with old friends and talk to those who we went to school with but hadn't seen in many years. Many things have changed in twenty years.

Most of us were shocked at how nice the dorms are now after a major renovation. The dorm bathroom is actually nicer than our family bathroom (which admittedly, does not say much for my family bathroom, but that is the topic of a future blog). We also heard things that were frankly unimaginable for us. Apparently, now the students are texted from the dryers in the basement when their clothes are done! As far as my class is concerned, a text was an academic book and uttering the word would not illicit much excitement. If anything, it was the opposite. Now of course, it can be very exciting to get a text.

As for dining, we had the obligatory rubber chicken at Saturday night's dinner and I noticed much later that groups of classmates were walking around with pizza boxes from Campus Pizza. I am guessing the alumni and college could have saved a lot of trouble and expense and just ordered Campus Pizza for dinner. It would have been the perfect way to reminisce.

Sunday's brunch was a different story altogether. The food was fabulous and held at Miss Porter's School-one of my classmates is married to the Head of School there. It was nice to get together in a different setting and for those who hadn't ventured to Farmington in their college years, it is a lovely spot.

When we graduated and departed Trinity all those years ago, we promised to write and call each other. Now, we promise to use that new verb "friending" to keep in touch on Facebook. Some of us can event tweet each other. It does make you wonder what wacky words we will be using in five years' time which will signify newer, even faster ways to communicate. I am just catching up on the tweeting and friending, it is hard keeping up in this new technommunity, but I will try my best.

Twentieth Reunion

2009-06-04T09:55:00.000-07:00

I know it is hard to imagine from my youthful looking picture, taken a mere two and a half years ago, but I am going to my twentieth college reunion this weekend. In some ways, I can't imagine that 20 years have transpired since my college years. In others, though, that seems like a lifetime ago.

If someone asked me then what I would be doing twenty years from now, I am not sure how I would have replied. If someone asked me how I would feel twenty years from now, I probably would have said something very clever like, "accomplished."

How do I really feel? Mostly great. I am healthy, happily married and have two great kids (at least when they aren't screaming at each other) and one great dog (except when she digs). What of aging? Well, if you told me that I would wander from one room to another in my home and wonder aloud "now why did I come in here?," you would have been met with a laugh and a question of "twenty years from now? I will only be 42!" I guess the laugh is on me.

If you asked me if I would be bothered by wrinkles, age spots, aches, pains and a sluggish metabolism, I would have said no (again thinking these would not yet set in except for maybe the wrinkles). The reality is, I don't like the wrinkles, and the parenthesis that have come to bookend my mouth, the tightness in my left hip, etc.

But age has also brought me wisdom. I am lucky to still be here, healthy and happy twenty years later. Wrinkles and minor aches are the tolls for the journey I have taken. I have seen others not so lucky, including a handful of classmates who are no longer with us. So, I say bring on the wrinkles, it beats the alternative and gives me something to whine about as well.

I Have To Get This Off My Chest

2009-06-03T16:37:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I went to an MD for a follow up breast exam. No big deal right? Apparently no big deal medically. But I was nevertheless told that I should come back every six months to be examined (undoubtedly at a higher specialist rate) and should come back in 2 weeks for genetic counseling for being high risk for breast cancer and consider expensive gene testing that would not be covered by insurance. Huh?

The more I think about it, the more I think that all this practice wants to do is maximize the amount of money they can make off of me. My feelings of dis-ease with this practice began right when I was shown to the examining room. While the nurse who checked me in meant no offense, I was nontheless offended by her comment that "if I had to pick a kind of cancer to get, it would be a breast cancer." She espoused about how it was a really treatable disease and people are surviving it, though she quickly added, "not that I am saying it is a walk in the park."

One would think that an individual in the field of breast care would be better informed of the actual statistics surrounding breast cancer. Newsflash: women are still dying of breast cancer. Beyond that, after watching my sister suffer through diagnosis, waiting, waiting, waiting, surgery and a long and grueling treatment, I would never say that I would "pick" breast cancer.

I would like to think that this is an isolated incident, but I fear that breast cancer and the fear/risk of breast cancer is a very lucrative business. While I will go for mammograms and breast MRIs as dictated by my risk factors, I will not be returning to this practice. Sure, this has to do with my breasts, but I am going with my gut on this.

Vote with your Tech Skills

2009-05-29T05:44:00.000-07:00

So, I have been really busy with work and have not had time (or really creative energy) to blog. But, I am back now and asking you for a favor. Please vote for Aurora Women & Girls Foundation at www.communicause.com I am going to try to get us going "viral" here and get lots of folks to vote for us! The most voted charity will get $25,000. Imagine how far that money would go to helping our Foundation help fund women and girls programs in Hartford, CT and its surrounding towns? It will also help us increase our endowment to ensure we will be here, always, for the women and girls of the future.

Thanks, tweet this link to your friends, send an email, do what you can and thanks in advance for your help!
ps I promise to write some funny stuff again really soon...

Just Leaf Me With My Lettuce

2009-04-23T10:38:00.001-07:00

Yesterday was Earth Day. Or better yet, feel guilty day. I often feel as though I am doing my little part to make the world a better, greener place. I have the right kind of light bulbs. I bring my own shopping bags to stores. I don't use chemicals outside and for the most part inside my house. I only use the dryer for towels. I cook most of my own food from scratch (yep, even much of the bread we consume). I even recently started composting.

But yesterday I was listening to the news and they were talking about how some colleges were not serving beef or cheese for Earth Day to bring attention to the amount of global warming caused by the desire for beef and dairy in our country. Now, let me say here that I gave up beef several years ago for different reasons (I don't trust the EPA, which is filled with former Cattle Industry Execs.) so I considered it an ethical bonus that I am also being green by not eating beef due to the enormous amount of water and energy that goes into each 1lb of beef that gets to market. There's the beef, but what of the dairy? Can I just say that I love dairy?

Dairy would be harder for me to give up and it make me feel like I can't enjoy a little Fromage D'affinois, a little artisanal ice cream without feeling guilty about what I am doing to the planet now. Yikes, I have enough to feel guilty about (like not spending enough quality time with my kids, like not keeping the house clean enough, like those dark chocolate covered almond turtles-which also contain dairy...). It is human nature, or at least my nature, to make me want something when it is not supposed to be good for me or I am just not supposed to have it. It was only later that I realized that the dinner I had served actually had no meat or dairy in it. If you told me I couldn't have dairy, I would be miserable until I found a way to have it.

It is enough for me to utter the words "f*%@ the planet" every now and then as I reach for the ice cream, even though I do earnestly try to do my part. This is especially the case when I walk around my neighborhood and see how many others are NOT doing there part. There is the neighbor that leaves the TV on all day long, for THE DOG. There is the neighbor with the giant SUV that "warms it up" even in April, for 5-10 minutes before revving off in it. That isn't even to mention all the ChemLawns of the world that operate in these parts.

My daughter, taken up with the "I will do this once a year on Earth day" mentality insisted last night that we had to shut off all of the lights for one minute. I, having just sat down for the first time in hours, enjoying perusing a King Arthur catalogue, protested vociferously and pointed out that NONE of our neighbors were shutting off their lights. I muttered something about the fact that I did more for the planet all year and one minute of her shutting off the lights was a drop in the bucket. Of course she tried to make me feel guilty about my protests. I in turn countered her argument by lecturing her about her love of meat and dairy and how that was killing the planet quicker than one extra minute of electricity.

It's not easy being green, but it is pretty easy to feel guilty about not being green enough.

Bird Brain Part 2

2009-03-31T14:46:00.000-07:00

A very curious thing happened yesterday as I was writing the blog about Bird Brain and how annoying it was that Bird Brain kept slamming into the window in my office, every 38 seconds or so. The curious things was that as I was finishing the blog post, Bird Brain disappeared and did not return again all day.

I immediately wondered what magical powers blogging had. Could I, by merely posting about something really annoying, have it go away like Bird Brain did? My daughter and I marveled about what a strange coincidence it was that the minute I wrote about Bird Brain, he took off. Then my daughter started annoying me while I was trying to work and I had to threaten to write a blog post about her to see if my theory of having creatures that annoy me disappear.

I remained surprised and proud over my blog superpowers for the rest of the day and night. Until this morning, when once again, Bird Brain was at it. In fact, he seems to have doubled his efforts and as I write this, the time between intervals of window crashing seems to have decreased to every 25 seconds. I guess I will have to figure another way to get rid of Bird Brain.

Bizarrely, I was reading David Sedaris' latest book, When You Are Engulfed In Flames and he has a chapter, Aerial, devoted to how he contended with birds that wanted to get into every window of his home in Normandy (I guess Bird Brain looks relatively tame in comparison). His solution was to put up photos of the 9/11 hijackers which Hugh, his partner had blown up and worked some artistic magic on, and the covers of various albums (from Hugh's collection) showing singers' faces, in each window. He found that the faces were what kept the birds away. Now, I would try this, but I think the neighbors would be a little put off by the "faces" in every window.

Sedaris had already tried the obvious Scarecrow to no avail. So, no scarecrow, no magical blog superpowers, no LP covers or photos. Anyone have a better idea? I have tried telling Bird Brain to give it up, to evolve, but he won't listen...

Bird Brain

2009-03-30T09:46:00.001-07:00

"Oh, what a cute little bird!" I imagine this is what you are thinking as you look at the image above. I, on the other hand, am thinking, that I finally got the moron to sit still long enough to get photographic evidence of it. This seemingly harmless little Robin has managed to make working from my home office, our sunroom, nearly impossible.

Today is Monday. Last Friday morning, as I sat down to work, I was met with the sound of repeated crashing noises, not even 8 feet behind my head. I turned around to investigate and there, on the branches of one of our rhodedenderons was our little friend, Bird Brain, as I have come to call him. He didn't stay there very long. Instead, he made what had to have been his 22rd attempt to crash through one of the sunroom windows. The attempts come reliably every 38 seconds or so.

I am not sure what the exact learning curve of a bird is, but unfortunatley, for my sake, despite crashing into the window all day for the last four days and running, neither is Bird Brain. I am not the only one who has been annoyed and unable to work under the constant crashing of Bird Brain against the window. My husband likes to hop on my computer over the weekend, and it seems to have been a distraction to his Dungeons and Dragons Game. My daughter has even noticed it despite having the Disney.com channel blaring while playing on Club Penguin. The whole family is annoyed and has different theories.

My husband's theory is that Bird Brain is trying to build a nest in the sun room. I am thinking that Bird Brian is fixating on the pub sign above my desk which has an English landscape scene in it. My guess is that Bird Brain thinks the landscape is real and keeps trying to fly through it. My daughter hasn't hazarded a guess but likes to marvel at all the bird poop all over the rhodedenderon leaves where Bird Brain likes to perch in between flight attempts/crashes. My thought on that is that he has stressed himself out so much he has made himself sick to his stomach.

Our bedroom closet is over this sunroom. Early this morning as I was getting dressed I heard thudding noises and was momentarily startled. I imagined an intruder in our living room. Then I remembered Bird Brain. Of course, he would be up early. What is that saying again? "The early bird gets the worm?" However, in this case, it is "the early Bird (Brain) gets the window"...and gets the window, and gets the window, and gets the window...

A Happy Medium

2009-03-13T04:32:00.000-07:00

You have heard the saying before "the medium is the message." Well, today the message is the medium. Medium is what I have been seeking in some ways and what I have ended up with in others.

Take our new dog Hanna for instance. We love to speculate on how big she is going to get. We used to have a big dog (a samoyed), Kramer. So, I was used to having a big dog like Kramer and thought that is what I wanted when Kramer passed away and we were ready to welcome a new dog into our lives. Then we spent a few weeks in the UK with our friends Mary Jane and Rick and their little Westie Sophie, and the kids convinced me that a little dog just like Sophie was what they wanted. Okay, I agreed. I filled out the Westie rescue paperwork and got myself mentally prepared for a small dog.

Those who know me know that patience is not my strongest suit. So, after a month with no replies and no leads on Westie rescues, I went on Petfinder and started looking at other dogs. To make a long story short, along came Hanna, who was advertised as a border collie lab mix. That is what her mother was anyway. Watching her develop and hearing her "howl" outside at times, we are pretty confident that Hanna's father must have been 100% beagle. No matter, she is really cute, has a great disposition and we love her, all 28ish pounds of her at almost 9 months. Though at first I wanted a big dog, then the kids convinced me to get a little dog, we are ending up with a happy medium, by the name of Hanna.

On the other hand, quite literally, I really am seeking medium sized dishwashing gloves. I had a pair of smalls that were way too small. Then somehow I ended up buying ones that would have been comfortable only on Lurch. Add to that the fact that I kept forgetting to get new gloves when I went to the store. Finally, this week I remember to buy new gloves. After literally scaling the supermarket shelf (why they put the gloves hanging over the very top shelf is beyond me. We all know it is us little women who do the dishes and even if it were the men who did them, do you honestly think they would wear gloves to protect their hands?) I found myself trying to remember if I had originally bought medium or small. Paranoid about getting gloves that were too big again I opted to "play it safe" and got the small size.

Well the small size is definitely not too big. In fact, you would probably be amused at the nightly gyriations I perform in front of the sink after I have done the dishes and am trying to remove the gloves that have now been suctioned to my skin because they are so tight. In the end, I should have chosen the medium. Maybe I will remember next time, but given that I am now over 40 and can't seem to remember much, don't bet on it.

Dear reader, my message is this: learn from my lessons and seek the happy medium. I don't think you will go wrong, or too big or too small.

Tank of America

2009-03-09T17:08:00.000-07:00

I had to make a major deposit today for work of lots of cash and checks. I didn't want to be carrying this kind of money around, so I made sure I was at the bank right at 9:00am-the advertised opening time. This was at Bank of America's location in the center of my town.

Bank of America-yes, that bank, the one with pretty big image problems (even bigger than most). So, you would think given all of the bad publicity that the bank has been getting, that the employees, who, unlike most of the rest of America, still have jobs, would show up on time for them and open the bank on time. That would be asking too much apparently.

There were three of us crowded in the vestibule, waiting for the stroke of 9:00am. Then the strokes of 9:01 and 9:02 came and went respectively. Then I decided to knock on the door and interrupt the group breakfast the employees were having in the far corner. You would think this would rouse them to open the doors and run to their posts. Well you would think wrong. They made brief eye contact and kept eating and chatting.

Apparently, they must have been waiting for the teller manager, because when she came past us with her Dunkin Donuts breakfast in tow at 9:05 and told us we couldn't follow her in until "they" opened the doors, "they" suddenly leapt to and came to life.

Now, as I shared with the other two individuals waiting with me, I am baffled that these folks can't be ready to serve the public at the advertised time. This is especially so when you figure that they still get away with working "bankers hours" of 9-4 when the rest of us have to put in a whole day's work. Leaving that aside again, the irony too was that we were all making deposits. So much for the banks not being able to get money to hand out in loans. Maybe if they opened up in time they would get more money! The deposit I was making was for my employer, if it was my own money, I would move to another smaller bank, where the employees show up on time and are eager to serve you.

The Magazine Queen Abdicates

2009-03-01T17:46:00.000-08:00

Slowly but surely, I am cancelling my magazine subscriptions. House Beautiful, Elle Decor and the like were all fun and useful when I first moved in and needed ideas for decorating. They were also more fun when I was in the mood to spend money on such things. Those days are gone. Just like the rest of America, my wallet is now under lock and key.

Except for the references to botox and plastic surgery, I used to enjoy reading More magazine. It seemed like a cool badge of honor for us over-forty types. Now I look at the magazine and think the name More rather ironic. I think I would be more willing to pick it up and read it if it was called Less. Truthfully though, a bonus reason for getting rid of these magazines is that I never get around to reading them and then feel guilty about not doing so. I don't need another source of guilt, especially when I am paying good money for it.

You might be thinking to yourself, so she is cancelling a few magazines, what is the big deal? Well, let's put it this way, when I lived in the UK, I used to give all of my old magazines to my friend Mary Jane. Her husband once asked me if I had been stealing from a doctor's office. He couldn't believe the volume of magazines coming through the door. (I must admit to still having a weakness for those Brit magazines-sometimes I go to Borders and finger the few they carry for old times sake). So the magazine industry is going to take a hit, but it can't be helped.

The great magazine blackout is not the only change going on in my home. Here is the scoop: I am no longer dating those guys Ben & Jerry. The affair had lasted for years and we saw each other a few nights a week, despite my being married. Sadly, I am still unfaithful. But now I am back to seeing that guy I hadn't even given a second look at since high school. His name is Breyer.

I Love You...From 5 Ft Away

2009-02-26T14:10:00.000-08:00

Cold and flu season has officially arrived in our house. Thing 2 has had two bouts of pneumonia, or a pneumonia-like virus and Hubby is now recovering from a viral bronchitis that sent him to bed for a day.

Thing 1 and I, the women and girls of the family, appear to be the steel magnolias (dare I jinx myself?). To be on the safe side, I have sent myself to bed early, taken to drinking echinacea tea with fresh ginger in it, eating more oranges and avoiding Thing 2 and the Hubby.

Easier said than done. Because Thing 2 is almost 11, isn't feeling well and now needs three breathing treatments a day, I kind of can't avoid him. Hubby on the other hand, is clearly an adult, needs no breathing treatments and is generally self-sufficient. Still, it is harder to avoid him than one would think.

Just last night as I was in my mad dash to go to a school event with Thing 2, I asked Hubby where the camera was. Note: I did not ask him to get me the camera. However, he took it upon himself to not only go and get the camera (thereby touching it with his undoubtedly infectious hands) but to also take the actual camera out and turn it on to make sure it was working. The faces I was making while this little manuever was going on would be akin to the expression on Eddie Murphy's face in "Daddy Day Care" when he went to check on the state of the bathroom after one of the children had "used" it.

Of course, Hubby took great offense to this. The fact that I then proceeded to lecture him by pointing out that I had not asked him to get the camera, but rather where the camera was, did not improve relations between us. In fact, after I returned from the event, he asked me for a hug. I told him I could ill afford (okay, pun intended) to get sick, so no hug for 48 hours.

Cold and uncaring? Go ahead and call me uncaring in this instance, but it is the cold part I am trying to avoid. Being the chief cook and bottle washer in these parts, I can't afford to get sick normally. Add to this that I have a very big event going on for work next week which is all on me, and you can see why I have turned into a germaphobe.

It isn't actually that I don't care. In fact, after wiping down the phone with disinfectant (I saw him on the phone last night when I came in.) I called hubby today to see how he was feeling. Of course I do care and I do still love him, just from a safe distance and armed with disinfectant.

Recess v. Recession

2009-02-20T07:55:00.000-08:00

Recession, Recession, Recession. It is all we hear about, it is all we think about. Being inundated with the word, I have taken to examining it more carefully. It contains the word 'recess' in it. 'Recess,' remember that word from your school days? It was the highlight of our days. We could run wild through the playground and be carefree (particularly when the teachers were looking the other way.)

What we are learning as adults, though, is that there is a big difference between 'recess' and 'recession.' 'Recess' was a time to be giddy, to go wild. 'Recessions', as we are quickly learning, are a time to be paralyzed and fearful (to use the playground analogy, it is the position you assume when playing tag and you are commanded to "freeze").

Maybe, in order to get through this 'recession' thing, we could combine the most palatable elements of the two words. While we may no longer 'go wild' in terms of spending money and resources, maybe we can remember what 'recess' was all about. It wasn't about spending lots of money and having lots of toys. It was usually about one kickball and a bunch of friends. Even the kickball was optional when playing 'tag' or 'king of the mountain.'

So, I am going to play like it is 'recess' while being mindful of the 'recession' all around me. Instead of placating myself with new 'toys', 'trips' and other things that I don't actually need, I am going to gather family and friends around and 'play' (board games, outdoor games, Wii, etc.) until I hear the words: 'recess(ion) is over.'

Dog Gone, part 2

2009-02-14T06:24:00.000-08:00

Today it is officially a year since Kramer left our family. It is easier to write this from sunny Florida than wintry Connecticut where Kramer loved the snow. We have healed somewhat from losing Kramer and have a new love in our lives now, Hanna, who is so different from Kramer that Kramer's aura remains unchanged.

