Nov 3, 2014 | therapy fodder
Generally, I am OK with people getting comfortable on a long plane ride.
But not if it means your stocking foot is so close to me I can feel the warmth of its recent tight shoe home radiating in my direction. (And sadly, I actually took that pic with my right arm from the right side of the plane with no zoom. This stranger foot was that close to me.)
Common decency goes a long way folks, particularly when it comes to your feet in an enclosed space for a prolonged period of time. And for the love of all that is good in this world, if you are going to stick your feet close enough to me that I can massage them with little to no physical effort on my part, at least have the common decency to have read the latest GQ and know that patterned mens’ socks are all the rage. I mean a girl likes a little fancy for her troubles, ya know? Plain brown, wide-ribbed? So last month.
’til next time…
Love, your favorite cranky business traveler. (That’s me. In case you didn’t pick that up.)
P.S. At least his fingernails were short and clean. Unlike the dude I covered here.
Oct 31, 2014 | therapy fodder
Ok, I have to know. Who the h-e-double-hockey-sticks decided that pumpkin carving should be a thing? And what in the world made us decide this would be the year we’d say yes to carving pumpkins after six years of successfully brainwashing convincing our kids that painting was the way to go?
Smart kids. Sucker parents. That’s my story.
For some reason, Gavin was pretty stoked to carve a pumpkin this year. Pumpkin carving chatter must have been all the rage at school this month. 🙂 His eagerness and enthusiasm convinced us to go for it. We picked out pumpkins at Plumper Pumpkin Patch. Gavin and Kenny picked out some tools at Target. We were ready.
And then things went like this:
1) Gavin, Grace and friends carefully arranged the pumpkins they’d picked out into a “lovely” scene out front of our house upon bringing them home. They also took liberties with some festive stakes and put them all around the front yard. It looked a little like this. (And because I have been traveling and then crazy with work, it stayed like this until this week.)
And, yes, those ARE price tags on the yard stakes. #classy
2) Kenny asked Gavin if he wanted to carve pumpkins last week at some point. Gavin being seven and, well…Gavin, was focused on what he wanted to do at that very moment and it was not carving pumpkins. (I was traveling for work, so not sure exactly what went down, but I am guessing Kenny did mental cartwheels because he was seemingly out out of the woods on this whole pumpkin carving scene. He had to go to Paris this week and figured the desire would pass before his return last night. I love his hopefulness. And his forgetfulness that this is Gavin and once he sets his mind on something, he typically doesn’t let it go.)
3) Fast forward to yesterday. Gavin reminded me no less than 82 times that “tomorrow is Halloween and we still haven’t carved our pumpkins”. I assured him I didn’t forget (even though I was hoping he had!) and that we had all day tomorrow to take care of it.
4) Sigh.
5) During dinner last evening, Gavin reminded a fresh-off-the-plane Kenny that we still hadn’t carved pumpkins. Tired-and-jet-lagged Kenny tried to talk Gavin out of carving by buttering him up with compliments about the nice pumpkin scene he helped create out front. Gavin was having none of it. His replies to Kenny’s reasoning were actually quite …dramatic? fresh? Not sure how to describe it. “Well, you promised we could carve pumpkins. I guess we are breaking that promise. (sigh)”; “How much did the carving tools cost? $5? Probably should have just flushed that down the toilet because we’re wasting it anyway since we aren’t carving pumpkins.” I assured him again that we had all day tomorrow to take care of it and we could do it in the morning.
I wish I could have eaten those words for dessert.
Cue this morning.
6:15 a.m.
I am off today, but got up early to tie up a few loose ends for work before enjoying the day. Gavin was right on top of it. He heard me stir and go downstairs and before my coffee was even brewing, he bounded down the steps. “Hey! I didn’t even know it was morning because it’s still dark out! Know what today is, Mom? HALLOWEEN! AND WE GET TO CARVE PUMPKINS.”
I smiled and chuckled to myself about his persistence / memory / obsessiveness.
I made my coffee and settled into my chair to finish up some work before enjoying my day off.
You know what happened, right?
Yep, he bounced around no less than 10 times in 90 minutes asking me when we could start carving pumpkins. Dear heavens, child. Give me a minute – the sun is not even up yet!
We finally started carving at 8:30 a.m.
