I don't know when it happened but I am now a person who always has batteries.
All sizes and lots of em.
In a drawer.
All organized.
Triple A.
D's.
Those weird size 9 that my cousin Scott showed me how to "test" when I was 8 by putting on my tongue.
If I was a nicer person, I would tell you not to try this.
I am not that nice.
I don't have these batteries because we have lots of state of the art remote controls working fancy schmancie electronics.
One of our TV's was my father's before he died and one is from Mike Brown's mother, who is also deceased. She died before we were married (maybe over 10 years now) and my father has been gone since 2007. Sometimes Lucio feels like Best Buy is calling out to him.
No flat screen plasma HD LED's for us.
Not yet.
I do sometimes find myself wishing we needed a new TV, but until one of these goes to join it's former owner, I am not pulling out our credit card.
I also don't have these batteries because we have anything all that fancy in either of our bedside table.
Which is not to say we don't have goody drawers.
We do.
Relax.
We simply have our perfectly lovely life together that doesn't always afford enough time for that many, um, toys.
It's one of my resolutions though.
We have exactly 19 Double A, 8 D's and 11 Triple A's.
Where was this person when I was jammin to my walkman in 1989 walking back Elkins dorm at Maryland? Let's Go, Maryland!! Fear the Turtle!
All these batteries got me noticing things I now have - and use - that I am sure seemed like a ridiculous waste of money 10 years ago.
And now I swear by them.
Here are some things I simultaneously experience buyers remorse and exceedingly high levels of pride when I see in my closets, drawers, and cabinets.
________________________________________
A cupcake carrier. Why would anyone have this? I'll tell you why.
How in the name of all that is good and holy are you supposed to transport cupcakes to school without one if these? Otherwise the icing gets stuck to everything. And really, who wants to eat those cupcakes?
________________________________________
Jewelry cleaner for gems and jewelry cleaning for silver. I used to, well, I never really had jewelry to concern myself with cleaning. But the fact is that the more weight I gain, the more earrings and bracelets Lucio's wisely purchases at holidays and birthdays.
Here's your little pearl of Heather wisdom for the day:
Never buy your wife XXX anything or Size 24 pants. Because if they are not from Nordstrom or Talbots, they could be too tight.
That bitch Lane Bryant is supposedly all about the big girls, but she sizes really small.
Whore.
________________________________________
Back and Neck Massager from Sharper Image. Truth be told, I love this thing. It totally comes in handy all the time. We are not getting any younger, and ever since we got this Wii for Christmas, it's getting used regu
larly.
Yes, it is the one Samantha Jones remarked "Not if you mount it." I will leave it to you to decide if I know she is right or wrong. But, really, how often was Samantha wrong about her sexual pleasure?
________________________________________
LL Bean Canvas Bags (in all sizes) with Monogram. I use them for the pool, for work, for travel, and vacation. They are so effortlessly elitist with their simple lines and completely useful. And just so you know, the largest bag is too big for to fit in an overhead on any American Airlines flight.
________________________________________
Cookie cutters for all holidays. Christmas. Halloween. Valentine's Day (for which I also have a heart shaped cake pan). Easter. 4th of July. Jack's birthday, in that I have all the letters to his name. The numbers 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5. They are all in these lovely containers in one drawer in the basement and I am ready to bake shapes with no urgent need to run to Williams Sonoma.
Not that east central Illinois has a Williams Sonoma, or a Trader Joe's, or a DSW...
________________________________________
Already ironed and folded linen napkins. I have them dry cleaned in October each year, and they are ready for the holidays. I follow each usage with a solid regimen of wash separately and iron with spray starch.
________________________________________
Two gravy boats (large and small) and several matching and different sized serving plates.
________________________________________
A set of eight Luray Pottery Tea cups and saucers. Two blue, two pink, two yellow and two green. Literally everyone who uses them asked where I got them.
Then I get to tell the famous story of my Ebay nemisis. Suffice to say, I learned the hard way about setting your alarms to get up in middle of the night, log in, and outbid.
Sadly, I did lose my first choice water pitcher in the process. Damnable tramp with login name of kohenry273.
________________________________________
As I have said before, Lucio laments regularly that we have too much stuff.
Now I can just refer to my blog to show clearly though he may be right...
what we have, we use.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Samantha Blodgett (1970-2009)
Not everything is funny.
Or happening to me directly.
I know people think I don't know that. But I do.
A lovely, smart, beautiful friend since high school, Samantha Ivy Blodgett, died on Saturday, December 19, 2009. She was 38 years old.
Samantha suffered with Leiomyosarcoma.
Rare cancer.
Crazy rare.
4 in 1 million people.
That is 4 in 1 million.
I know? Right?
38 is too young. By about a lifetime.
No mother should have to see her child like that.
No friend should see anyone in that state.