Here is what I wrote for Kramer last year when he left us:

Ode to Our Valentine: Kramer

Yesterday on Valentines Day, we said goodbye to you. Those who know me know that I don’t believe in Valentines Day and have labeled it a Hallmark Holiday. I always say, much better to do something unexpected for someone you love because you want to, not because the Hallmark corporate conscience tells you that you should.

Yesterday, we did the unexpected for you. We said goodbye.

You couldn’t get up and were in discomfort. I tried to help you but your legs had quit. I knew then that I had to put you out of your misery. It was no life for you if you couldn’t move. I never thought it would happen like this: that your mind would be fine but your body would give in. Strangely, it still was not a difficult decision. You told me in your way that you were done with this life. The raw chicken on the counter couldn’t tempt you, nor could you get yourself into the crate, though a homemade turkey dumpling beckoned to you.

Thank you for being such a great part of our lives for almost 15 years. You kept us laughing with your silly ways, from your first “suicide attempt” when you put your paw on the “up” window button in the backseat, while having your head out the window, to when you took a sudden, intense dislike to buses, trucks and any cars with especially loud engines, and lunged at these vehicles. I will always remember how you loved the arctic weather and how that first extreme winter you were in your glory, sleeping on your snow throne and forcing me to come out in pajamas and boots to chase you inside. You always wanted to be with us, though sometimes you changed your mind. Especially when we went swimming in Rhode Island and you swam in too. As soon as you could no longer stand, you tried climbing onto one of us in your panic. It was then we had to remind you that you were a snow dog, not a Labrador.

Above all, you were my best walking companion. Until the last week or so, you were always eager to go walking. You were a great walker, always at my side, never pulling. If you saw other dogs, you would moan in that cute way I will never forget. I wonder if your old British boyfriend, Jerry the Golden Retriever can sense that you are no longer with us?

It is very hard to be at home without you gone. Even though you mostly slept these last few months and had become so deaf that I could sneak out of the house to catch my early morning gym class without disturbing you, you were a constant presence in our home and in our life. I spent a lot of time yesterday telling you that I loved you and that you were a good dog. I know you heard me.

We rescued you from the CT Humane Society when you were seven months old. Your card said that you were given up for adoption because you were “too hyper, cannot control.” When we got you, you surely were that. You would jump all over us, pee in the house and leave a path of destruction of shoes, books and other items of value in your wake. We built you a cage in our first house and though you ate your way out of it numerous times, eventually you grew to like it and would go down there yourself when we were out. You were our world at that time, before Maddy and Will arrived. I used to take you for rides and dote on you. You were Diane’s boyfriend when the others didn’t work out. You liked using her lap as your pillow when we would return from Rhode Island.

You gave us quite a scare when, in your Krameresque manner, you ate your Preventic Collar and you were lifeless when we returned from a trip. We rushed you to the hospital and you came back to us.

You weren’t sure what to make of Maddy when she came home from the hospital, but you grew to love her and all the food she dropped, and you even let her ride you (as this was well before the arthritis set in). By the time William came around, you were used to these screaming little creatures that pushed you down the ladder of love. Though not to be outdone, you managed to get yourself sprayed by a skunk the first night William came home from the hospital.

When we learned we were going to England, we didn’t have time to get you microchipped and rabies tested for the 6 month waiting period. So we scrambled to find you a temporary home. Our neighbor Laurie and her kids took you in and gave you love for four long months until you could join us in England. They opened their hearts to you and you and their dog Mimi got along well. Finally, you arrived in the UK. We joked that everyone on the flight must have needed those Bose noise cancellation headphones. However, the man that delivered you to our house said that you didn’t make a peep from the airport to our house and that you only started barking when you saw me.

We were so happy to have you with us in the UK. Especially me, as I had my walking companion back. Together we explored the Esher and Claygate areas. You managed to get yourself in trouble right away of course, by stealing some food you shouldn’t have eaten and pooping all over the house. Your timing was bad. We had just left you with a young babysitter and the kids for a romantic getaway in Venice. The sitter took one look at the mess you had made and the anxious calls to Venice began. Luckily we had Judith, your faithful friend, to call upon. She came over, cleaned up your mess and took care of you. When you then became sick, she got the Claygate Vet to come and look in on you. She took care of you while the sitter bailed to her parents’ house, our kids in tow.

When we returned from Venice, it became apparent that on the boiled chicken diet that the vet had prescribed, you were becoming a giant chicken nugget. Food in, but no food out. I used my instincts and gave you some of my daily fiber pills, mixed with yogurt, and eureka, you were better.

Gradually the aches and pains and deafness began to set in. We had to make sure we got your attention so you didn’t panic when we stepped over you. We of course had to step over you because as usual, you chose to sleep right smack in the middle of the traffic flow. You started to moan and groan when you went to lie down and found it very hard to get up.

One day, you snapped at Will and Kara, our friend and babysitter. I took you to the vet and your blood work (which you needed to be sedated to draw) indicated that your liver was barely working. The ultrasound confirmed what we already suspected. There was cancer in your liver, spleen and pancreas. Dr. Gary, your new, much better vet, started to discuss biopsies and chemotherapy. I started laughing on the phone and pointed out that you had to be sedated to draw the blood, because you so hated going to the vet. I said that I wasn’t prepared to do that to you. You had lived a long, wonderful life and you were just going to ride off into the sunset in your own way. Dr. Gary understood. I asked him how long we could expect you to live, and he said six weeks to six months. That was almost two years ago.

With every vacation we booked, we thought to ourselves that sadly, this would be the last time we would have to ask Judith or Jill who also so loved you, to look after you. Yet, like the Energizer bunny, you kept going. Finding joy on your daily walks and barking at the table for the “clean plate club” that Chris had misguidedly enrolled you in. If we took too long to eat a meal, there you would be, barking for Chris’ plate to “clean up.”

We never thought you would make it back from England, yet we got to have seven glorious months with you. Until this last week or so, you still found great joy on your walks. Lately, however, I noticed that you started pulling back to indicate that you would much rather be home than on the walk. It was your own way of telling me that I needed to ready myself to walk alone.

The end came quick. You woke up early yesterday and barked to go out. Chris let you out and we heard you start yelping. You had fallen on the ice covered snow and could not get up. Chris had to put your leash on and pull you over the ice until you could stand. You could no longer stand in the kitchen and I got you to the door by pulling you with the leash and a miracle and you made one last jaunt to the bus stop with Will and I. In the mistaken belief that a bit longer of a walk would help to lubricate your joints, I tried to get you to walk past our house to the end of the street. You wanted no part of this and pulled back. I gave in. We went inside and you were not able to stand again. Not when I went and finally bought a muzzle and tried to help you, and not with the muscle relaxants I went to the vets to get for you as a last ditch effort. You spent the day in discomfort and I knew, with no uncertainty that it was time to let you go. When you soiled yourself, I begged the vet to move up the appointment so you no longer had to suffer.

You were a rescue dog and yes, we rescued you. But you rescued us too. We were rescued from an ordinary life. You were a constant companion and source of comfort. You kept us laughing and though we cry now because we miss you and are only now realizing the great impact you had on us, we are so happy to have had you in our lives. We are so happy that you were “too hyper, cannot control” for those other owners who gave you up (and named you Alaska! Yikes) because you came into our life and gave us joy and companionship. You will always be our Valentine.

Confessions of a Blog Slacker

2009-01-23T15:02:00.000-08:00

I started my blog because I thought it would be fun and a good way to use my writing skills creatively. It was a lot of fun at the start when I wasn't working (as in paid work) very much.

However, ever since I took on a new, supposedly part-time role in August, the blog has suffered. Instead of being fun, most of the time it is a source of guilt. It is like a child I don't pay enough attention to. Or, more accurately, who I am not spending quality time with. Gone are my well thought out and funnier blogs of the beginning months. Here to stay for the time being are my quicker, quirkier perspectives.

Just add it to the list of things I have to be guilty about, like the magazines I subscribe to which I never seem to get around to reading, or the recipes I cut out and then forget about or realize I lack the energy to shop for and then make. No wonder blogging is such an attractive thing to we women, it is a way to release energy, and another thing to add to our massive to-do lists.

Skirting The Issue

2009-01-09T06:07:00.000-08:00

Last night I locked myself in the closet and tried to clean the mess up. It was total pantamonium. That is no spelling error. It looked like a wild beast had charged through all of my dark colored pants, leaving a trail of destruction. Well, at least the beast part was true.

It was the sad remains of trying to find a pair that would fit me after the gluttony of the holidays. Gone arethe guilded days of eating. Here lies the sad reality. None of the pants fit. Okay, well, some of them "fit" only in the most technical sense. But, wearing them outside of my closet would have resulted in a serious fashion felony. I would have been guilty of gross distortion as to my actual body image.

I cleaned up the whole closet, but I couldn't bear to hang the pants up. I mean, why bother? They don't actually fit now, so why hang them up again. Hanging them would be a sign of hopefulness. Did I mention it was 10:00pm at night? I am very pragmatic when it comes to expending any energy when it comes to my clothes. That is why, back when I used to have clothes that needed to be ironed, I would only grudgingly iron them immediately before wearing them. My mother would constantly lecture me that I should set aside one night and iron all of the clothes that needed to be ironed. That struck me as overly confident that I would definitely get the opportunity to wear them. If I was going to get into a car accident tomorrow that would put me out of commission for a while, I imagined that while I convalesced, I would be extra bitter that I wasted those hours ironing clothes that I wasn't going to be able to wear.

So, you see why I won't put the time and energy into hanging those pants up now (so what if it would take only 10 minutes? That is ten minutes of valuable time doing something else, like whining about this issue in a blog post). Maybe I will have the confidence to hang them back up today after I polish off the last offending bit of Christmas excess-the peanut brittle. Then, no more temptations and no more excuses.

In the meantime, I have relied on the most wonderful fashion accessory of all time. The skirt. Sure, it gets a bit drafty in the winter time, but when all of your other options make your legs look like cocktail franks, you embrace the skirt and brace the wind. The only thing better than the skirt in these dire days of post Christmas reality, is of course, the skirt with the elastic waist band. Talk about a true friend, with you through thick and thin, literally, though thin hasn't been around much of late.

As for the pants, I hope to get back to them and not have to buy a new set. I am going to the gym again and not scarfing down all kinds calorie laden tidbits (at least not regularly). I am getting back on track. So, I should probably hang those pants up before my daughter reminds me that I promised to make homemade cookies with her this afternoon.

Ho Ho Go!

2009-01-02T12:20:00.000-08:00

Okay, I am so over the holidays. I can't wait to pack Christmas back up in its box. I got yelled at last night by hubby for taking down all the candles in the upstairs windows. So what if I am a party pooper. Enough with the excess, it is time to get right back to the recession and the grim prospects at hand.

Speaking of hands, if I could get my hand out of the 2 lb. box of See's candies that our friends Susan and Eric brought over, I might have a better chance of getting my butt back in the pants that seem to have shrunk as small as my wallet. It isn't just the See's. There is also the homemade peanut brittle, the homemade bread (well, it did save money to bake it, too bad it now beckons me to eat it and thereby threatens any cost savings be transferred to a new larger wardrobe) and the banana pecan streusel muffins I decided to make yesterday when hubby prodded me to do something with the frozen bananas falling from the overloaded freezer.

As the guy said in that commercial for Ronco, "but wait, there's more." There is also the leftover lemon almond polenta cake which I made for my daughter to have a piece of for dessert on Christmas Eve. And the homemade cookies that hubby's Aunt sent us.

If all that fails to tempt, there is always the usual snacks, cheese and what I like to think of as "food mines" to be had. So yeah, I just want to be done with all of these things and start a new. Except I can't. Throwing out these once a year goodies would be very wasteful, especially in this economy. I know, I may as well strap them to my thighs. But, I can't bring myself to get rid of them and those nuts and chews from the See's box sure bring a measure of comfort in these uncertain times.

Obese Navidad

2008-12-23T10:41:00.000-08:00

The song "Feliz Navidad" was playing the other day and I contemporaneously changed the words to "Obese Navidad." Recession or no recession, or maybe because of the recession, we are eating like there is no tomorrow. Because there may not be one for us. My job and hubby's jobs are both vulnerable to extinction. So, bring on the cookies,the drinks, and whatever highly caloric and life limiting food choices are around. 'Tis the season to be Merry and damn it, no matter what, we are going to give it a go.

So, we have been scarfing down homemade cookies and whatever else has been sent from above or from devious types to tempt us. We baked lots of cookies but sadly, they are mostly gone now. Well, they are best eaten while fresh, why wait until Christmas? Speaking of Christmas, why have the stale homemade christmas cookies that by some miracle you did not yet eat, for your dessert? Those should just count as snacks or highly caloric energy "pills." No, by rights we should have a proper dessert.

So, its on with the boots again and off to the crowded store to buy the ingredients for sticky toffee pudding, a favorite English dessert I had the misfortune to fall in love with during our UK years. Oh yes, and the individual fallen chocolate cakes have become a Christmas Eve tradition. Really, it isn't officially the night before Christmas without them.

While flipping through my recipe file I just ran across a recipe for Lemon Almond Polenta cake. Well that sounds yummy too. May as well make it and take it, along with the sticky toffee pudding, to Christmas at hubby's uncle's house. It will be the blessed union of two great sayings: Tis the season to be merry and: The more the merrier. Is that Jose Feliciano I hear singing in the background?

Deck the Balls!

2008-12-22T09:57:00.001-08:00

Okay, I admit, if there really were fashion police, I would probably have been arrested a few times. But, I will go ahead and mock some of the obnoxious holiday "styles" I have seen of late.

Saturday night at my husband's work holiday party, there was a man there wearing the most obnoxious "holiday" pants I have ever seen. They were bright red cordouroys with green wreaths adorned with red bows all over them. There was no missing this man in a crowd. When I relayed this to a friend she told me that her significant other does a good volume of business in vintage and high end clothing of just this sort. Just goes to show you that taste and money do not always go hand in hand.

I was thinking that maybe the man had mistaken the words of the song "Deck the Halls" with "Deck the Balls" and therefore sported such pants to show his holiday spirit. He was probably just a victim of fashion amnesia. I myself bought a pair of pants a few years back which I now realize upon reflection, should have been limited to either upholstery or shower curtains. Bright blue and yellow. I must make a mental note to go back and destroy any photos of these in case I decide to run for public office.

A few nights ago we dined with some acquaintances from our Alma Mater. A spouse of one of the alums also decided to get all decked out in the spirit of the season. The fashion police would have picked him up on his three-alarm red blazer complete with christmas holiday buttons as extra adornment, had they been in the vicinity.

In general I don't go in for looking like a Christmas tree just because 'Tis the season. Consistently, I am also not into things like dressing in Disney top to toe. Just the occassional foray into the world of upholstery, that's me.

Going Postal

2008-12-18T17:47:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago I went to the main post office in our area to do the first bulk mailing for the nonprofit I am the Executive Director of. I had spoken on the phone to several post office employees and researched on the internet all that had to be done beforehand and thought I was pretty well prepared. I had even sorted the 204 letters by zip code as instructed by one of the employees. So, imagine my surprise when it took 3 1/2 hours and then an additional return trip to get the mailing done.

First you see, I was advised to go to the front retail window and ask them if they had 500 precanceled five cent stamps to purchase. I was told that was the minimum and if they didn't have it, there was no point in opening the permit, etc. So, I waited in line in the front lobby for about five minutes. There was one guy working the counter. Did I mention this was around the middle of December? Finally, another woman came out and prepared to open her desk to serve customers. I jumped the line to ask her, if she could just tell me if the office had at least 500 precanceled 5 cent stamps because John from the Business Entry Unit had told me to inquire.

She said "they don't do 5 cent stamps anymore, just 10 cent ones." "Oh," I said, "John had told me specifically that they should be 5 cents." "No," she insisted, "they are 10 cents." "Okay" I relented, "well, do you have 500 of those?" "I think so, I am not sure and I have to wait on the customers." she said and motioned to the line of customers. So, I took a chance and decided to go ahead and pull the permit for the bulk mail, assuming their would be enough stamps.

Pulling the permit entailed getting into my car, driving out the entrance and driving to the second driveway, essentially driving 1/4 of a mile in a circuituous route to the back of the building. There I was met by John with whom I had spoken several times by phone. He was very nice and helpful and immediately announced that the woman who I dealt with, who he decided was "Cecile," was providing inaccurate information. Anyway, John and I spent twenty minutes of him inputing my organization's information (I thought I was all set when I had applied for permission to mail under nonprofit status, however, that essentially just allows you to open a permit-should have known it was too easy...). Once he was done, he instructed me that I had to go back around to the front and pay the $180 to open the permit and to buy my precanceled stamps. Once I had done that he said, I could come back with my mail to the back and mail it with the properly completed forms and the mail in the proper trays, etc. I figured I would cross that bridge when I got to it and off I went back to the front of the building in my car.

When I got back to the front of course the long line was being served by one person only, the other employee (who I later learned was Bill) was off to lunch. So, twenty minutes waiting in line later, I got served by a different woman who had just come on to join Cecile. The new woman was very pleasant and I am sorry I don't recall her name. I asked her for the 5 cent stamps and she said no problem but the supervisor then came out to tell me that the minimum amount of precanceled stamps which could be purchased was 3000! That will be plenty for over two years of mailings! Yikes, but now I was already down the road of commitment, having just paid the $180 permit fee to mail under nonprofit status!

So, off I went, $330 lighter and a massive coil of precanceled 5 cent stamps in my hand, to get into my car and put the stamps on the 204 letters. Once again, I drove around to the back of the building and headed for the bulk mail office. I had downloaded the form for the bulk mail and John had kindly weighed 10 of the letters to get an accurate weight of one piece for the form. The women at the bulk area were very nice and explained how to fill out the rest of the form and in fact, Hortense even filled out much of the form for me. Then she showed me where the trays were to put the letters in which I had sorted by zip code. She then showed me the cardboard covers that went on the trays. So far so good. Finally, she tallied up the sheet and told me that the difference between the amount paid by using the 5 cent stamps and the rate to be paid for nonprofit postage amounted to $13.81 I still owed them.

You guessed it. I had to drive back around to the front to pay that. So back in front and back in line, I finally reached the counter and was served by Bill who by this time was back from his lunch. While waiting I got to chatting with a woman standing in front of me whose name was Barbara and who noticed that I had just been in the bulk mail area around back like she was. Turns out that she runs a mailing service business. Before this day I would have wondered as to the business need for such a service. Now there was no doubt in my mind. I quickly asked for her card.

When I paid Bill my $13.18 I drove back around to the back and gave them the sheet with the evidence of my having paid the $13.18 and they told me I was all set. Off I went home, happy to have this all behind me.

Twenty minutes later the phone rang. It was another woman from the business entry unit. She said the math on my sheet didn't add up. I quickly blamed Hortense who had so kindly helped me. The math was saying that there were 194 pieces (in the end it was my error, I had given her the various numbers). There is a minimum of 200 pieces for bulk mail. I had a moment of panic thinking I had miscounted, but I knew I had 204. I speculated that the missing 10 had to be in either the 060 or 061 zip codes as this was where the overwhelming bulk of our mail went. She said she would count it all and call me back. Ten minutes later she called to say that indeed they were part of the 061 batch.

Then she told me that since they weren't in the calculation, that I owed an additional $1.18. So, off I went back to the post office twenty minutes away from home, to the front window where I had been instructed to tell them I needed to pay for a meter strip of $1.18 and bring it back around to the back to be affixed on my sheet.

Once again, after waiting 10 minutes (the crowd was thinning out in the late afternoon, a lull before rush hour I guess) I got Bill. I told him what I needed. He asked if I had anything to put it onto. I said no, they told me to just get it and take it to the back. He insisted it had to be put on something. So he took a scrap piece of paper and affixed it to it. Off I drove back to the back of the building where I handed the paid meter strip to the lady whose name I don't recall. She looked at it and said "who put it on this piece of paper?" I told her how Bill insisted. She and another employee commiserated how that was NOT how it was meant to be done and Bill knew that full well. "That Bill, he in the KMA club, he just waiting for his time to be up so he be out of here." She told her fellow employee. I started laughing and said KMA, I think I know what that means (kiss my ass!). With that she told me that I was truly all set and I got in the car, sat on my ass and drove around the building and home.