And by 8:36 a.m., I realized it should not be called ‘pumpkin carving’. It should be called ‘pumpkin hacking’ or ‘pumpkin mutilation via what is pretty much the equivalent of using a toothpick to cut steak’.
Seriously. Do people enjoy this? Yea, yea, I get the whole making memories with kids thing. But I am telling you this probably did more mental harm than positive memory making. Read on.
It starts of happily enough – you know – nice pumpkins waiting on a nice workspace waiting to be carved, like this. Practically a scene from a Martha Stewart magazine, right? And couple it with two happy, excited kids, and you’ve pretty much written the October edition, right?
But then stuff gets weird. Because after you spent a solid four minutes wearing out your arm muscles jabbing a tiny little knife into the bottom of the pumpkin to facilitate “easier and cleaner carving”, you quickly realize that as the adult, you’re going to have to assume the role of Pumpkin gynecologist. Which looks a little something like this…
Never aspired to be a Pumpkin Gynecologist, yet, here I am
Within 30 seconds of me starting to scoop out the innards, Gavin turned up his nose and said, “Man, this smells.” I smirked. I knew this would happen. He hates anything slimy or dirty or gross. I suggested that while I was cleaning out the innards, he and Grace should start picking out the seeds and putting them into a bowl so we could roast them. Might as well go all in, yea? Grace loved this part. She was smushing the guts in her hands and giggling away. Gavin used his index finger and thumb – only – and gently picked out the seeds that were the cleanest or the furthest away from any guts.
He may have touched a grand total of six seeds. He looked at me with a furrowed brow and said,”Um, Mom? I don’t really like this part.” Hahahaha. I knew this would happen. Why did we say yes to this? I know these kids and knew this would not be happy fun times for them. I also know, however, that it’s probably better to let them experience something and decide for themselves vs. me predicting what the outcome will be. 😉
He then said, “Can we skip this part and start carving?” I told him carving starts once the pumpkin is cleaned out. He ran to the bathroom to wash his hands and, after coming back to the kitchen, sat back in his chair and watched TV – hahaha. This is going swimmingly. Grace, on the other hand, who had previously expressed little to no interest in carving, was delighted with the pumpkin guts and seed picking. Ok, one happy kid. Could be worse, right?
Pumpkin pattern application
We were finally ready to start carving. And, apparently, you need to hold the pumpkin in your lap for stability. This is gonna be good. I can tell. I wet the patterns and applied them to the pumpkins according to the directions. And apparently you are supposed to get them on there ‘wrinkle-free’. Yea, no. Is that even possible? After ripping the pattern three times, I went with the ‘took the pants out of the dryer and let them sit in the laundry basket for three days before folding them’ look. I figured I could fudge the shapes if needed.
I started to “carve”, and once again, quickly realized this is not a job for kids! It’s barely a job for adults! What the…? I can barely get the tiny knives through the flesh at 38 – how the heck is a seven-year-old to do it? I got things started and once I got going, I kept going. Gavin looked at me and said, “Mom, can I have a turn with carving?” I told him it was a little tricky. His face fell, so I let him try (against my better judgement). As soon as he touched the tool, it was out of the pumpkin and stabbing my forearm. He panicked and screamed, “Sorry, Mom! That was an accident.” I was cracking up. (I wasn’t hurt.) I gave him some pointers and let him try again. Yea…this time, I got jabbed in the chest. Then the glasses. And then he was done with carving. “You know what, Mom? This is too hard. You want to finish this? I want to watch TV. I can help you put the candle in and put the bottom back on.”
YEP. Could have written this before it even happened.
Are we having fun yet?
About 30 minutes later, I was done with his pumpkin. I felt pretty proud of myself because I didn’t curse out loud. I did, however, say I was going to cry at least twice and whined that my hand was killing me. I am quite sure I have arthritis in my right hand, or at the very least, will have a claw hand this evening for Trick or Treating. It actually works out pretty nicely, though, because I am not one to dress up, and this gives me some Halloween flair.
Pumpkin multilation in progress
I told Grace I needed a little break before carving her pumpkin. She started crying. Sigh. I asked her why she was crying and she said, “Because you said your hand hurt, so I know it’s going to hurt too bad to do my pumpkin.” Woot woot – Happy Halloween with a nice side of guilt. I told her I just needed to let my hand rest a bit and that I would, indeed, carve her pumpkin. And I did. And when I was done, she looked at her pumpkin and said, “That’s it? I thought it would be bigger.”