Frankly, no one should ever ever ever (like ever) have to go through what Samantha faced for the past 15 months.
She was brave.
She was ironic in the face of disease.
She never once wanted to be treated like a sick person.
She was strong.
She continued to gather Frequent Flier Miles (up to and including last month, so as not to interfere with her elite status)
She made it to her Forever 39 Birthday party.
She lived her whole life naturally blonde with fantastic boobs.
She is missed and she was loved. Always will be.
National Leiomyosarcoma Foundation: www.nlmsf.org/donations.html
Stupid cancer.
Or happening to me directly.
I know people think I don't know that. But I do.
A lovely, smart, beautiful friend since high school, Samantha Ivy Blodgett, died on Saturday, December 19, 2009. She was 38 years old.
Samantha suffered with Leiomyosarcoma.
Rare cancer.
Crazy rare.
4 in 1 million people.
That is 4 in 1 million.
I know? Right?
38 is too young. By about a lifetime.
No mother should have to see her child like that.
No friend should see anyone in that state.
Frankly, no one should ever ever ever (like ever) have to go through what Samantha faced for the past 15 months.
She was brave.
She was ironic in the face of disease.
She never once wanted to be treated like a sick person.
She was strong.
She continued to gather Frequent Flier Miles (up to and including last month, so as not to interfere with her elite status)
She made it to her Forever 39 Birthday party.
She lived her whole life naturally blonde with fantastic boobs.
She is missed and she was loved. Always will be.
National Leiomyosarcoma Foundation: www.nlmsf.org/donations.html
Stupid cancer.
Monday, December 7, 2009
The Crown Prince of Puebla
Too much to do between 5:30 pm and 8 pm.
Never going to make it to pick up dry cleaning, get the Rx from Walgreens, drop the books at the library, get four more things for dinner at the grocery and make dinner.
And get a certain kindergartener fed, washed, lotioned, dressed, read to and sleeping all before 8:30 pm.
Couldn't do it all myself.
Need a staff.
I ask Lucio to go to Target for me.
With a list.
And take Jack with him. So I can hop in and out of the car and be efficient.
I have coupons for Target for paper towels and toilet paper and shampoo and conditioner (not co-mingled, two independent containers of each) and we need a present for a birthday party Jack has been invited to (for a child I couldn't pick out of a line up).
Dear reader, would you imagine I would ask Lucio to go shopping with a list and take the child if I didn't have just too much to do in this incredibly short amount of time?
Like I would choose to skip a trip to Target.
I love Target.
There is always something I need at Target.
I don't even know I need it yet, but I know Target has what I need.
But don't call it Tar-jay.
It was cute in 2001. The first time.
It's not cute anymore. Nope. Not cute.
Stupid.
No, reader, you wouldn't imagine that I would ask this of Lucio were it not completely necessary.
You know who did?
Yes, He did.
But let me be clear.
He was okay with going to Target.
He was even okay with the child accompanying him.
He was cool with the list.
I knew he'd add Doritos and some cookies to the list. No worries.
Like I didn't factor that in. What am I, new?
No, Lucio's break down was the coupons.
I hand him the list and the coupons to him.
He looks at me blankly and doesn't immediately take them from me.
"What are these for?"
"Coupons. You've heard about the economy tanking and all. This is me, doing my part for our little Vazquez economy."
"I have never used these before."
"Well, honey, you purchase the items in the small picture, checking the size is the right, and it costs less."
"I really don't want to. What are you doing? I'll do that. You go to Target."
See, now I am going to stand on principle. My husband, who has been a citizen of the US for just over a year, as most of you know, comes from rural Mexico.
The state of Puebla.
Three bumpy hours south of Mexico City.
Maybe when we first met and you asked me where Lucio was from, I told you about the grand mountains and incredible colores of the flowers. The gardens of avocados, tomato, and cilantro, just waiting for you to crave guacamole. His donkey.
I probably told you about Lucio being related to the whole town. Or that his father was Mayor.
I can sell the shit out of the beauty and simplicity of Tehuacan.
Or more specifically, San Bartolo Teon Tepec.
The straight scoop?
The are farm animals wandering around everywhere.
Dogs without homes.
When the small Church festival caused a power outage to the whole town, the only person freaking out was me.
That fucking rooster every damned morning.
You want hot water? Better start burning some shit.
You've finished doing your business in toilet? There's a big (really big) hole in the ground filled with water and you have to get a bucket of water and throw the bucket of water down the toilet. There is nothing to flush.
Yes, I stood there the first time for a few minutes before sitting. I thought if I filled it up we'd just toss the whole thing out and go get a new one.
Let me say again how much I love this man. And our Mexican family couldn't be nicer.
This little ditty usually sums up my feelings about his home town.
I was sitting under a tree quietly reading Fast Food Nation and a fucking chicken jumped up to perch on my arm chair.