Land of the Limp Blimp

2008-12-17T10:36:00.000-08:00

This morning while catatonically going about my morning routine I heard a story on NPR that made me bust a gut. It was on the local CT news. Apparently, some man in a town nearby had been arrested for stealing all of his neighbors lawn ornaments and other holiday decorations. According to the news source the police required 3 trucks to haul the evidence away. Neighbors were perplexed as to why their reindeer, snowmen and the like kept disappearing. The part that made me laugh was when the story concluded by saying that police had not yet determined a motive. Hello? He probably couldn't stand the tacky ornaments and thus took matters into his own hands.

Lately, I have been thinking about that a lot as I drive around town. There are definitely different ornament styles for different neighborhoods. I would characterize my nieghborhood's style as New England Puritanical-i.e., real traditional. I mocked my husband for putting out his Santa climbing up a rope which he bought in France. I told him it stuck out like a sore thumb in the 'hood. To which he replied that it was European. To which I replied, "you mean Eurotrash."

In the center of town it seems that people really go in for the Christmas blow up figures-santa, frosty, etc. As I drive around during the day, these deflated "limp blimps" as I like to call them, lie in the various front yards like victims of some sort of terrorist attack. They really are quite weird looking by day, forlorn fallen victims of the green energy movement.

I will conclude with something that a friend sent us in an email on this topic:
if you had 250 strands of lights, 100 individual bulbs per strand for a grand total of 25,000 individual miniature imported Italian twinkle lights stapled to the outside of your house you know who you'd be don't you? Click this link to find out: http://www.quizilla.com/user_images/R/riverblue/1059698537_z-griswold.jpg

Rubbing Elbows

2008-12-16T08:52:00.000-08:00

Last Friday night was our big chorale concert. We practiced all fall, learning 5 Hebrew songs, 3 Spanish songs, three British songs and three Gospel songs. That was a lot of songs.

I made it to every single rehearsal and spent a good deal of time listening to our practice CD. So much so, in fact, that I knew many of the songs, or a good portion of most of the songs, by heart-even some of the foreign language ones.

Therefore, you would think that I would have done fine in the concert. Well, not quite. I fumbled along with the rest of us altos, through a few bits and pieces of earlier songs where it seemed we weren't keeping up with the sopranos. However, not satisfied with being one struggling voice amongst many, I had to have my own solo screw up. Pretty early on in one of the gospel tunes, "Rise Up Shepherd and Follow," I lost track of the "doot doos,"because I was focusing too closely on the music and missed a line. This is directly in contrast to my husband's assertion that I try to pride myself on not looking at my music and that is why I screwed up. In fact, if I hadn't looked at the music, I probably wouldn't have made that particular mistake. That was one song I had memorized. Anyway, perusing the music, I confidently and boldly launched into the verse "Oh you better rise up..." until I suddenly realized to my horror that I was the only one rising up. Everyone else was diligently "doot dooing."

I know at that moment that my body temperature must have risen to about a million and three degrees being shocked and disgusted with myself. I also know I said a dirty word. This was confirmed later by my daughter, Thing 1: "Mommy you messed up and then I saw you say a dirty word." Screwing up and saying a dirty word should have been a big enough faux pas, but instead I then, inexplicably, elbowed my poor innocent fellow alto 1 Jane, whose only mistake was in choosing to stand next to me.

I can't be certain now, but I am hoping that I said the bad word and elbowed Jane at the same time, sort of like a reflex. I sure hope I didn't say the bad word and then separately decide to elbow Jane for an additional release of frustration. Poor Jane was very good humored about it. She joked that now she understood why her grandfather did something similar to the guy next to him when he played the tuba. I believe she said tuba, I think I was still in shock afterwards (and according to my husband, informing everyone who didn't happen to have noticed the screw up in the concert, of how I screwed up), so I could have had that wrong.

Right before the concert I had confided to Jane that I wasn't going to buy the DVD of the concert if one was available, because I hadn't even watched the last one I purchased. Well, now I must say I am curious to see if my little outburst was caught on film. If it was, then Jane might be interested in purchasing the tape too, in case she wants to file charges against me for assault!

I told Jane that she should probably ask for a seat reassignment so she doesn't have to be assaulted by me. She said she still preferred singing next to me because I have a strong voice. What she hadn't counted on is that strong left jab. I told her I would look foward to seeing her again in January and that she might consider investing in some arm pads.

I guess I know what my New Year's resolution is going to be.

Another Cockamamie Christmas Tree

2008-12-15T11:41:00.000-08:00

I know I haven't written in a while what with being busy with work and that whole Christmas thing, but this blog about a bog should make up for it.

This past weekend the family trudged out on the annual ritual of picking out the family Christmas tree. Taking our cue from my husband's family (my family never had a tree, we only celebrated the material aspects of the holiday), with the exception of the three years when we lived in England, we have always had a real Christmas tree and ever since having kids, have always cut our own. So, seeing as Thing 1 is 12 and Thing 2 is 10, you would think that we would have gotten this little exercise perfected by now. Not so.

Instead, once again, we have managed to pick out the most "Charlie Brown" of all Christmas trees available in the fields where we hiked around looking for the elusive (or in fact, nonexistent) perfect Christmas tree. Okay, I admit it, this time I am to blame because I picked out the tree we actually cut and took home. In my defense, I did offer a few disclaimers: 1. "You won't see that bald spot because it will be against the wall when we get it home." 2. "It doesn't matter what it looks like, because it is going to look cockamamie when we get it home like every other year." I think the group finally decided to go for the tree I picked for the same reason I picked it-to get the heck out of Dodge and get home, decorate the tree and check that task off of the list.

As soon as my husband had cut down the tree I started heading back the way we had come. He stopped us and insisted that if we only went to the left and across what looked like a frozen marshy field, we would be shaving lots of time off of the return trip. I wish I had an aerial map to paste here so I could show you how big this place was. Suffice it to say, not big. But, in our desire to get the heck out of Dodge, we followed along blindly. An appropriate analogy really, since only a blind person should have willingly gone into a SEMI-frozen marsh bog to cut a few hundred feet from their return trip to the car. Only a blind person would carry on through the bog, jumping from hillock (is that a word? this is what he kept shouting to spur us on, or lead us to our deaths of cold) to hillock. Once we were 4/5ths our way through this bog without actually having gotten our feet wet, all logic went out the window when the hillocks dissappeared and all we were left with were little patched of hay shooting up through the icy mess. Logically we should have retraced our steps and taken the longer and safer way back. Once again the desire to get the heck out of Dodge trumped all rational thinking. We trudged on and within seconds, Thing 2 and I were ankle deep in icy water. Thing 2 shouting he was going to die, Thing 1 screaming because though her feet were not yet wet, she never misses an opportunity to add an air of drama to a situation and I was shouting something about "don't tell me I am not a good example going over that log..."

You see, this wasn't the family's first forray into potentially icy water that day. As we were trudging between fields earlier, I decided to take a short cut back to the first field. When I climbed a steep hill, I saw that in actuality there was a semi-frozen stream between the two fields making it impossible to get from Point A to Point B, unless one crossed over the long fallen tree traversing the semi-frozen water. Not wanting to miss an opportunity to show off my core strength honed at the gym 4-5 days a week, I eagerly ran down to the log and said I will do it! Hubby started shouting that I was crazy and not a good example, etc. I of course ignored him and beat the kids, who claimed they wanted to do it first, to the log.

Naturally, as soon as I got far enough across the log to make turning back just about as precarious as going forward, I became scared out of my mind and realized the foolishness of my ways. Not wanting to show this to the kids (except the part when I told them all to shut up and stop yelling at me), I decided to run across the log and get it over with. Miraculously, I made it across with just a bit of muddy water on one shoe from where I jumped onto the bank where the bank was pretty boggy. I then had the task of convincing Thing 2 that mine was a foolhardy stunt, not to be repeated.

As I mentioned, that was earlier in the Christmas Tree hunt. Later as Thing 2 and I waited in the car, our feet stripped bare and the heat on full blast. I noticed a funny thing. From my vantage point in the car, it seemed to me that if we had just come back the way we had originally came in when we found "the tree," it sure looked a lot shorter, and drier than the route Hubby took us on.

In keeping with my prediction, once we got the tree home, we realized that it was dwarf like and contrary to my assertions, the bald spot was so big that it could be seen from three quarters of the room, despite it being turned towards the wall. On top of that, it, like every year, this tree mysteriously fell over the next day (they tried to pin it on the dog, but there are no witnesses), breaking 85% of the breakable ornaments, spilling water all over everything and creating a blanket of pine needles all over the floor which I had just finished vacuuming.

An artificial tree is becoming more and more appealing with every passing year.

Page Boy Meets Dutch Boy

2008-12-02T15:32:00.000-08:00

I got my haircut a few weeks ago. Lately, I have been getting it cut on a Tuesday. I sing in a chorale group on Tuesday nights. Whenever I get my haircut, hordes of my fellow singers come over and tell me how fabulous my hair looks. I thank them graciously and tell them it will not resemble this beautiful state again until six weeks on when it gets cut again.

You see, I can never replicate what Rick and now Ray do to my hair with just a hair dryer and a brush. I have a hair dryer and a brush at home and I use them. My hair looks nothing like it does when the boys do it. Sure, I don't have the exact brush, nor the exact hair dryer. But, let's face it. The key ingredient is they are operating from a position of height as I sit in their chair, and they have two hands to work on my head below them. I on the otherhand, must be a contortionist to work around to the back of my head, and of course to curl the hair under while blowing it from the top or bottom.

The last problem in even attempting to replicate the hairstyle, is of course, that I don't pay too much attention to what they are doing, as I am too busy gabbing away as usual. For me I sum it up to the fact that my hair looks really straight while it is not normally so.

Now, I mentioned that of late, I have been making an effort, well, an effort for me, with my hair. Thus, the hair dryer which was added to the usual brush. This represents 50% more equipment on my hair. Unfortunately, it has not resulted in a 50% improvement in the hairstyle outcome. Sadly, the end product resembles something more like the hairstyle sported by "The Dutch Boy" on the paint can with the same name. Suddenly I have these bangs that I have no idea what to do with-push them back and I look kojak-esque with a too big foreheard. Pull them forward and I look like a first grader. Never mind, my next hair cut is only four weeks away and it is cold here in CT, so I think I will wear a hat.

Time to Chuck the Pumpkins!

2008-12-01T08:30:00.000-08:00

I have just finished putting Thanksgiving back in the box to be put away until next year. Don't worry, I didn't mean the leftovers. Rather, the decorations. I gave myself a one day reprieve on taking out the Christmas decoration boxes. But I did start chucking the pumpkins, literally.

I put sugar pumpkins in my window boxes as part of my fall decorations. But now that the color orange is out and all things Christmas or Hannukah are in, those pumpkins need to be 86ed. Of course I am too lazy to carry the pumpkins in from the second floor window box down through the house and out the front door. I prefer instead to chuck the pumpkins from on high and hope they are not mushy enough to splatter on impact with the lawn (and then imbed into a pumpkin patch in the spring, right smack in the middle of the lawn).

I already chucked the pumpkins from the first floor window box by carrying them out to the woods and rolling them down the little slope. Hanna, our puppy, looked on, baffled at this bizarre ritual.

Once these pumpkins (and the kale and the mums) are history, I will have to figure out where I am getting greens for the window boxes this year. I refuse, of course, to pay for any greens, preferring instead to pilfer from friend's yards, woods, etc. much more of an adventure and you can't beat the price!

So, if you see me prowling around your yard, garden shears in hand, don't be too alarmed. I am after your evergreens, not you!

Face Cream is the Salve for The Economy (and Me)

2008-11-21T09:26:00.000-08:00

Hank Paulson and his team of experts can't seem to get it right. No matter what they have been trying, the markets just seem to go down further and further and the words "lay offs" are becoming more and more frequently spoken. So what's next?

Well, I deferred to those experts for a while and like every other consumer, in America judging by the declining sales, made the words "purchase" and "shopping" a dirty word, whether on-line or in person. My only purchase recently other than groceries and things like toilet paper? Face cream. Okay, $52 face cream to be exact. It is from France and with the cost of fuel and translation, well, it could be more expensive.

I decided to go ahead and buy the luxury face cream because well, someone has to save the economy and what the experts have been doing hasn't had any effect yet. Moreover, all of this economic stress is really bringing on the aging process big time. So, of course I am going to need something to counteract that. The fact that it has this yummy and soothing rosemary aroma is an added bonus that soothes my frazzled nerves everytime my husband comes home and tells me his company's stock has hit a new low and that the layoffs have begun. Don't worry, I am using it sparingly, it seems like we are in for the longhaul here.

Leaf Me Alone!

2008-11-19T10:43:00.001-08:00

So, the town finally came around today and sucked up the leaves we had raked to the curb. While we feverishly raked on Sunday afternoon after the torrential rains and high winds finally subsided, I am not sure you can tell that right now by looking at our lawn.

On my way home from walking our puppy Hanna this morning, I noticed that several leaves had remigrated back onto the lawn. Sort of like terrorist sleeper cells on some CNN map of the world. The thought briefly crossed my mind that I could grab hold of a rake and feverishly rerake at least the portion nearest the road, before the leaf suckers came. I say briefly, because as soon as I remembered that the wind was buffeting the dog and I, I realized that the whole effort would be futile (sort of like ironing your blouse and then putting on your seatbelt to drive to work...)

The ambitious side of me says that I might get out there tomorrow if I finish all of my thank you letters for my paid job, and rake the stragglers into the woods. The other side of me figures it is going to snow soon and what you can't see, you can't rake. Which side of me do you think will win out? By the way, they are predicting possible morning snow showers tomorrow.

Welcome Back Coupons

2008-11-18T13:04:00.000-08:00

It has been a long time since I broke off our relationship. Really the fault was all mine, I would put all kinds of effort into our relationship, systematically searching for you and making you mine, then lovingly plunking you into the dark recesses of my pocket book. From these recesses, I rarely remembered to rescue you and so, I maturely decided to end it with you. I didn't want to carry you along anymore. It really wasn't fair to you, feeling useless, and to me, wasting all my time on something that just wasn't working because my effort just wasn't consistent.

So, for years now, I have avoided you, flipping quickly past your kind in magazines and throwing out your special inserts in the Sunday paper. But suddenly, thanks to our plunging economy, I have decided to rekindle the flame, and clip the coupons. So far, you have made it out of the pages and onto the counter. I want to move a bit more slowly this time. I don't want to dissappoint myself or you, but hopefully today I will take the big step (remembering!) and put you into my pocketbook so that you will be poised to save me from the depths of bankruptcy. If only I remember to let you save me.

Expanding the definition of Expressholes

2008-11-17T12:10:00.000-08:00

I love that term"expresshole" which was coined by Gary Larson of the Farside to define anyone who gets in the express line at the grocery store with more than the specificied number of items to which one is supposed to be limited in order to use said line. The other day while shopping at Whole Foods I encountered a new kind of expresshole.

I don't think that it is a coincidence that I discovered this new type of expresswhole at Whole Foods. In fact, this is probably the best place to spot this kind of expresshole. What kind? The kind that goes through the line with her three year old and allows her three year old to conduct the transaction. I kid you not.

I was standing a few customers down from the expresshole when I heard the syrupy voice of the mom saying "it's okay honey, swipe the card again." Then again, I heard the same thing, only this time I heard after that "okay, you can try it one more time on your own." Three minutes later I heard her say, no honey, you can't sign it, mommy has to sign it but you can color in the 'accept' box."

This irritated me to no end because of course I was in the express line because I actually needed express service and I happened to be buying just a few items. I had exactly 8 minutes before I had to be at my gym class around the corner.

I am all for making everyday transactions learning opportunities for kids. With two caveats. No education in the express lane. If you have time to teach your kid, do it in the regular lane and don't bother teaching kids credit card transactions at that age. It just reinforces the notion that all one has to do is have a plastic card and swipe it in order to magically get groceries, things, etc.

I remember when Thing 1 was about that age we had a discussion of how she was going to go to Disneyland on her own. I asked her how she was going to get there. She replied matter-of-factly that she was going to drive her Cozy Coupe. I asked her how she would get money to put gas in it. Without blinking, she said she was going to go to the bank and get the money. Unfortunately in this day of electronic deposits, it is hard to show a child an actual paycheck that you then deposit into the bank. Thus it becomes even harder for a child to grasp the whole money thing. Never mind credit derivatives and bailouts...

Helloween

2008-11-14T13:48:00.001-08:00

When I was a child, Halloween was my favorite day of celebration. Free candy? Who could pass that up? Even when there was candy that you didn't like in your bag, you were hopeful that at the post-trick-or-treating swap at home, you could unload much of it for something more palatable.

Now that I am older and am either relegated to handing out the candy or walking behind (i.e., not in eyesight of the candy donors, per Thing1), I consider Halloween to me much more hellish.
You see, from year to year I am constantly caught in what I call the Halloween dilemma. All year you make note of all of the new families who are moving into the neighborhood. As the day draws nearer, you carefully watch the forecast to see if conditions are optimal for Trick-or-Treating (i.e., warm enough so that you don't need to do what your parents did to you, which is commanding the wearing of a coat over the costume so that the costume is quickly rendered useless). Based on these factors, you buy your candy, almost at the last minute (to avoid eating of the candy by either you or other family members, which would necessitate a second trip to the store).

Each year, you think that this will be the year where you are caught unprepared and run out of candy. There were those new families that moved in, the weather is warm, Halloween is on a Friday, etc. So, you err on the side of caution and buy two massive bags of candy which could probably be enough for the troops currently stationed in Afghanistan.

Then the cute kids in their costumes start ringing the bell. First you start out giving them two pieces of candy, figuring you had better ration the stuff for the dreaded onslaught which is sure to appear, like a hungry pack of middle schoolers. As the hour gets closer to 8:00, you start thinking that maybe, just maybe, you screwed up. Maybe that hoard won't show up at all. Sweat starts to trickle down your forehead as you realize that you might be stuck with four pounds of leftover Halloween candy. This is not to mention the 8 lbs that Thing 1 and Thing 2 will haul home. So, you start giving out three pieces at a time. By 8:40 you know it is time to shut off your light and close shop, but you still have 2 lbs of candy left. Ugh.

At this point, you might as well get the duct tape and strap it to your thighs. Even when you buy the stuff you think you don't like to avoid any pitfalls. In fact the only pitfall you don't take into account is your pathetically low standards-much like many of our family dogs, you will eat it if given the opportunity and the ennui. Rationalization also plays a big part. You figure well, "fun size" what is the harm in that? Then you decide to have more "fun." You rationalize this second dose of fun by the fact that you are pretty sure you read somewhere that these portion sizes are getting smaller so that the manufacturers can make the same amount of money. Suddenly this business-centric practice assuages your lack of willpower and gives it new raison d'etre.

So now, two weeks after Halloween I am battling the bulge of Halloween candy that I would never think about buying or eating at any other time of the year. Like every repentent Halloween candy recovery victim, I have vowed that next year I will buy less candy. Will it really be the end of the world if I have to shut my light off at 7:45? Then I remember what it was like as a kid, walking by that house that wasn't lit, walking by it was the literal definition of empty calories as far as I was concerned. Something tells me I will make the sacrifice again next year so as not to dissappoint the kids that trudge down our street.

Back To The Blog!

2008-11-13T12:41:00.000-08:00

Okay, so Thing 2 never did end up sick and stayed at school all day. But, you know how that works, it is called Murphy's Law. Had I assumed he was fine and went about my business, he definitely would have been sick and in the nurse's office.

You are probably wondering, why, if he wasn't sick and I wasn't forced to hold my nose and try not to gag while cleaning up his vomit or any of the other possible sundries our kids eject when sick, I did not post to my blog in so long?