Yep, sweetie, that’s it.
Next year, we paint. And buy pumpkin seeds at the store.
Happy Halloween, everyone!
Happy guy – he liked the results, just not the process.
That’s it?
Oct 29, 2014 | therapy fodder
I recently decided that I should start being a more responsible adult and doing normal adult things like going to the doctor for annual check ups. So, I asked around and found a doctor that one of my friends had a good experience with.
I scheduled my appointment.
I showed up early to do my paperwork. (Showing up early in and of itself is an accomplishment for me. I get double points because I was early for a DOCTOR appointment.)
I went into the exam room when called.
And I started answering the questions the chipper young medical assistant was hurling at me.
Most were easy – like verifying my date of birth and confirming a few details I’d jotted down on my paperwork.
Then I heard, “Are you still getting your period?”
“Still” has a heavy hand in that question, right? “Still” was the only word I’d heard. Another way to phrase what she was asking was, “Have you entered menopause?”
Ummmm, I am 38 and that may seem ancient to you, you chipper young thang, but I assure you that, Kenny willing, I could start a whole ‘nother late-in-life family if I had any inkling that this would be a good idea. Can a girl get a little bedside manner up in here?
I mean, believe me, I’m a realist. I know 38 does not a spring chicken make, but it is outside of the PRE-menopausal age range. And I know that I would be right outside ma’ mind to have another child at this point. But the point remains: There has to be a better way to ask that of women outside of the normal menopausal age range, yea? Something that doesn’t make me (or anyone like me) instantly depressed before I even hear how much I weigh and what other health issues may be plaguing this apparently ancient body? Perhaps it’s time to upgrade my anti-aging skin care regimen? Invest in a good concealer? WTH.
I got my proud on and practically shouted, “Yes – in fact, I just finished my cycle.” Smile, smile, Blink, blink.
Take that, chipper young thing. I can “still” procreate. And should I ever lose my 38-year-old mind long enough to consider another child, there’s a high probability that I will push him or her into the medical assistant field and have them look you up a few years from now and frame up that very question ever so sweetly.
(For the record, I loved the doctor and would totally recommend her. And frankly, I am just happy I left without a free sample of Depends or a coupon for Centrum Silver vitamins. This time.)
Oct 27, 2014 | moments & memories
This past weekend we marked three years in Portland. THREE YEARS….since we moved from Philadelphia to Portland, Oregon. I can’t believe it.
Most of the things I felt last year around this time still ring true.
But, at the same time, a lot has changed since then.
And a lot has changed since we first moved here.
Look, ma! I have friends! I have to admit that making new friends was really intimidating to me when we moved. It was one of things I was most worried about (as long-time readers of this blog will remember. If not, I’ve included some back links for some funny, some emotional train wreck accounts of the adult perspective around the struggle of moving away from your friends, the ridiculousness of trying to make new friends, or the repercussions of not having friends as an adult):
But it all worked out. I am no longer the biggest pushing-40 loser in town. (Ok, that may be arguable, but I have some peops, now. Keep reading.)
I finally have friends – like multiple people I would say he or she “is my friend” and I think they would probably do the same. And, I think we’ve reached the point with our neighbors where we can say ‘friends’ instead of ‘neighbors’ without any awkward sideways glances at each other to make sure the other is cool with that relationship assumption.
I’ve mentioned how hard it is to make friends when you are older, but I’ve finally found some peops. I even had two social engagements over the past two weekends, a few coming up this weekend, and an invite to Thanksgiving. In fact, we’ve even been invited places and invited back out again with the same people. (Second dates never lose their significance, it seems 😉 . )
But who’s counting. Oh right, me. Sorry, I know this is weird, but I am excited – it’s terrible being my age and trying to rebuild your social infrastructure after a lifetime in a community where you’d known everyone since birth. LOL. And, really, my recent run of social butterflying is not impressive – it’s taken a full three years, and many pitfalls (including a lunch stint where my “friend date” would not stop talking about placental preparation!) – for this to happen. This coming year, I will just have to get better at being the one to make the plans and invite people – that’s never been my strong suit. 🙂
Further, I know people and they know me. Having friendly faces around the community that I am excited to see and who are excited to see me is a new thing. (And if they’re not excited to see me, then they should consider Hollywood because they are that good. LOL.) It’s nice to leave the house for your kids’ soccer games knowing there will be folks to chat with when you get there! And, perhaps most importantly, my Facebook feed is evening out and I get some Portland news in my feed from time to time. Hahaha. 😉
I don’t need my GPS as much to get around. But I have burned myself recently with failed directional bravado that sent me the wrong way on the highway late at night after a long business trip. No need to be proud, Clark, just tap your address into the iPhone before you leave the PDX parking lot. Not sure what I was thinking there – clearly, I had my travel muscles on.