Flipped the damned chair over and all I could see through the dust all around me was my extended family running to help me up... and my beloved husband laying on the ground laughing his rather Americanized ass off, spewing some shit about "I can think of 20 people, off the top of my head, who would have paid to see that."
Indeed.
Quaint. Rural. Simple. All completely true. Parts are so perfect I cannot explain it. A family meal every night in the courtyard with a live band. And it had nothing to do with our being in Mexico. Just a regular old Miercoles.
But I ask you, does this sound like underpinnings of a man now refusing to use coupons?
I think not.
90 minutes later, I am back at the house, dry cleaning in closets, prescriptions in cabinet, library books returned, dinner on the stove with all listed ingredients and all the fixinng for dinner tomorrow in the fridge ready to crock pot in the morning.
Lucio comes in.
Jack is eating Dorritos.
Lucio tells me they came with the paper towel.
I ask him where the shampoo and conditioner are, as I search the two bags and cannot see them.
"They didn't have the one you wanted."
"So you got me nothing?"
"I knew you wanted what you wanted." (I'll give him that one.)
"Okay. Where's the coupon?"
"What coupon?"
"The one for shampoo and the one for conditioner."
"I gave it to the guy."
"You left it there? I don't understand. You didn't get the stuff. Where is the coupon?"
"I gave it to the guy."
"You said that already. I still don't understand."
He looks at me and says, "Heather, there was a line of people behind me, and they were all looking at me and so, I left it there."
He turns to walk out of the kitchen and calls out, "And I am not going back to get it so don't bother asking."
I watch him saunter down the hall in his Kenneth Cole shoes and entire outfit from LL Bean I picked out last season.
"To the manor born" I mumble just loud enough for him to hear.
"I am going to school now, Heather. I heard that and I understand it now."
I think this is what they call just desserts.
Never going to make it to pick up dry cleaning, get the Rx from Walgreens, drop the books at the library, get four more things for dinner at the grocery and make dinner.
And get a certain kindergartener fed, washed, lotioned, dressed, read to and sleeping all before 8:30 pm.
Couldn't do it all myself.
Need a staff.
I ask Lucio to go to Target for me.
With a list.
And take Jack with him. So I can hop in and out of the car and be efficient.
I have coupons for Target for paper towels and toilet paper and shampoo and conditioner (not co-mingled, two independent containers of each) and we need a present for a birthday party Jack has been invited to (for a child I couldn't pick out of a line up).
Dear reader, would you imagine I would ask Lucio to go shopping with a list and take the child if I didn't have just too much to do in this incredibly short amount of time?
Like I would choose to skip a trip to Target.
I love Target.
There is always something I need at Target.
I don't even know I need it yet, but I know Target has what I need.
But don't call it Tar-jay.
It was cute in 2001. The first time.
It's not cute anymore. Nope. Not cute.
Stupid.
No, reader, you wouldn't imagine that I would ask this of Lucio were it not completely necessary.
You know who did?
Yes, He did.
But let me be clear.
He was okay with going to Target.
He was even okay with the child accompanying him.
He was cool with the list.
I knew he'd add Doritos and some cookies to the list. No worries.
Like I didn't factor that in. What am I, new?
No, Lucio's break down was the coupons.
I hand him the list and the coupons to him.
He looks at me blankly and doesn't immediately take them from me.
"What are these for?"
"Coupons. You've heard about the economy tanking and all. This is me, doing my part for our little Vazquez economy."
"I have never used these before."
"Well, honey, you purchase the items in the small picture, checking the size is the right, and it costs less."
"I really don't want to. What are you doing? I'll do that. You go to Target."
See, now I am going to stand on principle. My husband, who has been a citizen of the US for just over a year, as most of you know, comes from rural Mexico.
The state of Puebla.
Three bumpy hours south of Mexico City.
Maybe when we first met and you asked me where Lucio was from, I told you about the grand mountains and incredible colores of the flowers. The gardens of avocados, tomato, and cilantro, just waiting for you to crave guacamole. His donkey.
I probably told you about Lucio being related to the whole town. Or that his father was Mayor.
I can sell the shit out of the beauty and simplicity of Tehuacan.
Or more specifically, San Bartolo Teon Tepec.
The straight scoop?
The are farm animals wandering around everywhere.
Dogs without homes.
When the small Church festival caused a power outage to the whole town, the only person freaking out was me.
That fucking rooster every damned morning.
You want hot water? Better start burning some shit.
You've finished doing your business in toilet? There's a big (really big) hole in the ground filled with water and you have to get a bucket of water and throw the bucket of water down the toilet. There is nothing to flush.
Yes, I stood there the first time for a few minutes before sitting. I thought if I filled it up we'd just toss the whole thing out and go get a new one.
Let me say again how much I love this man. And our Mexican family couldn't be nicer.
This little ditty usually sums up my feelings about his home town.