The answer: not one but two four-letter words. "work" and "sick." I mean that I have been too consumed by my "part-time" position and that took what energy I had which wasn't much. The low energy came from a general feeling of malaise. I was able to function on the most basic of levels. Yet, it was candidly a struggle. I just haven't felt myself. I thought the lightbox would be a quick cure, and it has definitely helped, but thanks to the change of seasons, IBS and these iron pills I have had to take to counteract heavy periods (thanks to going off the birth control pill and perimenopause, welcome to my world), let's just say my stomach has been off and thus, so have I.

I have been doing really uncharacteristic things, like napping and forgetting to meet a friend for a lunch and museum tour, which I had suggested! Yikes. I was horrified when I woke up to hear her message on my machine and her wondering if she had the date screwed up. Something was screwed up alright, that was me!

Anyway, after I called the doctor's office to complain about the havoc being wrought on my system by the iron pills, the nurse there told me I should stop them for a few days and try another brand. Since I was due for follow blood work 5 days later, I figured I would define "a few days" as "five days" and would just stop them altogether and take my chances. I went for my ritual blood letting at the blood drawing station yesterday and sincerely hope my iron count comes back normal.

This whole slippery slope began when I went off of one pill, the birth control pill, due to fear of breast cancer. My sister, had just been diagnosed with aggressive pre-menopausal breast cancer when I made that decision. I figured I didn't need extra hormones to increase my risk, so out went those pills. And in came the heavy periods. When I say heavy, I mean heavy, and will leave it at that. Pretty soon after that, I was anemic and guess what? Started taking more pills, this time iron pills. The risks and side-effects of the birth control pill were long term and theoretical. The side-effects of the iron pills, at least the brand Target sells, were pretty immediate and concrete (really, no pun intended).

I try to move beyond the irony of this situation, that even when I am not bleeding, some lab tech makes me bleed. Still though, I know that my medical problems are more annoyances than actually problematic. There would have been no real harm in taking a nap every once in a while as long as I had remembered to call my friend ahead of time and told her I was wiped out and down for the count. The struggle of having no energy and my stomach feeling very bad are not pleasant, but not generally debilitating. My sister's struggle through treatment of breast cancer puts my own issues in proper perspective.

In the final analysis it all comes down to one thing, or shall I say a few things: hormones, oh yeah, and getting old.

Vomit Watch '08

2008-10-29T08:23:00.000-07:00

Today I am on Vomit Watch '08. No, I am not refering to the impending elections. Rather, I am inviting you into my world today, as a virtual in-home prisoner, just waiting for a call from the school nurse. You see, Thing 2 came down to breakfast today and told me that he wasn't feeling well when he was upstairs.

I did what every mother does and touched his forehead. Nothing unusual, no fiery hot skin. His color looked fine. Perhaps more importantly, he eagerly ate down his breakfast while discussing his malaise. So, I asked him if he wanted to stay home. He said that I should decide.

Being paranoid, I then asked him if he didn't want to go to school for some other reason, like if someone was bullying him. He said "of course not." "Well then," I said, "you should go to school and if you feel sick at school, ask to go to the nurse and she will call me to get you." I added my caviat, though. " I am home all morning (I immediately decide not to go to "Militant Fitness" at the gym at 11, okay, so it didn't take a great deal of convincing me) but I have an appointment for my monthly massage (my one splurge for cleaning my own house [mon dieu!] and not splurging on things like manicures and pedicures and make up) at 12:15, so if you are not feeling well, make sure you go to the nurse well before that.

This brought up all kinds of questions like, "what if I feel sick at 12:16?" (then you go to the nurse and wait until 1:25 when I can come get you). "What if it is after that?" (then there will be no problem, go to the nurse, she will call and I will get you) "What if I feel sick as soon as I get to the school?" (go to the nurse and she will call me and I will get you). After several more questions I pointed out that if he had the energy to ask all of these questions, he probably felt better than he was giving himself credit for feeling.

So, I have spent the morning within earshot of the phone since returning from an abbreviated walk with the dog (in case his query about feeling sick as soon as he got to school proved true). Instead of militant fitness, I cleaned the first floor of the house, remembering to bring the phone from room to room so that I stood a chance of hearing it. Has the phone rung? Not at all. I am fine with that. However, I can't help wondering if I am going to get a call from the school nurse during my massage...? What is your guess?

What Does A Soccer Mom Do When Soccer Is Over?

2008-10-27T13:58:00.000-07:00

Thing 2's soccer season capped off yesterday with a thrilling win for the championship title. The boys were undefeated, though they tied twice in the regular season. Unfortunately, Thing 1's team lost their game on Sunday and tied their Saturday game. Next week is her playoffs and then we are done with soccer. No more driving someone to a practice four weeknights a week, no more four soccer game weekends. What to do? How to plan for the future? By signing up for more soccer of course.

I didn't even wait until the next day before I started the push to get Thing 2 on an indoor soccer team. You see, Thing 2 loves soccer and he is very good at it. Thing 1 likes soccer well enough and though she too is good at it, she said she did not want to play indoor soccer. What will Thing 1 do then? Basketball.

Why do we sign up for sport after sport, effectively signing away our nights and weekends when multiple practices are multiplied by two kids? Because they like these sports and we want them to get the team experience and keep fit.

Thus, there is the usual rush at our house, where are the water bottles? Is the uniform cleaned? Did you close the door when you ran out of the house? Are we supposed to bring oranges and juice? These are the questions that fill our brains. Then, once we get to the games, we try to control ourselves and not shout too much from the sidelines.

For the most part, I try not to coach from the sidelines. Yet I can't resist being true to my vocal self. So I try to root for all members of the team with words of encouragement: "Nice kick Geoff!, Way to go Daniel! You get the idea. Of course, I must admit that I don't always entirely behave myself on the sidelines.

Recently after a game, my husband asked Thing 2 about a "trash-talking incident" Thing 2's coach had written to the parents about. I volunteered tongue in cheek that the trash-talking guilty party was probably me, his mom. I couldn't resist suggesting that the referee remove his sunglasses when he didn't see an intentional shove by the opposing team. I've been behaving better since, I swear (but not loud enough for anyone to hear-that's not allowed on the sidelines).

Get Thee A Light Box

2008-10-21T08:13:00.000-07:00

It is just past the middle of October and like clockwork, I have turned into a complete and utter grouch. Yes, we have a new dog in the house, but lately it is I who have been doing all of the barking. I behaved this way despite going on a long walk on a sunny day allegedly to relieve stress. What gives? Seasonal Affective Disorder. I never would have suspected that I was susceptible to this syndrome until a few years ago when I was asked by my then MD how I was feeling. I answered honestly that I felt pretty lousy and that the odd thing was I remembered feeling just the same way at that time the previous year.

Feeling how? Very, very tired. Tired as in constantly yawning, all day long, no matter the activity, even in the middle of an exercise class. Go figure. This despite the fact that I succumb to sleep at ridiculously early bedtimes, like 9:15pm. Upset stomach-as in waking up with abdominal pain every morning. Really bloated. So bloated that I have no appetite in the morning (sadly, the appetite comes back later in the day and I make up for it-losing weight would have been a nice benefit of this malaise).My MD listened to my symptoms and when I asked him if there was anything to them, he replied matter of factly that this was because I am a 'summer person.' A what? I never really thought of myself that way, despite the fact that I love being warm and hate being cold. It used to be that fall was my favorite time of the year. Cozy sweaters, warm cider, beautiful leaves. Until I first realized I have primary Reynaud's syndrome. Reynaud’s is a harmless but annoying and painful affliction which causes numbness and pain in my hands and feet whenever exposed to any small amounts of cold.

So I asked him what I could do with this knowledge that I was a 'summer person.' He told me that I should try using a light box everyday during the fall and winter. He admitted to first being skeptical of light boxes initially until one of his longtime patients who had been on depression medication for years tried own and was able to wean herself off of the depression drugs. I decided to try it and did some research and ordered a Golite portable light box so that I could walk around with the light while getting the kids breakfast (it is important to use it at the same time everyday and you can take an online quiz to figure out what that time should be (http://www.golite.com/)Now things are a bit different. I am now on my third fall/winter season on the light box. I just started this weekend at the strong urging, okay actually, begging, of my husband. As I stood in the kitchen yelling at the family for something I can't even recall, he pointed to the light box( which I did actually take out myself that morning, anticipating that it was time to use it.) His response to my rantings was "maybe you should start using that light box again!" He was so right, so the next morning, I started using it. Last night, after two mornings of using it, I realized that I was not sleep despite it being 9:30pm. This after only using the light box for 12 minutes at 50% power for the two days. I guess I am pretty sensitive to changes in the amount of daylight.So now I have my lifesaving (and marriage saving) lightbox. But why did I need it in the first place? Just as every time my children were cranky or under the weather I blamed that on teething, I am chalking this one up to perimenopause. After all, this whole thing started in the fall/winter before I turned 39. When will it end for me? Probably during some October in the future when my husband or the kids don't beg me to dust of the light box and start using it. For now, I will bask in the blue light. If you have experienced similar seasonal problems, get thee a light box! By the way, these boxes are covered by many insurance policies.

Martha Stewart Doesn't Live Here, But Just In Case She Drops By...

2008-10-15T11:08:00.000-07:00

Today I am in my usual frenzy to have the perfect house and the perfect meal all prepared in honor of my Aunt's arrival. What does this entail? Well, of course, a deep clean of the entire house by none other than moi, as well as a carefully planned out gourmet meal. Why? Because I suffer from Martha Stewart Disorder. No, I can't just put up a "Martha Stewart Doesn't Live Here Sign" and go back to surfing the 'net. Instead, I must make sure everything looks "just right" which means not only cleaning but cleaning out-stacks of magazines and newspapers we haven't gotten around to looking at in months.

As for the food, everything must be made from scratch because I also suffer from an inability to make prepackaged food because I feel the need to be a food superhero (think Wonder Woman but with a knife instead of a lasso, and while we are at it, an apron instead of that silly getup).

I know, I know, I should chill and take it easy. They aren't coming to do a white glove test on the house or have the most gourmet meal they have ever tasted. Rather, they are coming to see us, family. I also try to remind myself of what Erma Bombeck said about how she had wished she had invited people over more often, instead of not doing so because everything didn't look just right.

I have gotten over the not inviting people over because everything won't look just right. Now, if I can only get over the needing to make everything look (and taste) just right because I have invited people over...

De-bunking bunk bed myths

2008-10-13T07:38:00.000-07:00

Sure, it sounds like a great idea. Get your kids a bunk bed, or as in our case, your kid a loft bed, which is a bunk bed but without the second bed underneath. They save space, they are considered cool by all kids and for me at least, they make up for the fact that I never got one growing up, despite incessant begging and whining.

However, the realities of living with bunkbeds when you are the one who has to change the sheets, is something very different altogether. Maybe being a circus star would come in handy when you must precariously perch yourself on the edge of the top bed and lift up the mattress without falling off, in order to get the fitted sheet around the mattress. The same goes for tucking in the top sheets and any blankets. Suddenly that bunk bed I wanted when I was a kid doesn't seem so fun. As I wrestle with the mattress and try to maintain my balance, I realize that I should have brought the top sheet and comforter up there with me too so I wouldn't have to crawl up and down several more times like a monkey on a mission for more bananas (though I will need one of those to reenergize soon).

Yes, I have tried getting my son involved in helping make the bed. This is only marginally less cumbersome and more efficient. His bed is in the corner of the room, so one of us (guess who?) has to perch on the wall end of the bed, with zero room to manuever, and fix our side of the bed without hurling off the bed. It doesn't help that my son keeps trying to get on the mattress to fix his side, making it impossible for me to then raise up my side.

So, the reality is that his bed sheets get changed a little less often than the others. I rationalize this by calling it my green initiative. I am thinking of putting up a sign like you see in the bathrooms of hotels, only a bit more realisitic. "In an effort to preserve our precious environment and your mother's spinal cord, these sheets will only be changed if they are placed on the floor." I know that the chances that he will actually strip his own bed are equivalent to the chances of Ralph Nader winning the election, so I will get around to changing the sheets when I get there, and meanwhile, I will hide behind the green revolution, saving money, time, resources and a trip to the ER.

Undecided, But Overweight

2008-10-08T05:35:00.000-07:00

I was struck last night, in watching the second debate, as well as watching a second group of undecided voters invited by CNN to watch the debate, by the girth of the majority of those undecided voters. Yikes! Now, full disclosure here, I should really lose 8-10 lbs myself. But, I would guess that most of those I saw either in the debate audience or in the CNN undecided focus group, needed to lose a minimum of 25 lbs.

Now, imagine if the two candidates took a page from Dr. Phil and told these audiences that the time of sacrifice begins now, and that includes losing weight. Losing weight will save each overweight American money in terms of what they are not eating, as well as, directly in terms of less healthcare costs, as we know that extra weight leads to extra healthcare expenses.

I myself am adopting this plan for myself. If this is a time of belt tightening, I am going to take that challenge literally. I am trying to do my part and eating less. The less I eat, the less I will spend on food and on having to buy an expanded wardrobe.

Of course, the cynical side of me thinks that these campaigns, which are getting down and dirty, won't adopt this honorable objective. Instead, maybe they will pander to our weakness for food, especially comforting food at these uncertain times. I can just see them giving away McCain's Mac & Cheese, or Obama-o's instead of oreos, in order to sway voters. After all, it would be a free meal and a quick feel-good fix. Never mind the increased healthcare costs down the road. The winner will worry about that once he takes office...

I Am Separating from My Husband

2008-10-01T11:59:00.000-07:00

Before you get reach for the phone or the computer to broadcast this news, a bit of clarification. We aren't physically or emotionally separating. At long last, I have decided to get my own email.

So what if it took ten years? At least I finally got around to it, unlike the other things I have been meaning to get to, like going through my sock drawer, my CD collection and dusting the tops of all furniture I can't reach without a chair.

After putting the email separation off for so long, I have to admit that it was embarrassingly easy to set up my own account. Okay, I didn't send a global notification to everyone, but I did send it to most of those necessary. Now, if I could only figure out how to inform the printer that I took care of the paper jam and it should get back to work, I would be all set in the technology department for a day or two.

Not Tone Deaf, Just Phone Deaf

2008-09-29T15:23:00.000-07:00

Today I was taking advantage of the fact that it was not raining for a few hours, and went outside to plant my window boxes in an autumn arrangement. The kids, Thing 1 and Thing 2 remained inside, mesmerized by TV and computer game, respectively.

While up to my arms in potting soil, I heard the phone ring. And ring, and ring. Finally, I bellowed "someone get the phone!" Or actually, more like: "someone get the phon-nuh!!!" And still I heard: ring, ring, ring. Finally, I heard the answering machine going. Clearly Thing 1 and Thing 2 have inherited phone deafness from their father.

On the weekends, when we are all in the house, this same scene will play out, with me finally rushing to find the phone and dropping whatever I was doing, and hopefully not tripping over anything, to get there in time. Meanwhile Hubby, Thing 1 and Thing 2 are invariably positioned much closer to the phones and are not engaged in productive work (i.e., not cleaning, doing laundry, doing paid work, or cooking. Instead they are either on the TV, on the phone or reading something non-essential.)

Whenever I go out solo, like on my night for choir practice, I invariably come home to the house full of my family and the answering machine full, indicated by the light blinking. Each one in turn, when interrogated by me claims not to have heard the phone at all. Sometimes Hubby lamely claims he heard it but that he was putting the kids to bed. The kids are 10 and 12 years old. They put themselves to bed!

So next time you call, let it ring a good long while before you give up. I might be outside, or in the attic and no one else in the family will pick up.

Rain Rain, Go Away, Little Hanna Won't Go Out Okay?

2008-09-26T09:59:00.000-07:00

Well, I have been crazy busy with work this last week and haven't had time to post. Today is the day. However, it is pouring out and Hanna, our new puppy has zero interest in going out in the rain. So, I have spent much of the day trying to persuade her, then giving up and carrying her, outside to "do her business." If we humans can be appreciative of indoor plumbing, it is on the rainy days when we can be most appreciative of it. Of course, how Hanna would survive in the wild if she didn't live in the comfort of our home, is beyond me.

When I do get Hanna outside and plop her down on the lawn and tell her to "do her business," she gazes up at me with a look of pathetic disdain. Then she tries to run back into the house. I try rationalizing with her. "Come on, you must have to go!" "It doesn't look like it is going to let up soon, so get back here and just pee, okay?" This has happened three times already today. I finally took her across the street and under some bigger branches which diffused the pouring rain somewhat, and there, at long last, we had success.

Not exactly my idea of a relaxing day of good book and a cup of tea. Especially as since unless Hanna is sleeping, she is confined in the kitchen and sitting in a kitchen chair or stool just takes away the "relaxing" part of the reading experience for me. But, as soon as she heads into her crate for a nap (which she is not likely to do since she has technically been on zero walks), I'll escape to my comfy couch with my book.

Is It Live Or Is It Mom-orex?

2008-09-19T12:50:00.001-07:00

Last night as I told Thing 1 for the 143 time that if she bunches up her towel on the towel rack after showering that it will never dry, I had an epiphany moment. It doesn't matter what I say, I might as well be a tape recorder. This is how the statement is conveyed, or actually received. In fact, I might as well have been speaking in that same "wah wah wah wah wah wah" language used by all of the adults in the Peanuts videos.

So I am starting on a new (yes, back for the 34th time) mission to say things exactly once-the same way I am supposed to train the dog. With dogs, if you say "sit" ten times, then make a physical correction, the dog won't do it until the tenth time when you make the physical correction. So, I am going to go right to my version of a physical correction. I am going to throw the bunched up, wet towel on her bed. I figure then I will have her attention. When she asks what it is doing there, I will tell her for the 144th time that if she bunches up her towel on the towel rack after showering that it will never dry. I am thinking (or desperately hoping) that in this way she will actually listen.

Tightening The Belt When You Don't Wear Belts

2008-09-17T07:04:00.000-07:00

I gave up wearing belts a long time ago. I am already short, I don't need to be cut into two by a belt. So how does one tighten the figurative belt without actually wearing one? Well, due to the fact that the economy seems perched on the edge of certain doom, I have been vascillating between not shopping, eating out etc., in an effort to conserve the funds we have in case one of us loses our job, and in the face of rising prices for just about everything, and spending money in an effort to single-handedly keep the economy going. Whether I spend or save on things depends on no real logic.

We definitely are eating out less, but then again, I like cooking and am always on some health kick or other, which makes it hard to eat out anyway. Then again, when I am feeling weak and need emotional sustenance, I might decide that the economy needs a boost and we do too, so off we go to the ice cream shop and get sundaes.

I have definitely cut back on shopping for clothes-for the whole family, not just me. I didn't buy any back-to-school clothes for the kids because I accurately predicted that the weather would hover around 90 degrees the first few days of school. Truthfully, they have enough stuff to wear. They just got some new shoes-those feet always seem to grow faster than the rest of their bodies.

As for me, I have avoided going into clothing stores in order not to succumb to temptation. Okay, well there was that little trip to Nordstrom's the other day when I had to pick up a sweatshirt that they mended (it came partially undone a month after I bought it-at full price!)
When I was leaving, my eyes could not help but lock on a pretty plumb colored sweater which would work quite nicely for the special event for my job at the end of the month. Helping the sluggish economy was just the icing on the cake.

Then there was the little trip to AVEDA while in the mall. Well, I did have to use up the $7.26 remaining on the gift card my sister had given me for my birthday back in February. With the economy in such a precarious state, there is no telling when AVEDA might upsticks from the mall and go under, without hopes of a federal bailout. So, in the interest of protecting my sister's investment, I bought the $20 facial wash. Okay, so I spent a little more than the $7.26, but I challenge you to buy anything at Aveda for $7.26. Even the travel size products are $7 and with tax in CT, that is $7.42...

Never mind, I don't want to tempt you to go to the mall, you might end up with a few extra items that you weren't intending to buy either. If you do, cheer up, at least you are doing your part in trying to save our fragile economy.