I still get called out for my accent. Most recently, my doctor, upon meeting me for the first time, said, “Are you from the East Coast? I can’t quite place it – it’s not Boston, but maybe New York or Philadelphia?” Hahaha. Yes, yes, I am. But definitely Philadelphia, not New York. Anything with an “ou” or and “ow” gets a flat “a” sound. Almost everything with an ‘a’ gets the tense -a (e.g. pal becomes more like ‘pail’ vs. ‘pahl’).
Some of my more prominent Philadelphia tells: “are” for “our”, water (wooder – but I say wah-ter more frequently now!), “tal” for towel, “crown” for crayon, boat (boeht), “can” is “kin” when I am telling you I have the ability to do something, “mare” for mayor, “shore” for sure (although our kids say “shure”)… and more. Of course, I say ‘yo’ frequently and don’t think that will ever leave my dialect.
Some phrases I get called out on:
- “going to the food store” (instead of grocery store)
- going downtown (actually had someone ask me what I meant! I mean the inner streets of the Portland city center.)
- going down the shore (instead of to the coast)
- I’m done that (instead of I’m done with that.)
Sometimes getting recognized for my dialect makes me self-conscious, other times, it makes me proud (and homesick.) Mostly proud, though. Except when I reveal myself as a native Philadelphian and people assume I love the Eagles, and then accuse me of stealing Chip Kelly. 😉
I still feel like ‘home’ is in two places. In fact, I use ‘home’ to describe Portland and Philadelphia equally. It’s kind of nice. And, using ‘home’ to describe an East Coast and a West Coast destination makes me feel rich. No need to push for a promotion at work. 😉
The other, darker side of this coin is that we’re not there for our family and friends when they need us most. We’ve had a few such situations over the past three years, and it’s incredibly frustrating being 2,864.2 miles away from your mom or mother-in-law when they need a hug. Or when you need a hug. Or when your kids need a hug. Basically, it’s just hard when everyone huggable lives across the country. (That’s a whole ‘nother level of friendship that I don’t think we’ve quite reached out here in Portland yet. I don’t want to push the friendship bases after just hitting some singles in recent months. 😉 ) But, it’s nice to know that after 8 hours on multiple Eastern-bound planes, there are going to be people – lots of family and lifelong friends – who are always going to be there with outstretched arms waiting to wrap them around us.
Overall, we’re three years in and I am thankful that things are working out. There was a long while where the homesickness trumped all. But I am finally coming into my own here in Portland. Watch out, friends. 🙂 Watch out.
Oct 15, 2014 | yup, i really did that
…when you send that text to your spouse around the time when dinner should actually be done and your spouse should be strolling through the front door licking his or her chops.
I apologize for the cursing and typos, but they actually punctuate my frame of mind quite nicely. Hahaha. (That should be “…grab something”, not “…gav somethjng.”)
Remember this post where I said I push myself to overachieve with school lunches? It also happens with weeknight dinners. I don’t know what my deal is – I chalk it all up to having working mom guilt and still wanting to do the whole domestic goddess thing. I have a loooooong way to go to find balance.
Tonight’s menu?
- Roasted butternut squash with onions.
- Chicken.
- Bacon crumbles.
Yea. Not so much.
The smoke alarm went off once.
I rally toweled under the the alarm, and it stopped.
It went off twice.
Grace said, “Seriously, mom?” and took off her sweatshirt and started rally toweling.
Then three times.
Grace said, “Oh, come on. This is getting ridiculous.” And stood there swinging her sweatshirt under the smoke alarm like all little girls whose mother’s try too hard to make good dinners learn to do.
Then four times.
Grace said, “What in the world? What are you even making? I don’t think it’s going to be good.”
Me neither, sweetie.
Cue the text to Kenny.
Cue him picking us up.
Cue him taking us out for a nice dinner – just like I’d promised. 😉
