Pack It Up!

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"

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

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

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

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

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)

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.