Fool's Gold

2008-09-16T03:38:00.000-07:00

After staying up late to solve the underwear shortage crisis and indeed solving "underweargate" I went to change the laundry from the washer to the dryer. What to my weary eyes should I find, but what was like Aztec Gold to my bleary eyes. Or more appropriately, Fool's Gold, because only a fool like me would be excited to find extra laundry to fold in the dryer at that hour of the night. But, never the less, that precious load held not one, but two pairs of clean underwear belonging to Thing 2, so I almost happily folded it. I chucked the other load into the dryer and off I stumbled to bed. Let's hope I remember that load today, or we could repeat this sad exercise again real soon.

All Night Laundry

2008-09-15T18:06:00.000-07:00

I was heading to bed just now, exhausted and a bit guilt-ridden over not having posted since Wednesday. I knew that I should have carved out the time to post, but I couldn't be deterred from that one goal: falling into bed. I was almost there, I had the bed within my line of vision, when my son uttered the words that undoubtedly send a chill through every weary parent's overworked heart. Those dreaded five words? " I have no more underwear."

Unless you make your kid go to school commando, there is just no way of getting around this. Sure, sure, I had been meaning to show them how to do their own laundry (not just how to fold it, and the term "fold" is used very loosely here), but didn't have the time or energy of late. So off to the basement it was with me.

Instead of going to bed, I am now writing this blog (and trying to stay awake) while I wait for the rinse and spin cycles to conclude. Yipee! What an exciting life I lead. Oh, and did I mention I got up at 5:40 this morning to go to the gym? Yes siree, I am finding out first hand that sleep is for the privileged, or at least for those whose kids have at least one pair of clean underwear. Instead of trying to slog through Three Cups of Tea, the book I am trying to read, it is going to be "wish I had had three cups of tea" maybe then I wouldn't be so weary.

Did I also mention that I was particularly looking forward to bed tonight as both Thing 2 and Thing 1 (not to be outdone) had mini-mental breakdowns this afternoon? To be fair, Thing 2's mental breakdown really borderred on full -fledged mental breakdown. Apparently, he was incapable of communicating in logical terms that he was overwhelmed with his school and soccer and LEGO team load on Mondays. So instead, he chose the moment when I asked him how "calendar" was correctly spelled (he had gotten it wrong on a spelling test) to burst out crying, tell me he didn't have to do that and run out of the house and down the street, in his socks. Okay, so the irony of the word "calendar" being misspelled and the fact that the kid is overscheduled wasn't lost on me (even as I looked at my watch and wondered if the runaway was going to return and regain his composure in time to make it to soccer practice in 20 minutes).

When I finally got him back into the house and we discussed the problem rationally (as much as you can with a 10 year old boy), and we ruled out anything more sinister going on (predators, bullies, etc.) he settled down, I called his soccer coach and told him Thing 2 would be a no show, I banned him from the computer for the rest of the week for running away (even if it was just down the road and in the bushes-out of my line of vision means out of line to me), Thing 1 decided to then pitch her own fit. When she learned that Thing 2's breakdown revolved around a perceived excessive level of homework, she decided to scream and cry and do everything in her power to make me realize that if anyone had too much homework, it was her. Doubly irritating to her was of course the fact that I called her on this behavior. Thing 1 is nothing if not a wonderful drama queen (though sadly for her, she will not be watching TV drama for the next week for her own drama today).

I could go on and chronicle how I then had to race out to Thing 1's Open House where I got to be a Middle School student again and change classes from room to room and meet her teachers. Being treated like a Middle School student was quite appropriate at this point in my day, considering the emotional upheaval I had just been through. However, I digress, from the laundry that is. I think the spin cycle is over and I have spinned this story as far as I can. Time to chuck that stuff in the dryer and get some rest before I wake up to the call of "I told you I had no more underwear!" in the morning (you don't think I am going to wait up while the stuff dries, do you?).

"Currently In Therapy Because My Parents Wouldn't Put My Student Of The Month Sticker On Their Car"

2008-09-10T18:36:00.001-07:00

This slogan is what I feared my daughter would some day sport on her car if I didn't put her "My child was student of the month" bumper sticker on our car. So, even though I had a strict policy of not putting bumper stickers on my car, I broke the rule. You see, I really was worried that she would think having a bumper sticker free car was more important than recognizing her achievement as Student of the Month (leaving aside the fact that there are 1,254 such stickers around town.) I know it is really silly, but I had to succumb. Or else all future failures could easily be pinned on that bumper sticker, or lack there of, actually.

Of course, it was easier to break the rule and put the sticker on my car as I had already unofficially broken the rule by putting a minibumper sticker on the car so that I could park at my gym. I rationalized that one as health related, however.

I am not really sure what I have against bumper stickers. I think it is kind of like a box of chocolates. Once I start with one, I might not be able to stop. I might have to order some of the really funny ones I have seen, such as: "If It's Not One Thing, It's Your Mother," and "Ordain Women Priests or Stop Dressing Like Them," or "I Love My Country, But It Is Time To Start Seeing Other People." I could quickly see my car wallpapered with bumper stickers. Not a pretty look, and more importantly, really identifiable if I pull a crazy driving manuever (moi?).

So, I will stick with the gym sticker and the "Student of the Month" sticker. Putting those stickers on could save me years in hospital and therapy bills.

I'm Off-Duty

2008-09-10T15:10:00.000-07:00

"I'm Off-Duty." I like to try that line on my kids from time to time. Especially the longer version-"Get it yourself, I'm off-duty." If only I really were. Though often, just this one liner, spoken with the correct intonation of total annoyance, inspires new heights of independence in the kids, Thing 1 and Thing 2.

Sometime I have to remember to take it out of auto-pilot, step back and realize what the kids are capable of doing. In doing so a few years back, I realized they could set the table, dust, clean the toilets and sinks, and also fold the clothes. Of course I don't make them do all of these things all of the time. But the setting of the table and the folding of the clothes are regular chores for them. The cleaning is assigned whenever I begrudgingly assign myself other cleaning tasks (I do have a strict "don't look down policy" in the kitchen but you can only take that so far before the Health Department steps in.

Truthfully, if I paused to think about it, there are even more things they are capable of doing. It just takes time and energy to show them how to do it once or twice. Like cooking for instance. Or yardwork. A small amount of time spent now showing the kids how to do things saves time for my husband and I down the road and, more importantly, teaches the kids life skills. Maybe they will have housecleaners and landscapers in their future, but either way, they will know how to do these things and appreciate the effort it takes whoever does these tasks.

Key Points

2008-09-09T14:07:00.000-07:00

I have a Post Office Box key as part of my new role as the Director of the Foundation. I got it a few weeks ago. I lost it yesterday. Well ,sort of. Somehow I knew it was buried somewhere in the recesses of my handbag, but of course I couldn't find it at the Post Office.

Luckily the guy in charge of PO boxes took pity on me and got me the mail. As I drove back I was trying to decide how I was going to explain that I had already lost the key only a few weeks into the job. I figured if it didn't turn up I would have to slink back into the post office, in dark, oversized sunglasses and inquire what the fee for a replacement key was (and not tell hubby who would undoubtedly say it is because I rush around so much that I lost it).

I am happy to report that after "Operation Handbag Storm" I did unearth the key. It was lodged between the two sets of my children's motion sickness bracelets. Why I still carry around those motion sickness bracelets (or really half of the stuff that was excavated out of the bag) is really one of those "damned if you do, damned if you don't" things.

You see, I think it has been at least two years since either child has actually needed the bracelets. However, I am positive that the minute I remove them from my handbag, one or other of Thing 1 or Thing2 will projectile vomit on the very next car trip of length, or airline trip, or both. I know this for a certainty because I am a life long sufferer of Murphy's law.

Just today for instance, I had to go to the doctor for a quick follow up visit. I didn't want to go and had tried to weasel out, saying I felt fine, had my period, blah blah blah. They said to come anyway. This appointment was at their office next to the hospital.

Most people who visit the hospital elect to park in the adjacent parking garage for convenience. I hate that garage with a passion. It takes longer to get out of that garage than it does to get ones hair permed. In fact, I do anything I can to avoid the garage. I make all my appointments in the 'burbs if I can at all help it. I would have made this one there too, but I had had to reschedule it to go to the bloomin Post Office the day before, site of the missing key discovery.

So, instead of parking in the garage today, I did what I usually do and found a meter spot on the street. I put in seventy five cents which was good for 45 minutes. The doctor's office had told me the appointment should take no more than half of an hour and I was there one minute before my appointment.

So I ran to the office and took a seat. And sat, and sat and sat. Then I got a room 22 minutes later. I got prepared to see the doctor and sat looking at the clock and watched slowly tick towards, then past, the time when my meter would expire. In the end I got out of there 20 minutes after the meter expired.

While the doctor was running late, apparently the meter maid was not. Exactly ten minutes after the quarters ran out, she or he came along and issued a parking violation. If I had extra time on my hands, which of course, thanks to the MD's office I did not, I would have sat in that parking spot just to get my money's worth now that I was $20 in the whole! Actually, the fee was $25 but if you paid it within 72 hours, you got a reduction. Sure, I can pay within 72 hours, I have nothing else to do but go to the Parking Authority (and where do I park for that?). But alas, if I mailed it in time and made it a money order (for an extra $1.05) I could be done with it and "save" $3.95. How lucky.

So, next time I am at a parking meter, someone remind me how I always end up a victim of Murphy's law. Remind me to put in an extra quarter or two. In the meantime, those motion sickness bracelets are staying in my handbag, along with the Post Office box key.

And They Called It Puppy Love

2008-09-08T05:15:00.001-07:00

It all happened so fast and now we have a new love in our life. Meet Hanna. Hanna is a rescue puppy from Tennessee. Her mom was rescued from a shelter, and she gave birth to Hanna in a foster home. Through the alignment of moon and stars, she made her way into our home and hearts.

For many months we were numb from having had to put to sleep our first rescue dog, Kramer. The house was empty without him and I had no loving companion to take walks with me. We were also quite consumed by worrying for my sister Debbie who is battling breast cancer, and wanted to be available to care for her. But now Debbie is almost done with chemo, with one more round to go, and my kids are back at school and somehow I knew it was time. The timing was right because we have no travel plans in the next four months thanks largely to soccer season. I have a new job that allows me to continue to work from home except for an average of two meetings a month. So, I began the search for a dog.

We applied with two Westie organizations as the children had been quite taken by Sophie, our friends' Westie. We also inquired about another samoyed rescue in NJ. I visited the Humane Society where we had adopted Kramer 15 years ago. I searched on Petfinder. Then on Petfinder I saw a cute puppy that was half Great Pyrenees half Lab being offered by Paws4rescue.org. I applied online. Quincey, one of the leaders of this tiny dog rescue sent an email back on Friday morning saying that she had gotten my application and it looked good and that I should call her. I sent her an email and asked her when a good time to call was. She sent back an email and said after three or over the weekend. My heart sank. I figured that Little Bit was either not available or promised to someone else otherwise she would want me to call sooner. So, I sent an email and asked if Little Bit was still available and also attached my tribute to Kramer, our former rescue. Withing 15 minutes of sending the tribute, the phone rang. It was Quincey. She had been so moved by what I had written that she wanted to offer us a puppy whose adoption had just fallen through due to another family's health emergency. The puppy was Hanna. (My mother in law pointed out that in this fashion Kramer had actually found his replacement.)

Within 24 hours of first speaking to Quincey, Hanna was in our car and coming home with us. She had taken an overnight transport from Tennessee with 77 other dogs, all being rescued. The kids decided to call her Hanna as Tropical Storm Hanna came on the same day and Hanna was driven through it to come to us.

It is nice to have a new companion and fan in our house. It is also nice to see how the kids interact with her. This is their first puppy. What is somewhat sad is the fact that Thing 1, my daughter pointed out that Hanna will be with us all her life, but that she and her brother, Thing 2 will be gone in 6 and 8 years respectively, gone to college that is. Yikes, that gives it a lot of perspective and is a reminder to love and treasure the time I have with my kids because, before I know it, they will have gone off into the world the way Hanna went off into the world to meet us. Luckily, I know they will be back to visit and that Hanna will be here to keep us company.

In the span of the lives of two dogs, my children will have come and gone through my everyday life. Sad, but that is life. Thank you Hanna, for reminding me to cherish these moments while I have the kids in my life every single day.

I Guess The War-Drobe Was A Fake

2008-09-04T15:48:00.000-07:00

So now on the gun website, http://guanabee.com/2008/09/just-what-we-thought-not-wishe.php I found the Sarah Palin gun-tottin bikini photo on claims it was photoshopped. What is scarier is that they still like it. Here is what the website says:

"Awesome! Now, some would argue that the doctored picture above passes as political humor and is meant to be harmless, since the picture is so obviously fake, others disagree, and say that these stunts hurt the political process. Whatever it may be there’s no question this is an awesome Photoshop job."

Maybe we should change the name "wardrobe" all together... Peacerobe? Paxrobe? Of course, I am sure the word really originally came from "ward" and "robe." If that bikini photo goes around the world, it will do wonders for our image and we might all have to check into a "ward"...

A Heartbeat Away?

2008-09-04T15:34:00.000-07:00

In case you can't see the picture of Sara Palin (and
you must-go to
http://guanabee.com/2008/09/sarah-palin-bikini-and-rifle-p.php)
little did I know
it would give new meaning for my post label of "war-drobe"

Does "ShenMin" Mean "Desperate Fool" in Chinese?

2008-09-03T06:07:00.000-07:00

Tired of having clumps of my own hair in my drain, on my floor and in my hands, I decided to take instead, matters into my hands and investigate herbal supplements to stop the mass follicle evacuation. What I settled on was an herbal supplement called "Shen Min."

I read about ShenMin in one of my magazines and checked it out at Whole Foods. According to the Whole Foods lady, it is the product that gets the best reviews from people she encounters. So I thought, okay I will give it a try, and a try, and a try. Turns out you have to use it for three months to see if it works at all. At $30 a pop, that is not a cheap experiment. Nevertheless, the plumber is coming over today to unclog our shower drain, and that isn't going to be cheap either, so maybe this is an investment of sorts.

Still, the skeptical side of me wonders if I am just being taken in by yet another health and beauty company that is marketing to our desperation to revert to the way things used to be, and not face reality. In this case, the reality that I am losing lots of my hair. Does Shen Min mean Desperate Fool in Chinese? I will let you know. I did check out the internet and found mixed reviews for Shen Min. Were all the good reviews written by Shen Min employees? That is what the skeptical side of me always presumes.

Maybe it will just stop the excessive shedding, without adding real volume. But if it does, that will be fine. Anyway, I have embarked on the experiment, so "hair goes!"

School Daze

2008-09-02T14:48:00.000-07:00

Okay, I have pulled myself out from under the pile of school documents I need to have filled out tonight, and the checks I needed to write for various collections, field trips, etc. to write this. Every year I forget, in my eagerness to send the kids back to school, of the mountain of paperwork that must be filled out each new year for each kid. After the 45th form I find myself filling out my daughter's birthday (Thing 1) with my son's birth year (Thing 2). Yikes.

Organized though we were, having all listed school supplies safely purchased two weeks before school started, nevertheless, we faced the inevitable school supply crisis this afternoon. This consisted of the crucial and immediate need for additional school supplies that absolutely have to, positively must, be purchased for Thing 1, if her life is meant to be any sort of success. You see, since she isn't an eighth grader (she is in seventh), she didn't get the eighth grade school supplies list, or else, she would have known that she (read me) needed to buy a bound composition book for Spanish (she is a year ahead of the other kids as she took the language in the UK for three years). This obviously is crucial for tonight's homework and cannot wait another minute.

So, off I go to Staples (is there any other choice? sad really) to get the composition book while she does her homework before she has to go off to soccer practice and I have to figure out dinner. Small window of opportunity here folks. So I race into Staples, half crazed, searching madly for the composition books, and encountering no less than 769 people there. At this point, I am hoping there are any left. Eureka, composition books. But wait, do I go for the clinical "TV screen at 2 am" looking cover, or the cool hot pink and black tiger stripe? The cool one looks like it is on sale for 99 cents. But the other doesn't appear to be marked down. Ugh. What the hell? Who has time for this, I get both and then lap through the aisles frantically trying to predict the next item that Thing 1 or Thing 2 will absolutely positively have to have tomorrow, or else they will definitely turn out to be degenerate adults down the road.

By the way, Thing 1, being a law and order, compliant, don't want to stand out in a crowd or I might have to kill myself kind of gal, picked the very traditional "TV screen at 2 am" looking cover. The small ray of luck was that it cost 99 cents too.

Let' Them Eat Cake, But Only Really Good Cake

2008-08-29T05:00:00.000-07:00

I admit it. I love cake and I have a sweet tooth. Probably why I found Gaffigan's comedy routine on cake so funny (see yesterday's blog: Let Them Eat Cake). But, I must admit, as I get older and as the pounds get harder and harder to take off, I have higher standards about what I will overindulge in.

NWTC is my new mantra on a lot of frankly substandard food. Not Worth The Calories. If I try something new and decide it isn't truly delicious. I declare it NWTC and drop the fork. I also remove it from my presence or remove myself from its presence.

So, you would think I would be skinny. But, sadly (or really thankfully, per my sweet tooth) there is still a lot of truly good food outthere, and I know how to find it. Or make it. It doesn't help that I also like to cook and make a good portion of it! Lately, though, I have tried to raise my standards with even the things that I cook. This of course creates a dilemma between the frugal, common sense side of me that says "you put all of that time, energy and expensive organic ingredients in that, eat up!" What to do? Why push the stuff on my husband of course.

Let Them Eat Cake!

2008-08-28T14:57:00.000-07:00

Here is a hilarious skit one of my favorite things, cake. Eat up!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JDfp45Utg5k

"Is This The Hysterectomy Hotel?"

2008-08-27T10:36:00.000-07:00

I survived yesterday's hysteroscopy and D & C just fine. I thought I was pretty out of it when I woke up. Apparently that was the second time I woke up. According to one of the nurses, the first time I came to I asked her "is this the hysterectomy hotel?"

Wow, who knew that I could crack jokes even when drugged? But why was I asking about a hysterectomy? I was only in there to get a polyp removed. Must have been some kind of a Freudian slip ("don't need that equipment anymore, so just take it all away while you're in there?"). Who knows?

Actually, the experience was as pleasant as possible. Everyone there was really nice. I especially liked Nurse Mary with whom I bantered. I scared her half to death when I changed quickly and sat back down in the chair in the next room while she was checking the results of my (mandatory) pregnancy test. After I scared her by sneaking back in the room she told me that the pregnancy test was negative, but by rights she should have told me it was positive to get even. Mary is my kind of gal.

No Food or Water part 2

2008-08-26T05:40:00.000-07:00

I just returned from dropping my son off to his golf tournament. As I was driving I looked on with jealousy at all the people sipping coffee and eating muffins, bagels, etc. as they drove along. I don't even drink coffee and I don't eat in the car, but I would today if I could, simply because I was told I couldn't.

Yup, it is 8:42 am and I think this day is going to go slow. Slow as molasses, something else I can't eat. Everything is reminding me of food. While driving back I was listening to NPR and they were talking about unrest in Kashmir. Images flashed through my mind, not of violence and people fighting, but of Kashmiri chicken and that really good pilau those folks can make.

It is going to be a long day.

No Food or Water

2008-08-26T04:39:00.000-07:00

I don't know why I am sitting here writing this when I could be living up the last 1 hour and 21 minutes of time in which I can go hogwild with imbibing tea, coffee or ginger ale, with nothing added (particularly the milk I always add to my tea). That's right, I have to have a procedure this afternoon. A hysteroscopy. Sounds kind of like hysterical, but I am thinking it won't be.

I can deal with the whole no food thing until 4 o'clock today. But no liquids, not even water after 9 am? Well that is just down right cruel. If you aren't getting an image of me leaning over my sink and gulping down a tall glass of water at 8:59 am, you should. I am not complaining (too much) about getting the draw of an afternoon appointment. I suppose on the one hand, it means I might start losing those 12 extra pounds I seem to have gained (undoubtedly from someone else in the universe who had just lost 12 pounds, that is how these things work actually).