I was sitting under a tree quietly reading Fast Food Nation and a fucking chicken jumped up to perch on my arm chair.
Flipped the damned chair over and all I could see through the dust all around me was my extended family running to help me up... and my beloved husband laying on the ground laughing his rather Americanized ass off, spewing some shit about "I can think of 20 people, off the top of my head, who would have paid to see that."
Indeed.
Quaint. Rural. Simple. All completely true. Parts are so perfect I cannot explain it. A family meal every night in the courtyard with a live band. And it had nothing to do with our being in Mexico. Just a regular old Miercoles.
But I ask you, does this sound like underpinnings of a man now refusing to use coupons?
I think not.
90 minutes later, I am back at the house, dry cleaning in closets, prescriptions in cabinet, library books returned, dinner on the stove with all listed ingredients and all the fixinng for dinner tomorrow in the fridge ready to crock pot in the morning.
Lucio comes in.
Jack is eating Dorritos.
Lucio tells me they came with the paper towel.
I ask him where the shampoo and conditioner are, as I search the two bags and cannot see them.
"They didn't have the one you wanted."
"So you got me nothing?"
"I knew you wanted what you wanted." (I'll give him that one.)
"Okay. Where's the coupon?"
"What coupon?"
"The one for shampoo and the one for conditioner."
"I gave it to the guy."
"You left it there? I don't understand. You didn't get the stuff. Where is the coupon?"
"I gave it to the guy."
"You said that already. I still don't understand."
He looks at me and says, "Heather, there was a line of people behind me, and they were all looking at me and so, I left it there."
He turns to walk out of the kitchen and calls out, "And I am not going back to get it so don't bother asking."
I watch him saunter down the hall in his Kenneth Cole shoes and entire outfit from LL Bean I picked out last season.
"To the manor born" I mumble just loud enough for him to hear.
"I am going to school now, Heather. I heard that and I understand it now."
I think this is what they call just desserts.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
What was that?
Is anyone else having trouble understanding what they are singing on the new Gap commercials? I had to listen - and by listen I mean pause and rewind - to the ones with the little girls at least three times. In case you want to know, this is what I think they are saying.
I love my snugglie sweater.
I love my snugglie sweater.
How cute are these boots?
How cute are these boots?
I have watched the one about warm flannels at least seven times. I have no idea what they are saying. Is there something about electronics and then it's all about flannel? Could that be right?
I liked it better when the gap dancers just danced.
Maybe my hearing is going. On more than one occasion, Jack has asked me to turn on my listening ears. People who completely love me have been know to suggest I don't listen well. Same goes for people who sign my paychecks. I am not the best listener. But maybe...
I am not not listening because I don't care what you're saying.
I am not not listening because I don't care what you're saying AND I maybe cannot hear you.
Driving to the Nutcracker tonight, Jack is in the back seat telling me the story of Nutcracker. They have learned about it at school because he knows the whole story. Uses proper names, like Clara. Mentions the Godfather. Knows about the land of sweets.
I congratulate him on knowing so much of the story. I smile and have my elitist smug mommy moment of the day.
I then hear, "There's more than one virgin of the the story, Mommy."
Pashwasha?
"I am sorry Jack, what was that?"
"What was what Mommy?"
"More than one what?"
"Virgin."
The light changes. I don't drive right away.
"Buddy, are you saying version?"
"Yes, Mommy."
Resume driving at normal pace. A few minutes later I hear, "What did you think I said, Mommy?"
I pretend to not hear him.
Whew.
And I wasn't sure I'd have a topic for my blog today.
I love my snugglie sweater.
I love my snugglie sweater.
How cute are these boots?
How cute are these boots?
I have watched the one about warm flannels at least seven times. I have no idea what they are saying. Is there something about electronics and then it's all about flannel? Could that be right?
I liked it better when the gap dancers just danced.
Maybe my hearing is going. On more than one occasion, Jack has asked me to turn on my listening ears. People who completely love me have been know to suggest I don't listen well. Same goes for people who sign my paychecks. I am not the best listener. But maybe...
I am not not listening because I don't care what you're saying.
I am not not listening because I don't care what you're saying AND I maybe cannot hear you.
Driving to the Nutcracker tonight, Jack is in the back seat telling me the story of Nutcracker. They have learned about it at school because he knows the whole story. Uses proper names, like Clara. Mentions the Godfather. Knows about the land of sweets.
I congratulate him on knowing so much of the story. I smile and have my elitist smug mommy moment of the day.
I then hear, "There's more than one virgin of the the story, Mommy."
Pashwasha?
"I am sorry Jack, what was that?"
"What was what Mommy?"
"More than one what?"
"Virgin."
The light changes. I don't drive right away.
"Buddy, are you saying version?"
"Yes, Mommy."
Resume driving at normal pace. A few minutes later I hear, "What did you think I said, Mommy?"