So, I will slog through this half of a never-ending, desert like, dry mouth day with my usual "I'm not bothered" attitude. Off to have my plain tea and water. Don't be jealous.

Go To Your Room!

2008-08-25T04:28:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I spent a good portion of the day cleaning out Thing 2's room. Thing 1 is quite self motivated and very neat. I just had to convince her to get rid off too much clutter in her room. Thing 2's room was an altogether different story.

First, there wasn't the same level of cooperation. Thing 2 grudgingly tore himself away from his "Battle for Middle Earth" computer game (in truth, he would prefer to live in Middle Earth) and plopped himself down on his reading chair, announcing "I don't need any of it, I don't care, just throw it out!" Clearly, he wanted to do whatever it took to get back to Middle Earth.

So, I had to stand there, somewhat like a QVC Salesperson, saying, "how about this (book, bionicle, marble, piece of string tied around a branch), do you still want it?" Usually he would say "no, just throw it out" without glancing up. Sometimes though, if it was something he had clearly forgotten he even owned, like a bag of small plastic toy pieces with which he used to play a game back in England, he would say "give that to me now." A good thing?

Well, yes and no. Sure he was now playing with the item that had been buried in the abyss of his room. However, he was also OOC, out of commission, for helping clean up himself. So I had to keep getting him to focus on the task at hand, which for me was cleaning his room and for him was getting back to Middle Earth.

"Come on," I would blurt out "if you ever want to get back to Middle Earth you are going to have to pay attention! Now do you want to keep these Doctor Who cards which you made my drive around half of England to find as each store ran out, thanks to you and your little eight year old friends?" The answer was of course no. I should have wanted him to keep the darn cards because of what he had put me through to get them. But the truth is, in the end, I am a realist. I knew he hadn't looked at them once since we moved in over a year ago. I also knew he had no friends here that related to them. So I was completely fine with him wanting to throw them out.

However, then came not the Battle for Middle Earth, but the Battle for Middle Ground-with my husband. Hubby decided to come in during the delicate negotiation process, reach in to the garbage bag, fish around and announce "Doctor Who cards? What? You can't throw those out!" To which came my reply of "Yes he can and he just did. Now leave it and let us get on with it."

He thought I was busy, but in fact I did notice that he had left with the Dr. Who cards in hand. So, later I had to find where he had squirreled them away and throw them away, again.

Actually, there were several things that we found in Thing 2's room which rightfully belonged to the Hubster, though he had purchased them under the guises of presents for Thing 2. These included: A book entitled "107 Youth Soccer Drills", and another book entitled "Discovering The Golden Compass, A Guide To Philp Pullman's Dark Materials." Did he not remember that the only way Thing 2 "read" the first two books in the series was when I read them to him? If that book was meant for anyone, I guess I would be the most appropriate member of the household, certainly not Thing 2.

Of course, in cleaning any 10 year old boys room you are bound to find one or two disgusting thing. In this, Thing 2 did not fail. I encountered several stale packages of partly eaten lifesavers. These registered a 2 on the gross scale. What came out as an instant 10 however, was the peeled, petrified remains of a clementine, found in two halves, on different parts of his bookshelf. What? How? Never mind that this clearly broke the rule of no taking food upstairs. I am guessing this must have been some night where I said they each had to eat a clementine and I had dutifully even peeled it for them. He probably snuck it up to his room and decided his shelf would make a great hiding place.

I am seriously thinking of sending the kids to their room more often. It is amazing what they can find there. Not just disgusting things that need to be taken away before the Board of Health is summoned, but toys and games and books and artwork they forgot they even owned. The silence around the rest of the house would be a perk I wouldn't mind either. "Go to your room" it is going to be my new mantra.

You Say Tomato and I Say Don't Wait-O

2008-08-22T16:29:00.000-07:00

Okay, so now the Chip-punks in my yard are really ticking me off. It is bad enough that they have built an impressive underground network of tunnels that would frankly make Osama Bin Laden jealous. Now they have decided to sample our just ripened tomatoes.

That is right sample. If they ate the whole darn tomato, I think I would be less angry. Instead, they leave the tomatoes, with one bite taken out of them, hanging on the vine, as a gruesome reminder that we should have picked them last night even though they were a shade under truly ripe.

What were these chip-punks thinking. Did they try a bite and decide, yup, those human creatures were right, probably another day or so and these would be much more tasty? Or perhaps they are on some kind of diet and one bite is their restricted portion?

Was this the work of one chip-punk? or two? If two, why couldn't they share one tomato? If it was one, why treat our garden like a buffet? There is no carving station, no omelettes made to order...

Whether it was one chip-punk or more, I am on to them. I am going to pick my stuff before they are perfectly ripe. No waiting, I don't like chip-punk seconds.

I think A T & T stands for alternating Tuesdays and Thursdays

2008-08-21T14:29:00.001-07:00

As I mentioned previously, some sort of vacuum has sucked me onto the couch every evening that the Olympics have been going on. While I try to do little domestic things like folding clothes, drying dishes, etc. on the long commercial breaks, I must admit that I am guilty of seeing a few of the commercials.

While I find some of those commercials funny (like the little creature that sings "sorry that you lost your files, here' s some fruit to make you smile ooo ha") I find the A T & T commercials very ironic.

If you have seen these commercials, the constant theme is if you don't have A T & T, you will miss that crucial call because of your carrier's spotty coverage. The irony is that I have A T & T and I missed several crucial calls, including the one about my son breaking his arm at school. Thanks to A T & T, I didn't get the calls until the 9th call somehow pushed the other 8 through, by which point Thing 2, my then nine year old son, was in the ambulance with his new teacher en route from his new school to the hospital. I felt really bad about not getting the phone call. When he told me that he thought he was having a heart attack when they put him in the ambulance, I could feel the dull head of the corkscrew enter my heart.

An isolated incident? I wish. I am forever getting voice mails that somehow finally get pushed through the cyberspace void and end up on my phone a week later! Of course, it doesn't happen all the time and there is no rhyme or reason to when it does. So, I tried going into the A T & T store to complain about it, but couldn't prove it at the time, as I had already checked and deleted messages. Everytime it happens, I am busy with work, kids, life, travel, etc. and can't run down to the store to show them.

I am counting down the days until my three year contract expires. In the meantime, I have decided that instead of Atlantic Telephone and Telegraph, A T & T actually stands for Alternative Tuesdays and Thursdays as my voice mails tend to come through about that frequently. So, if you leave me a message on my cellphone, just give me a while, like a week or two to respond.

Thankful Cars Don't Come With Secret Microphones

2008-08-20T09:46:00.000-07:00

My daughter, on the verge of becoming a teenager tends to complain. A lot. In fact, often it seems she only sees the negative in everything, especially as to how everything seems to impact her. Being the ever intolerant mother of the constant whining, I set up a rule. It was simple. She was only allowed to complain about three things in a day.

Either she or my son decided that she who invents the rules should also have to live with them. While I don't complain a lot generally, I do suffer from an abundance of "color commentary" when I drive with respect to the driving skills, or lack there of, of other drivers who I encounter on the road. The children, or as I like to refer to them, Thing 1 and Thing 2, quickly decided that the rule of three was good also for me. They decided that I could only make three negative comments a day about other drivers. What was the penalty? Why they claimed I would have to pay fifty cents for every additional offence.

While I haven't forked over any coinage thus far, they have started the count towards three many a time in the car. I am actually generally better about the comments I make when I know someone else is in the car.

This was not always the case. When my daughter was about 18 months old we were driving around and someone cut right in front of me, causing me to stop short. Two miracles occured then. One was that I was able to stop in time. The more impressive one was that I remembered Thing 1 was in the car and didn't utter the name which had come to mind with respect to the other driver. However, out of the backseat I heard the word "STUPID!" spoken forcefully by my daughter. Now where ever did she learn that?

As I mentioned, I do make an effort to withhold some commentary when others are in the car. When no one is in the car though, well, let's just say I am quite often politically incorrect. It got me thinking that if anyone ever secretly miked my car, I would be seriously embarassed by the stuff that comes out of my mouth. For instance, while driving home today, a woman in front of me inexplicably slammed on her breaks, coming to a nearly full stop. No reason, no impediments, nothing. She got the choice response of "thanks for stopping at nothing you jack#%*, I really enjoyed that episode of heart palpitations as I came within inches of your car." Don't worry, I don't actually say these things to the people involved. I am far too scared about road rage for that. Instead I have my own personal little venting session safely within the confines of my locked, windows rolled up, car.

Will I ever stop the car commentary? Not unless I am broadcast on some version of candid camera, perhaps "reality radio" or "mike time with mom." Then I would have to pay up, and more than fifty cents.

Losing It!

2008-08-19T12:43:00.000-07:00

I wish this were a piece about my losing weight. Sadly though, it isn't. It is about me losing my mind. Days like today, I do start to question my memory retention skills.

I was out running around all over town, doing errands. I decided to stop in at Whole Foods and to get some milk and while there I figured I could get that environmentally "safe" bleach I had considered buying recently. I had changed the sheets on our bed today and decided they looked rather dingy.

So imagine my surprise when I threw in the sheets with the detergent and the new "safe" bleach, then put the bleach down right next to the same exact container of "safe" bleach. That's right folks, apparently last week, ORD, or Other Rational Donna had bought the "safe" bleach. Too bad she didn't tell me, Dementia Donna.

What is really sad about this whole thing is that I still don't actually remember buying the first container. I remember looking at these bleaches in Whole Foods last week, but I thought I remembered deciding to hold off and go with the vinegar and lemon juice remedies I had read about it in my "green" books. In fact, I remember being more drawn to a different brand of "safe" bleach than the one that I ended up buying, twice.

This latest move (or should I say moves) ranks up there with the time I rented the same movie twice, not realizing that I had already seen it. Then of course, there was the time that I bought my hubby wine glasses to replace the ones he had broken only to realize that he had already bought replacements and apparently shown them to me (or rather to ORD).

I am only 41 years old, so I clearly need to work on this memory thing. ORD or I will have to start doing crosswords and word searches. It's either that or lost words and car key searches.

No Spring Chicken, Just a Chicken

2008-08-18T09:15:00.000-07:00

By now you have realized that all of my blogs tend to be about the Olympics of late. Get used to it. Watching the Olympics and blogging about them is the only thing I seem to do outside of work and boring domestic things (which I force myself to do over those long commercial breaks).

The other night, I was excited to see a 38 year old win Gold in the Women's Marathon. Yes! Power to us creaky ones is what I say. I read today too about Dara Torres commenting at one sound test the four word sound bite that she thinks sums up her media interest: "Dara Torres, swimmer, old. "

She is right about that. We in the over forty crowd are interested in her because she is 41. We think she gives us all hope, and on the darker side, less excuses. I guess she and the 38 year old marathoner and the 33 year old silver medalist in women's gymnastics on the vault have made great strides, but have also made our lives harder.

We can no longer institute the old "I am over 40 years old, I can't run around (or insert sport here) like those younger folks do. We can no longer announce, "I know my limits, I am not young anymore" as an excuse to sit out the physical activity in question.

Maybe someone (over forty!) can come up with some sort of genetic test that sets us apart from those great ladies, but I have a feeling there isn't one. I think that what they have proved is that with determination, hard work and no insurmountable injuries, as Dara Torres said "there is no age limit on your dreams."

So ladies, no more excuses, let's go.

Dara Torres is My Age, But She Looks Older, Doesn't She?

2008-08-15T19:23:00.000-07:00

The family has been camping in the family room every night watching the Olympics. Yes, even me who normally watches no TV, and I mean none, not even the news or weather. I get the news by reading the paper and the weather on the 'net.

We have become Olympicky-with really high standards. We want gold medals and world records from our American teams. We got into it a bit late in the game. We didn't see any of the opening ceremonies. We missed the first day or so of competition as well. So we missed Dara Torres' first gold medal.

So tonight we got our first glimpses of Dara Torres who I have read is 41 years old, just like me. I decided right away that she has an awesome looking body, especially for a 41 year old. But I have to admit. I found myself thinking her face looked old for 41.

As she came on the screen I pointed out to the kids that she was my age. To be exactly precise about it, I actually said "she is my age...but she looks older...doesn't she? Say yes."

So I now imagine what Torres could say to her kids about me: "She's my age, but how many times do you think I could lap her before that lardass touches the wall?"

That kind of puts my shallow (pun intended) question in perspective.

"Pray for China?"

2008-08-14T09:43:00.002-07:00

This morning in my usual semicomatose state, I drove to the gym. As I passed through the town center, I noticed a lone man standing with a sign. I craned my neck to see what his sign said as I raced to the gym. I figured it would have something to do with McCain or Obama, or maybe Iraq, or possibly even the controversy over replacing some very new town parking meters because a portion of the population in town is too stupid to figure out how to use them (or more likely too much in a hurry to use up their quarter's worth of time to completely read the instructions).

Instead, what I discovered was that the sign said "Pray for China." Huh? Pray for what exactly? I mean we are in the midst of the Olympics here, so are we meant to pray for more gold medals? A gold medal sweep in diving? That they will see the light and 'fess up about the fact that their gymnasts are actually 12 and 13 years old?

Or maybe we are meant to pray for the people of China? For the human rights abuses they are subject to? A friend at the gym pointed out that maybe we are supposed to pray for the Tibetans really, because of how China is treating them. But if so, wouldn't the man be better served to have a sign saying "Pray for the People of Tibet?"

Maybe he was really working for the nearby mall during the recession. What he meant was pray for china as in porcelain, like Royal Doulton, Wedgewood, etc. He was standing on the route one might take to the mall, or there is a nice jewelry store a few blocks away that carries all that kind of "china."

Someone else at the gym suggested that I should have rolled down my window and asked him precisely why we should pray for China, but I was in too much of a hurry. I was praying for a good parking space at the gym, make no mistake about that.

2008-08-14T09:43:00.001-07:00

Don't Be Alarmed Or Anything...

2008-08-12T10:09:00.000-07:00

I find there are two types of alarm clock users in this world. Those of us who shut the darn thing off and get up when it first rings,

and those who do not.

Unfortunately for me, my husband falls in the second camp.

As far as I am concerned, if you are sleeping alone, and out of earshot of others, you can ignore your alarm clock, hit the snooze a million times, hurl it across the room or whatever, as long as you don't wake anyone else up in the process. If on the other hand, someone is asleep in the same room, shut it off immediately and don't even think of using that snooze button.

Hubby needs what I would kindly call a course in alarm clock etiquette.
This morning, I had to hear his alarm clock go off no less than three times. While it bothered me and woke me up, it had no effect on him. He only shut it off those three times after I elbowed him (yes, three times). Worse yet is his infamous blackberry alarm. The entire household, except for him, gets "entertained" on a daily basis, by his blackberry alarm going off down in the kitchen, across from and one floor below where he silently slumbers. What point does that alarm have other than to annoy the rest of us who do actually get up to get on with our days?

I am currently reading a great British book called What Was Lost (by Catherine O'Flynn) which is a real sarcastic look at our consumer society. A high point of the book for me is where one of the characters, Lisa, is looking for a new alarm clock. She has to keep upgrading to more and more obnoxious sounding alarms because her brain becomes numb to the sounds of the last one after a while. Maybe that's hubby's problem. Sounds like maybe some retail therapy will fix the problem.

Let's Hope the Swimsuit Catches On!

2008-08-11T10:57:00.000-07:00

Well, here is a photo of Michael Phelps in the US swimteam official Olympic bathing suit. The ladies' one is remarkably similar in style. I myself am hoping this style catches on. Not for speed or anything as efficiency minded as that, but for that fact that it will cover up a lot of cottage cheese thighs, mine included.

Sure, skeptics will tell me that I should go all out and go for the burqini, shown to the right, but I am not into total skin coverage, just the flabby bits. For those of you not familiar with the burqini, it is like the officially sanctioned bathing suit for obedient muslim women. As I mentioned, all I am after is covering up the old bum and thigh area, not a total cover up, and what is up with the goofy hat?

Somehow I don't see Phelps or Torres in that, even if it did turn out to be aquadynamic, or whatever the term would be. Well, maybe I could see them wearing the hats if Nike paid loads of money to sponsor it.

If you look at the burqini hat closely, it starts looking a bit deja vu. Really, all you need is the little propeller thing on top and you could have yourself a nice little beanie hat. I suppose with a big propeller thing on top, you could be a lot cooler though. Plus, you could make everyone on the beach work their abdominals, when they bust their guts laughing at how silly you look.

Ah well, until they mainstream the racer suit and it catches on with us non-racing types, I guess I will stick to my tankini with the skirt on the bottom, the closest thing I am willing to wear in the great American cover up.

The Pill-grimage

2008-08-08T04:51:00.000-07:00

Now that I have taken myself off of birth control pills, they are one less thing I need to worry about taking. As it turns out, it is one less hassle for my husband too.

That is because there was that one time when we were traveling in France when we moved from Normandy to Versailles, from hotel to hotel, when I rummaged through my toiletries kit and couldn't find my birth control pills. Of course, being the calm, cool collected person that I am, I went into a full on panic. What would I do if I didn't have them? This was just the beginning of a ten week vacation? I remember the changes I went through when I went off them in law school. They weren't pretty, and certainly not what you want happening on your vacation.

So, I back tracked in my mind to figure out how I could have left them in the other hotel. I remembered leaving the whole toiletries bag on this dinky little bedside table. The table was so dinky, that at one point the whole (of course open) bag fell over. I thought I had gotten everything that fell out, but now I was convinced that the pills had somehow slipped under the corner of the giant bedspread unbeknownst to me.

What to do? Well, first I got on the phone and of course only got French speaking people back at the old hotel. Pas de probleme, je parle francais. So, I launched into my only adequate french and kept repeating the phrase "boite des medicaments" which I was sure meant box of medicine. Finally, I got some cleaning lady on the phone that said, yes, she had found a "boite des medicaments" in one of the rooms. Parfait, I would send my husband on the over two hours journey back to get them.

Yes, that is right, hubby, worth his weight in gold, or contraceptive pills, went off at 9 pm that night, for the long drive back to the first hotel, without any knowledge of how to speak french, and prepared to straddle the front seat at several points to pay the tolls in our English drive car, at the French toll booths (obviously on the passengers side). The curious thing about that piece of it was that I had just commented earlier in the day as we were driving that it would be very hard for a driver to drive an English drive car all alone and pay the tolls. How perceptive of me.

So, of course in the middle of the night, I get the call. No one at the desk knows anything about the "boite des medicaments" and the cleaning crew doesn't come on until 7 am. So, they gave him a free or really cheap room for the night.

The next morning two very important things happened, and one logical thing did not.
1. The "boite des medicaments" turned out to be a box of gauze pads,
2. I found my pills buried in the bowels of my toiletries bag in a section I swear I never use, and 'fessed up,
3. My husband did not kill me when he drove back the over two hours to Versailles.

ISP-Intermittent Service Provider?

2008-08-07T14:00:00.001-07:00

ISP is supposed to stand for internet service provider, but today I decided it could just as well stand for intermittent service provider in my ISP's case. Sure, well, maybe they will blame it on the weather, we did have a flashflood/long thunderstorm, but this is 2008, and we bloggers have gotten used to being able to get on whenever we feel like it.

So, I am back on and a bit more appreciative of the connection, but no less annoyed at having to find something else to do when I wanted to post my blog, and also with the burden of having to remember that I did not yet post my blog and that I would have to later. This over forty brain needs lots of written and/or verbal reminders to do things (preferably both!). This is especially true when I am off my usual schedule of posting first thing in the am. It is kind of like taking pills first thing in the morning. If you forget, you aren't likely to remember, until the next morning when in a foggy haze, you mutter to yourself, "wait a minute, I think I forgot to take these yesterday..."

By the way, I did take my pills this morning. I don't have a PSP, a pill service provider, unless you count me, so I had no worries about the service being unavailable.

Pelvic Paradise?

2008-08-06T07:13:00.000-07:00

Last month, while reading the New York Times I ran across an article entitled "A Spa for Those Women Concerned About 'Pelvic Fitness' which appeared on July 3, 2008. Intrigued as to why one would put the word 'spa' and the word 'pelvic' in the same sentence, I read on.

It turns out that an enterprising young doctor, Dr. Romanzi, has decided to open a spa in Manhattan called Phit, which is a medispa "wholly dedicated to strengthening and grooming a woman's genital area." Yikes!

When I think of a day at the spa, that isn't exactly what I have in mind. In fact, the only 'p' word that comes to mind is 'pampering,' not 'pelvic.' Why call it a spa if that is what goes on there? Sure doesn't sound like much fun, to say nothing of relaxing and luxurious.

The spa is called Phit, which is short for pelvic health integrated techniques. I don't know about you, but when I am looking for integration in a spa, I am looking for things like integrating lunch into the price, not pelvic procedures.

If I needed to have a pelvic procedure, I would have it done in a doctor's office, insurance card at the ready. I wouldn't think that candycoating it by playing relaxing spa music and offering herbal teas would make it any less uncomfortable. If, on the other hand, I wanted a spa day, I would want the relaxing atmosphere, the cool new classes, the cushy robe, etc.

The cushy robe is really nice, but if you have to take it off to submit to a pelvic procedure, I think the whole relaxation thing kind of flies out the window. So, you won't see me checking into a spa for pelvic procedures any time soon.

Thankfully, I don't have any pelvic issues at the moment or maybe I just don't have the time to obssess about them as some women apparently do. The new field of genital beautification, yes, that is surgery to improve the looks of your genitals actually has a name-cosmetogynecology. Now, just a kind word from me to those women who think they need such services: hello, just leave the light off and save yourself some bucks and a lot of pain. If your still troubled with the way things look down there, stop looking down!

When I am next lucky enough to enjoy a spa day, you can find me either trying out the cool new classes or better yet, lounging by the pool with a stack of magazines and books, in a cushy robe that I won't surrender until the last possible minute of my stay.

Little White Lies Told to Little People

2008-08-05T04:28:00.000-07:00

Yesterday's post, Confessions of a Candyland Cheater, has already gotten several comments on http://www.blogher.com/ where I also post my blogs. This got me thinking about all the other lies I have told to the little people in my life.

Way back when I was first pregnant with Thing 1, I remember being all idealistic about the whole lying thing. I seriously considered whether I would be an accomplice in the big lies: Santa Claus, Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy, etc. But like every other parent, I fell in line, not wanting to be accused of denying my kid(s) a proper American upbringing.

When Thing 1, at only 2 1/2 years old, was onto the fact that "Santa" looked a great deal like Uncle Skip, I didn't outright lie, but I didn't clear up the confusion. Instead, I took out other pictures and drawings of Santa Clauses and tried to point out that they all bore an uncanny resemblance to Uncle Skip.

When Thing 1 and Thing 2 asked to stop at MacDonald's one night while we were out. I didn't feel like climbing back on my soap box and lecturing them yet again about the unhealthy food sold there. So instead, I declared that the MacDonald's was closed. To which Thing 1 countered, "Then why are all the lights on and some people in there?" Without hesitation I replied "That is just the cleaning crew honey, they come in when the store closes, and of course, they need the lights on to see what they are doing."

Even with the tooth fairy, I found myself telling little white lies upon little white lies, mostly due to my own or my husband's or both, parental disorganization. Not only did I go along with the rouse of the tooth fairy, but when my daughter didn't find a coin under her pillow (back in our UK days) I would go in her room, coin in hand and sureptitiously drop it on the floor next to the bed as I made a big show of looking under the pillows. I would then step away from the bed, let my eyes fall to the floor and "spot" the coin. I announced excitedly, "there it is, the tooth fairy didn't forget you, it must have fallen out of the bed when you got up to look for it under your pillows!"

Of course, now that they are ten and twelve, they have found out that there is no tooth fairy, no Santa (but there still is an Uncle Skip!) and no Easter Bunny. Though I fretted about lying to my children in the first place back when this whole parenting thing began, their response when they found out the truth, was distinctly underwhelming. There was no accusatory tribunal of "How could you have lied to us?" Instead, they just wanted to know if they would still get the same amount of presents at Christmas time.

Confessions of a Candyland Cheater

2008-08-04T04:35:00.000-07:00

The other night my sister called me to tell me they were about to play Candyland for the first time. She was on speakerphone at the time. I told her to take me off speakerphone so that her children, 4 and 6 couldn't hear the special instructions I was about to provide to her.

She complied and I launched into how to survive Candylanditis. My son, Thing 2 went through an extended acute bout of Candylanditis when he was 3 or 4 years old. Every night, just before bed, he guilted his sister, Thing 1 and I into playing the game. Sure, right, Candyland, what a cute little first game, no words, candy, etc. Why not?

I will tell you why not, because just as it is getting past the children's bedtime and you can barely keep your own head up from running around with them all day and maybe working too, and just as you think either Thing 1 or Thing 2 is about to win, they get sent back to the candy swamp, or some other place way down near the start of the whole game. At that point, rather than rationalizing with the kids that it was past their bedtime and perhaps we could continue where we left off tomorrow, and brace myself for the inevitable tears and tantrums, I did what I had to do. I cheated. When they weren't looking, I removed all of the "go back" cards. Thus, ensuring that the game would be swift and uneventful. From then on, this is how I always set up the game.

Looking back on my experience with children, this deviousness, or survivial tactic, depending on how you look at it, was born early in my childminding career. I remember when I used to babysit neighborhood kids in my teens, I particularly preferred sitting for those children who could not yet tell time. It was easy for me to send them to bed early (and even claim I had let them stay up fifteen minutes past their bedtime) because, of course they couldn't yet tell time, and would have no reason to doubt that their sweet, innocent looking babysitter might be pulling a fast one on them.

So, of course, I am paying my dues now with Thing 1 and Thing 2 who certainly have their share of ways of pulling fast ones on me. But fair is fair, and what comes around goes around, except in Candyland, where one will only go around once if I have anything to do with it.

How Much Is That Doggy In the Window?

2008-08-01T10:40:00.000-07:00

It has been almost six months since my dog died and the kids are starting to pester me for a dog, a West Highland Terrier to be precise. Honestly, I am missing having a dog around as well, though I miss Kramer in particular.

Why a Westie? Because my friends Mary Jane and Rick have an adorable Westie named Sophie and we stayed with them for six days on our recent visit to the UK. One of Sophie's cutest characteristics is that she charges the TV and barks at most animals, but especially dogs on the screen. The kids think that is hysterical. They also think it is so cool that they can pick up Sophie due to her size and disposition. Kramer was way too big and too cranky for that. My daughter, Thing 1, particularly enjoyed having someone else to talk down to and boss around.

So what do I think? I think having a smaller dog has its advantages in terms of the dogs portability, which in Kramer's last years was definitely a problem. But I am used to a big dog. I thought I wanted a big dog because I want a walking companion on long walks and hikes, but as Mary Jane points out, Sophie goes on 61/2 mile walks with us often.

I guess the other advantage of a smaller dog is that they will live longer, in general, than big dogs. Having just gone through the heartbreak of losing Kramer, I can see the advantages in that.

I do also like the fact that a big dog is more threatening to strangers visiting the house. But, I suppose that a smaller dog can inflict a good dose of damage if necessary. Also, sometimes it is enough to have a barking dog of any size to deter a burglar or similar miscreant.

One thing I am sure of though, it is that our next dog will be a rescue dog. Kramer came from the Humane Society and we feel strongly that there are too many dogs without a loving home to justify getting a pure bred puppy (to say nothing of the cost).

I have set a rough date of after my sister's chemotherapy treatments end in early September to start the dog search, but I suppose it is best to start registering with some of these pet rescues now as from what my friend tells me, it is a ridiculously rigorous process. He told me he needed to provide references from his last vet and groomer! I guess those who want to be first time dog owners need not apply!

Something tells me that I will be posting some blogs about the whole process in the near future. I guess things have changed since 141/2 years ago when we went to the Humane Society on our lunch hour and took this strange dog home to our house, only to head back out to work (and later came home to discover he had peed on the guest room bed!).

Bag It!

2008-07-31T08:33:00.000-07:00

My gym friends and I were having a good laugh about the size of my handbag and what it contains in it today. While they said it wasn't as big as I made it out to be, they couldn't believe the stuff I pulled out of it.

I can definitely commiserate with Nora Ephron who wrote similarly of the wacky things that she finds in her handbag. Aren't we all guilty of using the bag as a black hole at one time or another? For me it is every time someone hands me a receipt that I don't really need. Instead of finding a garbage bag, I stick it into the abyss of my handbag.

Speaking of the term handbag. My bag should more appropriately be called a shoulder bag. You see one hand could not freely carry such a load. Instead, I need my sculpted gym shoulder to shoulder that burden.

So what do I have in my handbag today? My wallet, my planner (a big planner for big plans) my cell phone, my cell phone charger (which I now carry ever since the time Thing 2 broke his arm and we were in the hospital for nearly 12 hours with my dead cell phone, staring at the electrical outlet which would have charged the phone if only I had had my charger.), my pashmina (for the many times I am too cold and without other outerwear to throw on), a bag of almonds (good and good for you if you have nothing else to eat and no possibility of eating soon), lip gloss, chapstick, nail file, random wrapped mint, random now unwrapping tampon (dont worry I threw it out upon finding it), a pen, my checkbook and check register, various restaurant and bookstore gift cards, hand cream, hand sanitizer, tissues, a small sack that turns into a reusable shopping bag, sunscreen (I swear this is a very small size), shea butter tub (again, sounds big but is actually small), a wrapped Walker's short bread cookie and several tea bags (well I had to make it worth my while when I was lucky enought to visit the business class lounge!), and I think that is it.

You probably thought I would mention a bunny somewhere in there, like a magician who pulls one out of a hat. Alas, I don't think that would get through airport security. My friends were laughing about the almonds and said the airport search dogs must have sniffed those out. I pointed out that because neither were they real sharp, nor at all liquid, I had no problem getting those nuts through.

Speaking of airport security, because I have a few liquids in my bag, I accidentally forgot to put my handcream in the clear plastic bag on the way to London. Turns out they never caught it. My friend Sheila from the gym said she had forgotten a half filled water bottle in her bag and no one caught that. Yikes! Any similar stories to share?

In A Pickle

2008-07-30T12:18:00.001-07:00

For several years now I have been making my own housecleaning products or using all natural ones. The fact that my sister was diagnosed with breast cancer in February, at 45 years old, has just ramped up my paranoia about environmental factors which lead to cancer. So, I have accordingly ramped up my efforts to live a more chemical free life.

So, that is why these days, I smell like I live in a pickle, or that I have just put up jars of pickles for the winter time. You see, I am addicted to the wonder fluid, vinegar. I was already big into vinegar for an organic and cheap way to deal with weeds and moss on walkways and patios and was able to deal with the fact that the yard smelled like a jar of pickled jalapenos for a few days afterwards. However, after reading more and more about the myriad of uses of vinegar inside the house-from laundry (instead of fabric softener!) to glass cleaning, to you name it, I had to go out and immediately build my arsenal of vinegar. I supplemented it with baking soda as it also has fabulous cleaning properties without chemicals, while being cheap. Did I mention it doesn't smell like pickles?

Don't worry I am going to fiddle around with this vinegar thing. Experiment by putting some essential oils in to cut that smell, and see what happens. All I need is a bunson burner and it could be like chemistry class all over again, except this time without the chemicals, and thus goggles (though as I remember making the old volcano with vinegar and baking soda in school, goggles might not be a bad idea, I wonder if they come in fashion colors?)

I just bought some fresh keffir lime leaves to go into the homemade thai food I am making tonight and can't help thinking that maybe one or two of those in the vinegar would make the whole thing smell better. I could be onto something, or maybe just creating a pickled condiment (in time for christmas presents?). Only time will tell.

Back from the Food Holiday

2008-07-29T04:17:00.000-07:00

Well, by now I should be over my food lag, so it's back to salad plate size portions of only health foods (with the exception of the leftovers of my daughter's birthday cake-homemade and can't let that go to waste, only to waist). It was fun while it lasted, and it usually lasts a few days after the actual vacation.

Being in a different diet mindset has its freedom and fun, but it also has its cold hard consequences, and that has become apparent on my scale and in my closet, with its narrowing (ironic word in this context) options.

It was great saying yes without hesitation to the clotted cream and scones, having a drink on most days instead of more like twice a month. French pastries every morning while in Paris? Isn't that de riguer? Full fat British yogurt which kicks the Greek kind's butt? Well, I was only there for a short time, and it is the best yogurt and you can't get it in America... No need to go on with the rationalizations, it is very obvious how I find myself in my current position.

Nevertheless, if I nip this in the bud (or butt) and get back to reality (and pitch out the rest of that cake) I'll be fine. Off to have my breakfast of nonfat greek yogurt in a tiny cup (think playdough sized container. Yes, its back to reality at my house and hopefully in my closet soon too!

Puff Mommy

2008-07-28T07:49:00.000-07:00

Early to bed, early to rise. An old expression, and now I know why. Lately, I have been waking up and my face, with the humid New England weather, summer allergies and the fact that I sleep with my face in my pillow, can best be described as a puff ball.

I look as if I have gone three rounds in the boxing ring and am definitely not fit for human consumption. So, what to do? My solution is to wake up an hour earlier than I normally would if I need to go out in public (fortunately we family members don't really look at each other very carefully in the morning, and just go about our catatonic morning rituals). This gives my face time to shrink back to size, and hopefully all of the overnight wrinkles fade away (away, away instant old lady!).

The exception to the rule? Going off to the gym for my 6:00 am class once a week. Frankly, at that hour, the public has to accept me as is. Fortunately, the ladies in my gym class also just roll out of bed and stagger in. One of the gals who used to go to my gym even proudly boasted that she slept in her gym clothes to save a few minutes in the am. My kind of girl!

You might be wondering what I do during the new found time in the a.m. while I wait for my face to return to its normal size and shape. Why, blog of course. Or read the paper, check email, or whatever keeps me productive and upright. I do feel a bit like Chicken Lttle, except my line is not "the sky is falling," but rather, "my face is falling." As long as it stops at my neck, I am okay with it.

Girl Gone

2008-07-25T06:08:00.000-07:00

For some reason, my gym teacher likes to refer to biceps as "guns." She also likes to refer to breasts as "girls." Lately, I have been thinking of what my older sister has been through, now that one of her "girls" is gone. It is really hard to believe what we as a family have gone through emotionally, and my sister, emotionally and physically, since February when we first learned that her surgeon suspected breast cancer.

The thing that has kept us going I think through the emotional roller coaster of her initial (worse) misdiagnosis, and her stroke, her long awaited mastectomy and lymph node surgery, has been a serious sense of humor. Breast cancer doesn't seem like a very funny topic, but we managed to make it that way anyway, so that we could laugh together and share that emotion, instead of the more traditional emotions of fear, grief and shock.

At the beginning of this journey, I would joke with her that she needed to keep me abreast of any developments, that she could talk to me anytime if she had something to get off of her chest. When it became apparent that she was in this for the longhaul, surgery, chemo et al, in came the chemo jokes. Whenever she forgot something we would accuse her of having chemo brain before she actually got chemotherapy.

In her state of shock, she let her roomie and I do all the research about her initial diagnosis and immerse ourselves into the language of breast cancer. Her initial diagnosis, was inflammatory breast cancer, the worst possible type of breast cancer. For almost a month, we were lead to believe that her cancer was IBC. One day she was on the phone with a friend or family member and she paused to ask me what IBC stood for. Without hesitation, I replied "idiot with breast cancer." It sounds really harsh as I write this, but she got the joke and laughed with me. Cancer and all its tons of information, drugs and darkness, had rendered her numb and unable to think. The only thing to do was to acknowledge this with a dose of humor and move on.

When she was held in limbo at Memorial Sloan Kettering for one month with delayed appointments and finally a last minute refusal to perform her surgery, we joked that we would do the surgery ourselves armed with a steak knife and a bottle of brandy. She would need to bring her own drink, the brandy was for the "surgeon."

Now with the surgery finally behind her and chemo half over, we have naturally moved on to the Kojak jokes in honor of her hair loss. "Who loves you baby?" Is our new motto. We also make a point of watching funny movies together.

Not every conversation is laced with humor of course, but we try to make the conversations as titillating as possible. We don't want to run out of jokes, because we decided that the person who can't see through to the humor in this is, well, just a boob.

Lug-Age

2008-07-24T15:25:00.000-07:00

Back from vacation! Just got home in the early hours today (more like last night!). Poor hubby had to drive the 3 hours from the airport to our house in a wind and torrential rain storm while the rest of us slumbered (or in my case tried to, the waves made by those eighteen wheelers going by can be pretty noisy).

We got home to total darkness at 1 am. The storm had caused a power outage. The only benefit of this was that because we couldn't see a thing, I felt justified in declaring that the luggage (0r lug-age as I like to call it) should just remain in the car until morning unless we wanted to do a clumsy impression of Helen Keller hauling her bags into the house.

The luggage was heavier on the way back because of what I like to call forced merchandising. You see, once again, I did not pack the right wardrobe for the climate. You would think that after living in the UK for three years, I would remember what the weather was like there in the summer, but I goofed, or had retail-induced amnesia. After about 45 seconds of waiting outside of Heathrow for the rental car shuttle bus in my sandals, it became immediately apparent that I had packed the wrong things. I knew immediately that the sandals weren't going to cut the blustery weather. Nor the capri pants I was wearing.

Unfortunatley, the only other warm options in my luggage were my hiking boots and hiking pants. An okay look out on the trail, but around London? At parties? In Paris? Mon dieu, absolutment impossible! Day 1, arrival day, I grinned and bore it hoping it was an unseasonal cold snap, despite what my friend told me: that the entire summer had been like that thus far. Day 2, I did what I had to do, what any self respecting, indeed, self preserving woman would do in my shoes (yes, literally, except swap that to sandals), I went shopping.

I know, I know, clothes shopping in the UK? In the land of "pay twice what you would in the US?" But, I am happy to report, that ever resourceful, I found a trendy Danish label being sold at an antiques center (hubby says only I could find such a thing). The best news, the prices were affordable by US standards. Add to this that not only was I helping myself out in a pinch, but probably single handedly curing the sluggish world economic condition, and I felt pretty proud.

This feeling of euphoria was only further enhanced the next day when I found a pair of closed toe Clark's shoes for only twenty pounds. I think forty US dollars for a pair of sensible and stylish shoes is more than reasonable under the circumstances. In fact, even if I had packed the right shoes, I would still have been sorely tempted to buy these shoes and probably would not have passed them up.

Speaking of "sorely", unfortunately there is a downside in instant shoe buying in a moment of extreme need. There is no "breaking in" time for the shoes. Thus, the sore blisters when one is forced to walk around Paris in the cute, stylish, bargain Clark's in an effort to find a cute, stylish bistro in which to dine. C'est la vie as they say there.

Pack It Up!

2008-07-09T05:15:00.000-07:00

We are off to London tonight. Of course, I haven't packed a thing yet. I have, however, started piling. This is my usual approach to the whole "taking the things I will need when gone" issue.

I am a proud last minute packer in terms of actually putting things in the suitcase and going over my mental list of what will be needed. But a few days before the trip, I start "the pile." The pile is composed of all of the things I think of in the course of my day, that I don't want to forget to take, and mostly gifts for people I am visiting (no, the microwave macaroni and cheese is not for snacks, you can't get it over in the UK, so we are bringing it as a present).

It isn't until a few hours before we actually leave the house that I get down to the serious packing, what I am going to take to wear, read, etc. and how I am going to fit it all in that bag to the right.

Inevitably, I vacillate between what I like to call the "kitchen sink approach" and the "bare minimalist" approach. Do I take this vacation as a chance to pare down to the basics and lighten the load and make my life more simple? Or do I pack like I am never coming home again, like I might be subjected to extreme weather patterns? I can't say which I choose as each trip is different (and the amount of time left to pack and my mood often make the decision for me), but invariably, I get it wrong.