I pretend to not hear him.
Whew.
And I wasn't sure I'd have a topic for my blog today.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
St. Elmo's deal with the devil
I think I am more of a morning person now.
Not like crack of dawn morning. Just regular old morning. Around 7 am. Nothing crazy. Not still dark morning.
Not like Becca, who has this alarm on her blackberry that goes off every 20 minutes beginning just before 5 am...even though she doesn't make a move to get out of bed before 5:45 am. Shut up. Ask Juan. Why would I lie?
I like 6:45 am. Check an email or two. Check the weather.
I like being showered before Jack wakes up, before Lucio begins to unwrap himself from our bedding.
Lucio has this ongoing lament that I don't stay under the covers and instead try to use his body for warmth. Therefore, he winds up with all the covers on him. There's a whole section of this diatribe about me sleeping on the diagonal.
I say I do it because I like him and want to be close to him.
He says it's because I still go to bed 2-3 hours before he does and I figure he'll work around me when he gets there. Most nights, I go to bed at 10:30 or so and he comes in around 2 am. What? He is in school full time and needs to study.
He also says because he's a full time student, he's thinking of growing his ponytail back.
I say go for it.
It will look so sssseeeexxxxyyyy with streaks of gray.
Tangent...
The 7-8 o'clock hour is my fave. You want to know why?
Reruns of West Wing. Josh. Toby. President Bartlett and Leo. Mrs. Laningham...(say it like Oprah would if she was bringing her out of stage)...Charlie. And the two most perfect examples of a young DC gals, Donna Moss and Ainsley Hayes. (It's from Pinafore).
And yes, Sam Seaborn. So righteous and cute and we completely forgive him for sleeping with a hooker.
But how is it he looks as good as he did when he was in the movie Class in 1983. Not that he is old. He isn't. He'll be 46 next March. He is as hot today as he was 25 years ago. Does that seem fair?
What is going on that he looks like this at 45?
http://www.imdb.com/media/rm984650752/nm0000507
I don't watch Brothers and Sisters... I cannot keep the brothers straight on that show. One of them is Baltazhar Getty who was a TeenBeet sort of guy when I was 15 and now I cannot pick him out of the cast.
But I know Rob is in this show and he still is as handsome as the day is long. No signs of aging. His gray hairs are suble and defining. Remember, dear friends, in St. Elmo's Fire, he was snogging Mare Winningham. She is a touch older than him. She turned 50 this year. And she's fine to look at. Here she is 7 years ago.
http://www.imdb.com/media/rm3590494208/nm0001858
This is Rob. In 1983.
http://www.imdb.com/media/rm3347619584/tt0087866
Admit it. There's hardly a difference.
I am fine with all of this. I just pose these questions for my own amusement.
Every morning I am transfixed by West Wing. There are two episodes every morning. One at 7 am. One at 8. I cry when Toby arranges the funeral for the homeless vet. I wait and wait for Josh to love Donna. I literally squeel with joy when Amy Gardner is there fighting the good fight for us gals.
I am now DVR'ing each of them and watching at night. Oh, wow I forgot Claudia Jean!!! And Danny Kincannon. No, Viva, you did not miss anything...
Maybe it's West Wing's fault I am having trouble sleeping.
I am waiting to be called in to work at the pleasure of the President.
Not like crack of dawn morning. Just regular old morning. Around 7 am. Nothing crazy. Not still dark morning.
Not like Becca, who has this alarm on her blackberry that goes off every 20 minutes beginning just before 5 am...even though she doesn't make a move to get out of bed before 5:45 am. Shut up. Ask Juan. Why would I lie?
I like 6:45 am. Check an email or two. Check the weather.
I like being showered before Jack wakes up, before Lucio begins to unwrap himself from our bedding.
Lucio has this ongoing lament that I don't stay under the covers and instead try to use his body for warmth. Therefore, he winds up with all the covers on him. There's a whole section of this diatribe about me sleeping on the diagonal.
I say I do it because I like him and want to be close to him.
He says it's because I still go to bed 2-3 hours before he does and I figure he'll work around me when he gets there. Most nights, I go to bed at 10:30 or so and he comes in around 2 am. What? He is in school full time and needs to study.
He also says because he's a full time student, he's thinking of growing his ponytail back.
I say go for it.
It will look so sssseeeexxxxyyyy with streaks of gray.
Tangent...
The 7-8 o'clock hour is my fave. You want to know why?
Reruns of West Wing. Josh. Toby. President Bartlett and Leo. Mrs. Laningham...(say it like Oprah would if she was bringing her out of stage)...Charlie. And the two most perfect examples of a young DC gals, Donna Moss and Ainsley Hayes. (It's from Pinafore).
And yes, Sam Seaborn. So righteous and cute and we completely forgive him for sleeping with a hooker.