If I stuff my luggage with every imaginable item I might need, I come home with 80% of it absolutely unused and no room to take back all of the really neat things I coveted on the trip. If I go the bare minimalist route, I invariably forget several crucial items, causing me to have to find them in a strange land, at an exhorbitent price, not to mention, a new mini-wardrobe because the weather I packed for bore no relation to the weather I actually experienced.

Which way will I pack today? I won't know until this afternoon. Though I have to say, it is always more tempting to go with the bare minimalist approach. Because if there is one thing I hate more than packing, it's unpacking.

Back in a few weeks dear reader, at which time I will let you know how the packing, unpacking and purchasing went.

"I'm Not The Maid Around Here"

2008-07-08T04:09:00.000-07:00

This is my mantra. "I'm not the maid around here!" I use it oh, fifteen or twenty times a day sometimes. Of course the sad truth is, I am the closest thing to a maid that this place is going to get.

I choose to clean my own house because I would rather spend the money on treating myself to nice things like massages, because I like to make my own natural cleaning products without chemicals, and because I have had my share of Polish or Brazilian house cleaners in the past and have had the same communication problems everyone does who can't speak Polish or Portuguese. I also remember that all of those housecleaners, irrespective of their country of origin, were blind from the waste up, meaning they would never clean anything above waste level.

So now I like to joke with anyone who comes to the house that I am the cleaning lady, but I keep giving myself the day off. I must admit though, I have started involving the kids (Thing 1 and Thing 2) in the household chores.

Usually Thing 1 will do the toilets and the sinks without much grousing at all and Thing 2 is an expert duster. In addition they are expected to fold the clothes when I deliver them to the family room where they are then called upon to come to from their TV induced catatonic coma, to fold them. They are also expected to set the table and on occasion (when I think of it and they are within eyesight), empty the dishwasher. I think it is important to engage them in these ways. It teaches them responsibility and also to appreciate what we do for them.

I also want to instill in them the importance of lending a hand in all sorts of activities. Of course, they have had the "hold the door for the next person" drilled into their heads, but I want them to, of their own volition, lend a hand when at someone's house for clearing a table, moving furniture, etc. So, I start at home and try to drill it into their heads in the hopes that it will become second nature.

Of course, all of this takes considerable effort, energy and often fine argumentative skills. I admit, sometimes I don't have the energy to argue over every little thing. For instance, I did such a good job of drilling into their heads that dirty clothes go in their respective hampers, that I don't have to worry about clothes lying around their room. However, though I have mentioned it several times, there isn't a great distinction in their minds between clean clothes and dirty clothes, no matter how many perishing polar bears clinging to icebergs I can conjure up in their minds to show them that cleaning clean clothes is a waste of energy.

So instead, I secretly go through the clothes and send back up, without washing, the ones that weren't actually dirty in the first place. Don't worry, the minute I think they are just putting the clothes in the hamper so they don't have to fold them and put them back in their drawers, I will call them on that behavior. I will call them on it just as soon as I have the energy, because it is tiring doing most of the work around here. Announcing time after time that "I'm not the maid around here" takes a good bit of energy and a lot of drama too.

Damn the Clams

2008-07-07T06:16:00.000-07:00

Tum's the Word! That's my motto for today, unfortunately. You see, in a moment of weakness and amnesia, I ordered (and ate most of) a fried whole belly clam dinner yesterday. I took momentary leave of my senses and forgot about my IBS (irritable bowel syndrome) and threw caution to the wind. I was taken in by the smell of that yummy seafood and the salty water which the restaurant overlooked.

I even joked about it before I dug in. I announced I would probably regret it later, but concluded with my usual ender for any argument "whatever." My mother-in-law joked that she wouldn't need to do the special preparations tomorrow for Tuesday's colonscopy, all she needed was the clam roll she had ordered. We laughed about it then, but something tells me if I called her around 4 am when I was writhing in pain, rolling around the bed and keeping my husband from sleeping, she would probably be up, and no longer laughing either.

So, today I am going about my routine in a sleep deprived fog. That's what happens when you spend the hours of 3 am-6am writhing in pain, with a few trips to the bathroom thrown in for good measure. I had great intentions of going to my 6 am gym class and to get up early to start adjusting to UK time (where we are headed Wednesday night) to avoid jetlag. Well, it feels like I have the jetlag today, though I have yet to board the plane.

So dear reader beware, in this season of shore vacations, don't be as dumb as me if your stomach does not have the strongest of constitutions. Or at least don't be as piggish. I should have split something healthier with a smaller portion of the clams. Instead, I reasoned, what the hell? How many times do I get local whole belly clams? May as well go whole hog. A squealing hog is what I ended up behaving like early the next morning. Squealing in pain and as bloated as a pig.

Trust me, I am now certain that "whole belly clams" is a double entendre, one refers to the fact that you get the whole belly of the clams, and the other is that your whole belly will be upset and you actually spent a few clams to suffer in this way!

Independence Day-We Have Evolved

2008-07-04T04:48:00.000-07:00

Today marks my first Independence Day back in America after living in Britain for three years. It will be fun to indulge in the good old American barbecue and we are going to celebrate as we had before we moved, by going to Rhode Island for a party at the shore house my in-laws own.

Before going over to England, we thought it would an exciting adventure to live in a country with so much history, beautiful gardens, lovely tea and especially the same language, though pronounced with a cool accent. We really enjoyed all those things while there (though towards the end my daughter, Thing 1, would announce that she didn't want to "go anywhere historical today"), but we learned quickly that in fact the language was not at all the same.

In actuality the language was similar enough to get you by, but always keep you guessing, or sometimes laughing at the way they said things. I always got a good chuckle when one of the BBC broadcasters would say the word "controversy." They put the emphasis on the second vowel, instead of how we put it on the first. It sounds really really funny. Maybe that was how the whole move towards American independence started, those pilgrims came over hear and came to their senses, and announced "look, we don't want to fight about it, but from now on it is controversy, you ninnies."

Somewhere along the way those pilgrims, or their successors decided to adopt more efficient spelling techniques than employed in England. They wisely decided to drop the letter "u" from the words "colour", "flavour" and a whole bunch of what we would recognize as words ending in "or." However, curiously while they were being real efficient and getting rid of those pesky silent "u"s they somehow lost the plot (to use a brit term) and decided to add the word "the" to the british terms "going to hospital" "was taken to hospital," etc. The Brits are very efficient about getting to the hospital. More so than we are, by three letters at least, to say nothing of the geographic distance.

Another funny difference in terminology is the term for "moving." We Americans just state matter of factly that we are moving and assume that the listener understands that we are moving from one apartment to another, one house to another, or whatever. However, the Brits call it "moving house," Perhaps they don't want anyone to think they might be moving their bowels instead? Speaking of houses, I bet the painters in this country would be jealous if they learned that the painters over there go by the lofty title "decorators."

After three years living there, I could go on and on about the differences in language, particularly the names of certain things, like "beetroot" for beets, "loo roll" for toilet paper, "bap" for a type of sandwich, and of course a favorite of mine, "fags" for cigarettes. But probably the word whose different meaning I will never forget would be "revise."

One day shortly after we moved over, my daughter came home from her new British school and sat down to do her homework. She asked me to explain what she had to do. I took a look at the instructions and it said "Science Homework, revise text, pages 14-19." I looked at the "text" which was really a notebook of science facts and information, etc. prepared by the school. I looked it over in detail and couldn't see any glaring errors. I had no clue. I had expected the British education system to be more advanced than the American system, but revising text? So, in exhasparation, I said, I don't know (a very American emphasis on the "I"), I guess you need to read this and see where anything is wrong or could have been said better and change it, I have to go make dinner." Thus, I escaped into the kitchen.

The next day, she came home and informed me that all they were supposed to have done was read over that section of the notebook. Go figure, to the Brits revise means simply review. To the Americans it means edit and make better, like our version of history. Happy Independence Day.

One of Da Boys

2008-07-03T08:12:00.000-07:00

Ever since I was a teenager and watched those commercials for some panties (or was it stockings?) where they talked about the dreaded VPL-visible panty line, I have lived in fear of having VPL.

So for several decades, I did the obvious and just wore baggy slacks, shorts and skirts. Then along came what I like to call the wedgie underwear which coincided with the realization that all those baggy clothes on my bottom just made me look bigger, VPL or no VPL. I initially looked upon the wedgie underwear with quiet (yes, me) disdain. It looked like some kind of butt floss or definitely something which I assumed would provide one prolonged wedgie. I thought I would stick with the granny underwear, but, as they say, never say never.

My friend Susie convinced me that all wedgie underwear was not the same and some, which measured more than a 1/4" or so in the floss region, were actually quite bearable and took care of the old VPL problem. So I tried them, and I survived. I wouldn't say they are the most comfortable underwear, especially at night when I tend to squirm around, being the belly sleeper that I am. But they do the trick so they comprise about 50% of my undie population.

I thought I was all au courant in the undie deparmemt at that point. However, the folks in the underwear business must have gotten wind of that fact, so they decided to take one from the book of boys, by stealing the look of the new boy (and men)'s underwear, a cross between boxers and briefs. Enter the boy cut undie.

Probably in fear of the medical profession who always tells us to avoid cotton underwear though, the underwearmakers made their boy cut undies for ladies out of a synthetic material (I would tell you the exact fabric components, but that would involve a contortionistic yoga pose, or taking off my underwear. I think by now you can guess where and more precisely when I came up with the idea for this post).

So, I jumped in and bought some of these boy cut undies because they looked more comfortable than the wedgie ones and because they promised a seamless look (read: no VPL). They are comfy and look fine until you bend over to put on your slacks or shorts or whatever, at which point they immediately roll up creating a little border. So much for the VPL. I put on my shorts anyway and figure I will do the contortionistic yoga pose and unroll the boy cut undies once I get the shorts on by a series of movements akin to a covert military operation.

At this point I start questioning the idea of the boy cut undies and try to remember if I have seen boys or men guilty of VPL (like Undiana Jones?). I realize I never see them walking around with a little role of extra fabric (read: VPL), so I conclude it is because of the differen t fabric being used. Of course, because of their outdoor plumbing, those boys and men don't have to worry about getting bladder infections, and thus can wear cotton. Unfair, yes, I know, don't get me started.

Boy cut undies are a nice idea in theory, but they only work with some acrobatic adjustments and even then, whatever you are wearing over them can't be too skin tight or you end up with VPL anyway. Seams funny, so I will wait to see what they think up next.

I'm Not Grumpy, It's Just Gravity

2008-07-02T10:09:00.000-07:00

I am thinking of getting a t-shirt with that slogan on it. This way, if I am not smiling all of the time, people will understand that what looks like a frown is really just gravity at work. Or maybe I could put the slogan on a button so I could wear it on different outfits, because the t-shirt might require too much in the laundry department, and then I would have a real reason to frown.

Let me know what you think of my slogan and if you prefer the t-shirt, button, or maybe a hat.

Estrogen (Sung to the Tune of "Yesterday" by the Beatles)

2008-07-01T04:21:00.000-07:00

Estrogen

Estrogen, should I or should I not take estrogen?
There's a debate just check my search engine, oh estrogen, should I take thee?
Suddenly, from what I read your all around me, should have plenty, but not apparently
oh, Estrogen, your plaguing me

Why I had to go and dump my pills, I do know, my sister's breast tumor
Now all that seems to get me through is more drugs and some humor

Estrogen, when you were in my pill I slept alright,
Now I'm bloated, hot and can no longer feel my hand
Thanks to progesterone, I'm like a stranger in a foreign land
Oh Estrogen, your plaguing me

Estrogen, my period used to be a trickle, now its like the Red Sea,
single handedly boosting the tampon industry,
yes that's me, oh estrogen, I love/hate thee.

Gym Rat

2008-06-30T07:24:00.000-07:00

I am trying to get into a summer gym groove. It is hard with the kids around a lot more, balancing work and also dealing with the strange men putting in our patio. What do the strange men have to do with going to the gym? Well, if it weren't for them working at the house, I would have no problem leaving the kids (Thing 1 and Thing 2) for an hour and twenty minutes to get my work out in and come back. I just don't want to risk it as, who knows what backgrounds these guys have?

Anyway, I made a deal with the hubby and went off to the 7:45 class this am so I could work out with peace of mind with respect to the kids. Having to squeeze in the workout like this makes me realize how much I should appreciate it and the effort to make it to the gym. So, I have decided to work on some of my poor gym attitude, or as I like to call it, fatitude. Some of you may recognize that you too share this fatitude on occasion:

Stalling
The act of feigning an urgent bladder issue, and heading to the bathroom stall, whenever you come to a part of the circuit you really don't like.

Nosivated
Trying to keep pace with your neighboring gymbot, not out of competitiveness, but to get the scoop on her friend, the gossip at school, to complain about the town taxes, anything to get your mind off of the self inflicted torture, I mean exercise.

Stationary Amnesia
When you haven't the foggiest idea what you are supposed to do at a certain station in the circuit, even though the instructor went over it in detail, not two minutes prior. Note, this can also be self-inflicted when an exercise is too distasteful to remember, similar to childbirth.

Hydration Motivation
When the only thing that can keep you going through the circuit is heading for your water bottle (conveniently placed as far from the circuit as possible) between each station.

Modification Preservation
Modifying the exercise to keep my sanity or my joints from whining.

As for this morning's workout, other than a wee bit of modification preservation, I did not suffer from any stationary amnesia and could not be accused of stalling. I did have a mild case of hydration motivation, but all in all, I was really self-nosivated, concentrating on my saddlebags and spare tire and trying to figure out where they came from.

Sweat Dreams

2008-06-27T03:53:00.000-07:00

I made the mistake of wearing regular pajamas to bed last night. Ever since about 35 years old ( I was born premature and seem to do everything that way), I have been plagued by occassional night sweats. It used to be pretty tolerable when I was on a birth control pill with estrogen in it.

However, ever since I have been on the progesterone only pill, I could be my own water source most nights. Thus, the special wicking pajamas I now usually sport to bed. While they don't exactly keep me completely dry, I have never woken up soaking in them either. I will wake up clammy sometimes, which is a vast improvement.

Prior to wicking pajamas, some nights, I would wake up and the sheets underneath me would literally be soaking wet. This was particularly problematic when it happened the first time at a B & B in Vermont. What do you do when you essentially "wet the bed" in the middle of the night at an Inn? There was no front desk, open twenty four hours. Even if there was, I was going to be a very uninviting sight going down there at that odd hour to ask for extra sheets. Who knows what they would think? Probably that I did actually have bladder control issues, or worse.

Plus, having to change the sheets, even if I did have them, would involve waking my husband and making him get out of bed. Anyone who knows him also knows that he is not the easiest person to wake up. If he were asleep near train tracks, he would slumber away as the train went by.

So, what is a soaking wet, cranky girl to do? The quickest thing possible to try and get to sleep. I grabbed one of the bath towels and put it on the bed beneath me. It was a little weird and kind of beachlike to sleep on the towel, but it did the trick and provided the necessary barrier.

These night sweats don't seem to be affected by the temperature of the room, or the rest of my body. It can be a delightful New England night where we are being buffeted by arctic winds outside and the temperature is below zero. Add to this lovely scene that my hands and feet are freezing and I have donned socks and am seriously contemplating mittens-in bed! So, I finally fall asleep, and low and behold, I will wake up in the middle of the night, drenched. Go figure, if someone could just tinker with the wiring, the heat could be distributed to my hands and feet, and I wouldn't even complain if they got a bit sweaty or clammy.

Maybe instead of having doctors trying to figure out the mystery of night sweats and hot flashes, we should be looking at plumbers or HVAC guys. We could use their lingo and tell them that zone 1 is hotter than hell, where zones 2 and 3 are being frozen out. I am guessing they could figure out a solution quicker than the doctors, but I wouldn't want to see the bill.

Summer Cramp

2008-06-26T04:27:00.000-07:00

Well, survived day one of the children's (Thing 1 and Thing 2) summer vacation from school. I only had to threaten full time, full day camp 5 times and a military academy 2 times. This school's out thing is cramping my style.

After several episodes of whining, I kicked them both out of the house, as it was a beautiful day, and I remember as a kid, we only hung out inside when we were forced to come home for lunch and dinner. So of course, like a recurring rash, they kept coming back, trying to get into the house. Or worse, they would stand within ear shot of my office and torment each other, with one or the other taking turns screaming "Mommy, mommy" at the top of their lungs, as if a grizzly bear were about to attack them.

Finally, when they realized I wasn't going to let them in until lunch time and that no neighborhood kids happened to be around, I noticed an eery quiet decend on the place. I became all proud, thinking that my plan had worked and that they had finally realized they could stop trying to get my attention/annoy me/make me regret I didn't send them to 7 weeks of sleep away camp, and have some fun.

What I found in reality was the two of them, their nintendos in hand, playing some kind of virtual chase game. I momentarily thought of confiscating the nintendos, because it wasn't what I had in mind. Then I came to my senses, realized they were momentarily not at each others' throats and out of the house and my hair as well. Whatever. We shall see what day two brings, I am hoping it is other kids in the neighborhood.

The Hidden Words in Our Marriage Vows

2008-06-25T07:38:00.001-07:00

Last week was our fourteenth wedding anniversary. This week, I experienced computer problems again and, as usual, relied on my husband, tech support, to fix them. Which gave me pause to consider how some of the words in our wedding vows have taken on different meanings.

Thanks to my husband's packrat behavior, he was able to pinpoint where a copy of miscellaneous wedding things were in the house. Unfortunately, I couldn't find all of the vows and was not motivated enought to watch them again from the wedding video, however I did find his special vows.

Here is a portion of them:

"Donna , you are truly my special friend. I know that whenever I need someone to talk to, you are there to inspire me. And I will always be there to support and encourage you."

That was the theory behind the vows. Now, here is my take on the reality of those vows complete with hidden words in italics:

"Donna, you are truly my special needs (read: high maintenance) friend. I know that whenever I need someone to talk to, you are there to inspire me, as long as I make sure not to start any conversation between the hours of 9 pm and 7 am. And I will always be there to provide technical support in terms of computers, cameras, power equipment and motor vehicles and encourage you, except during school vacations, snow days and the seemingly unending school holidays, when you are on your own with our misbehaving spawn."

Too bad I can't find my special vows. Something tells me there would be some hidden words there too.

Alvin and the Chip-punks

2008-06-24T10:23:00.001-07:00

Can you make out my fury litle "friend" right along the border of my lawn in this photo?

Lately, I find myself engaged in constant patrol mode throughout my yard. Enemy number one? The chip-punks (as I like to call them) who have been wrecking my yard, my plants, and especially my lettuce, all the while squealing with delight.

My in-laws don't sympathize, they have bunnies to contend with in Rhode Island. However, I point out that at least bunnies are silent ravagers. I have to hear the constant squeals of the 'punks while I try to get work done in my office and still get fresh air. So much for a quiet street. They are noisily ravaging the work we have put in around the yard.

Just witness what they have done to the lettuce my husband planted:

Now mind you, the lettuce used to look as full and lush as the lettuce on the right side of the planter, until the day I found one of the chip-punks, derriere in the air, furiously digging up the middle of the planter, and making an awful mess in the process. I tried patching the hole, but as you can see, the damage was done.

We had strategically placed this planter of lettuce as close to the kitchen as possible not only to protect it, but to protect ourselves from having to walk very far to get it. As you know, out of sight, out of mind. Apparently, we weren't the only ones with this idea. The chip-punks had the same idea, but in reverse. They decided to build their house as close as possible to the lettuce. If you plant it, they will come.

In case there are any skeptics out there, here is a picture of the chip-punk hole showing it's close proximity to the planter, formerly full of lettuce. I was always opposed to the Iraq war and consider myself somewhat of a pacificist on foreign policy issues, but where these chip-punks are concerned, I am seriously thinking of sanctioning the use of force. I imagine what Bill Murray's Caddyshack character would do to get these guys out of here. In the meantime, I am thinking of redirecting that gutter a little to the right.