But how is it he looks as good as he did when he was in the movie Class in 1983. Not that he is old. He isn't. He'll be 46 next March. He is as hot today as he was 25 years ago. Does that seem fair?
What is going on that he looks like this at 45?
http://www.imdb.com/media/rm984650752/nm0000507
I don't watch Brothers and Sisters... I cannot keep the brothers straight on that show. One of them is Baltazhar Getty who was a TeenBeet sort of guy when I was 15 and now I cannot pick him out of the cast.
But I know Rob is in this show and he still is as handsome as the day is long. No signs of aging. His gray hairs are suble and defining. Remember, dear friends, in St. Elmo's Fire, he was snogging Mare Winningham. She is a touch older than him. She turned 50 this year. And she's fine to look at. Here she is 7 years ago.
http://www.imdb.com/media/rm3590494208/nm0001858
This is Rob. In 1983.
http://www.imdb.com/media/rm3347619584/tt0087866
Admit it. There's hardly a difference.
I am fine with all of this. I just pose these questions for my own amusement.
Every morning I am transfixed by West Wing. There are two episodes every morning. One at 7 am. One at 8. I cry when Toby arranges the funeral for the homeless vet. I wait and wait for Josh to love Donna. I literally squeel with joy when Amy Gardner is there fighting the good fight for us gals.
I am now DVR'ing each of them and watching at night. Oh, wow I forgot Claudia Jean!!! And Danny Kincannon. No, Viva, you did not miss anything...
Maybe it's West Wing's fault I am having trouble sleeping.
I am waiting to be called in to work at the pleasure of the President.
Monday, November 30, 2009
What does A&E stand for?
A&E channel offers us a new show - well - new to me - called Hoarders.
I have never watched it.
I am quite certain the commercials are sufficient.
It's the kind of commercial - or trailer at the movie - that I simply know will stay with me long past the credits. Like the video Jim McConnell showed me of a woman performing a job on a horse. He showed it to me in like 1998. And I can still see it. Or that youtube thing about chickens getting their beaks pulled off. That shit is there forever.
Have you seen these this Hoarders thing? I mean does it exist just to make me feel better about not filing my receipts? Is it there just to make the lack of precise organization of Jack's toys seem managable?
Oh, yeah, the bad new about me?
The commercials make me wish just a teenny tiny bit that my televison emitted odor. For like a second.
So I could know for certain WHAT THAT PLACE SMELLS LIKE.
I sometimes cannot handle the smell in Jack's laundry basket. Sometimes the garage makes me gag a little.
I just cannot get my head around this show.
Julie told me some woman hoarder evidently made an argument that the canned goods had not gone bad because the can hadn't expanded yet. Are you serious? That's your gauge? I cannot imagine the amount bacteria needed to make a tin can expand. That takes serious stick-togetherness on the part of the ick.
For some reason I thought it was on Bravo.
It's not.
It's on A&E.
What does A&E stand for these days?
Abhorent and Exercrable?
Can you imagine the poor producer for this show? All of 23 years old, first real job after interning for the past two years - she finally lands a real adult job. No more Unos for her. Emails everyone she knows - "I am a producer for this new hot show called Hoarders on A&E! The director totally loves me and I am learning so much!! You have to watch!"
And then she spends day after day in locations that make "smells like ass" feel like holiday baking.
I have never watched it.
I am quite certain the commercials are sufficient.
It's the kind of commercial - or trailer at the movie - that I simply know will stay with me long past the credits. Like the video Jim McConnell showed me of a woman performing a job on a horse. He showed it to me in like 1998. And I can still see it. Or that youtube thing about chickens getting their beaks pulled off. That shit is there forever.
Have you seen these this Hoarders thing? I mean does it exist just to make me feel better about not filing my receipts? Is it there just to make the lack of precise organization of Jack's toys seem managable?
Oh, yeah, the bad new about me?
The commercials make me wish just a teenny tiny bit that my televison emitted odor. For like a second.
So I could know for certain WHAT THAT PLACE SMELLS LIKE.
I sometimes cannot handle the smell in Jack's laundry basket. Sometimes the garage makes me gag a little.
I just cannot get my head around this show.
Julie told me some woman hoarder evidently made an argument that the canned goods had not gone bad because the can hadn't expanded yet. Are you serious? That's your gauge? I cannot imagine the amount bacteria needed to make a tin can expand. That takes serious stick-togetherness on the part of the ick.
For some reason I thought it was on Bravo.
It's not.
It's on A&E.
What does A&E stand for these days?
Abhorent and Exercrable?
Can you imagine the poor producer for this show? All of 23 years old, first real job after interning for the past two years - she finally lands a real adult job. No more Unos for her. Emails everyone she knows - "I am a producer for this new hot show called Hoarders on A&E! The director totally loves me and I am learning so much!! You have to watch!"
And then she spends day after day in locations that make "smells like ass" feel like holiday baking.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
seven year itch
Lucio married me on November 29, 2002.
As I type, our five year old is taking a way too late Sunday nap after being up too late last night putting lights on our tree.
As I type, the laundry is done and we'll have one more night of left overs. The house is clean and most of the things I wanted to get done this weekend are complete.
As I type, Lucio is at the library studying for finals, almost done with his first full-time student semester.
As I type, the glow from our lovely Christmas tree is lighting the living room of our smaller but perfectly affordable on one income home.
As I type, I wonder what the holidays will bring. And what 2010 will look like. I wonder if I finally had my ah-ha moment last night.
I wonder a lot.
Except about one thing.
I don't wonder if I made a good decision seven years ago today.
I know it was the best move I could have made.
I could not have imagined we'd be where we are today. But I could never be anywhere worth being if Lucio wasn't standing next to me. Holding my hand.
Happy Anniversary baby. I love you. Extra Extra.
As I type, our five year old is taking a way too late Sunday nap after being up too late last night putting lights on our tree.
As I type, the laundry is done and we'll have one more night of left overs. The house is clean and most of the things I wanted to get done this weekend are complete.
As I type, Lucio is at the library studying for finals, almost done with his first full-time student semester.
As I type, the glow from our lovely Christmas tree is lighting the living room of our smaller but perfectly affordable on one income home.
As I type, I wonder what the holidays will bring. And what 2010 will look like. I wonder if I finally had my ah-ha moment last night.
I wonder a lot.
Except about one thing.
I don't wonder if I made a good decision seven years ago today.
I know it was the best move I could have made.
I could not have imagined we'd be where we are today. But I could never be anywhere worth being if Lucio wasn't standing next to me. Holding my hand.
Happy Anniversary baby. I love you. Extra Extra.
I hate Malls
DISCLAIMER - I meant to post this on Sat. Making it the blog post for Sat. November 28th.
Background – A little over a month ago, we learned we had won bleacher seats for the Oscars in March. I will go over this to the point of exhaustion soon enough so I am going to focus on today
Round about the same time we learned we (Me, Becca, Lori and Danielle) will be heading to LA for the Oscars, I also figured out that we (I) had been using our credit cards too often. For things we needed (tires) and for things we didn’t (pretty much everything I buy at Sephora). I was using the credit too much.
I had to wonder (sorry, Carrie Bradshaw blog moment...it's over now)
Hmm, I wonder how much we owe?
So, I did that thing we all fear doing. I got out my calculator. And added it up. Holy Shit.
Really? That cannot be right.
It is right. Those fuckers at Visa can really count. And add.
I spent a nano second wondering about a home equity line, but nixed it quickly. Those things are not “oops piles” – it comes of the principle when you sell the place. I know? Right? That not mentioned in the commercial.
So I decide to see about a small part time job. I think we can pay down some debt on credit cards, pay cash for Christmas presents and I can save for our trip to Cal-ee- forn- I- a
I recall a colleague did something fairly anonymous a few years ago so I ask. She gives me some ideas and two days later I have a call from Metitech. I get hired as a scorer. I am told I will start the middle of November and it will be through early winter. I sign up for 12 hours a week.
And then I wait.
And wait.
Still more waiting.
Have I mentioned I am not so good with waiting?
All the time worrying that they will ask me start the same weekend as work in Peoria. Which was in mid November. Or the same weekend as Festival of Trees More mid-to-late November but okay. Maybe they’d ask me to begin Thanksgiving weekend.
I know, you’re right, that’s not the middle of November.
I received a letter from MetriTech the day after Thanksgiving telling me I would not be needed for this project after all and I could apply again in January. Seems I didn’t get the job after all. The tests they were scoring weren’t as plentiful as once imagined. Or they hired too many people. And to add insult to injury, seems I didn’t do so hot on the training night.
Still need something. Looking online. At the holidays.
I HATE MALLS.
Background – A little over a month ago, we learned we had won bleacher seats for the Oscars in March. I will go over this to the point of exhaustion soon enough so I am going to focus on today
Round about the same time we learned we (Me, Becca, Lori and Danielle) will be heading to LA for the Oscars, I also figured out that we (I) had been using our credit cards too often. For things we needed (tires) and for things we didn’t (pretty much everything I buy at Sephora). I was using the credit too much.
I had to wonder (sorry, Carrie Bradshaw blog moment...it's over now)
Hmm, I wonder how much we owe?
So, I did that thing we all fear doing. I got out my calculator. And added it up. Holy Shit.
Really? That cannot be right.
It is right. Those fuckers at Visa can really count. And add.
I spent a nano second wondering about a home equity line, but nixed it quickly. Those things are not “oops piles” – it comes of the principle when you sell the place. I know? Right? That not mentioned in the commercial.
So I decide to see about a small part time job. I think we can pay down some debt on credit cards, pay cash for Christmas presents and I can save for our trip to Cal-ee- forn- I- a
I recall a colleague did something fairly anonymous a few years ago so I ask. She gives me some ideas and two days later I have a call from Metitech. I get hired as a scorer. I am told I will start the middle of November and it will be through early winter. I sign up for 12 hours a week.
And then I wait.
And wait.
Still more waiting.
Have I mentioned I am not so good with waiting?
All the time worrying that they will ask me start the same weekend as work in Peoria. Which was in mid November. Or the same weekend as Festival of Trees More mid-to-late November but okay. Maybe they’d ask me to begin Thanksgiving weekend.
I know, you’re right, that’s not the middle of November.
I received a letter from MetriTech the day after Thanksgiving telling me I would not be needed for this project after all and I could apply again in January. Seems I didn’t get the job after all. The tests they were scoring weren’t as plentiful as once imagined. Or they hired too many people. And to add insult to injury, seems I didn’t do so hot on the training night.
Still need something. Looking online. At the holidays.
I HATE MALLS.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
I'm not sick but I'm not well
On the off chance this past weekend wasn't full enough, I made certain there was time to see the new Twilight movie. I know, I know, it has a name, but I don't actually care what it's called. Before we get to that, my rant on the books.
I read the Book #1 on the beach in 2008.
Perfect. Loved it.
Paid full price for Book #2 at a resort book store so I could read on the plane home. Not as good as first book, but perfectly fine. Not entirely unlike my feelings for Chamber of Secrets on first read. (I have since listened to Jim Dale read EVERY SINGLE WORD OF ALL SEVEN BOOKS and have seen the error of my ways. Sorry JK)
Books #3 and #4 arrived together from Amazon a few weeks later.
Happy fingers. I jumped right in.
And you know what?
The water was not nice.
Parts were too hot and then too cold. And then parts were totally, wait, What does that say?
By the end of Book #3 I was embarrassed. But I couldn't stop.
I basically taught myself to speed read for Book #4 as the ridicule was too much. And that was just of myself.
See, then there was a baby. And how it got out.
And that name.
And then the immmm - printing.
Judge all you want. I am hardest on myself.
2008 rolls around and we are placated by hearing there are going to be movies.
Total dee-light, right?
Edward/Cedric. He's a cutie. The chick from Into the Wild (ah, Emile moment...wait...okay, I'm done). Even that doll boy from Cheaper By the Dozen 2 - totally could see it back then. He was going to be a hottie. Good previews. Okay, I am in. Show me what you've got.
Movie #1.
Rob Pattison doesn't look finished to me. Like he needed a few more hours of cookin.
That's all I have to say about that.
Movie #2.
Has a lot of making up to do. We are in a big fight. BIG FIGHT.
And you know what?
We are totally made up!
The CGI stuff was so much better. No weird "looks like a Ken doll running up a tree" moments. The wolves were a smoosh too big, but I can get on board. I can even overlook Ms. No Tears (KStewart - I am talking to you) because we were given so much else to look at.
And by else, I mean HOLY, How the fuck old is he?
The mother in me is really really trying to focus on Jacob's real life mother. And that she is probably my age - if not younger. If I think about her, I cannot as readily think about...shudder...judgement. Damn it. Why? Why? Why even show us stuff like this?
And as for old Sparkle Tits (totally from skepchick.org)...
You may be Bella's choice. And that is fine.
Because if you make me choose, Eddie, I am always going to be Team Jacob.
Someone has to protect this wolf from all those nasty cougars.
I read the Book #1 on the beach in 2008.
Perfect. Loved it.
Paid full price for Book #2 at a resort book store so I could read on the plane home. Not as good as first book, but perfectly fine. Not entirely unlike my feelings for Chamber of Secrets on first read. (I have since listened to Jim Dale read EVERY SINGLE WORD OF ALL SEVEN BOOKS and have seen the error of my ways. Sorry JK)
Books #3 and #4 arrived together from Amazon a few weeks later.
Happy fingers. I jumped right in.
And you know what?
The water was not nice.
Parts were too hot and then too cold. And then parts were totally, wait, What does that say?
By the end of Book #3 I was embarrassed. But I couldn't stop.
I basically taught myself to speed read for Book #4 as the ridicule was too much. And that was just of myself.
See, then there was a baby. And how it got out.
And that name.
And then the immmm - printing.
Judge all you want. I am hardest on myself.
2008 rolls around and we are placated by hearing there are going to be movies.
Total dee-light, right?
Edward/Cedric. He's a cutie. The chick from Into the Wild (ah, Emile moment...wait...okay, I'm done). Even that doll boy from Cheaper By the Dozen 2 - totally could see it back then. He was going to be a hottie. Good previews. Okay, I am in. Show me what you've got.
Movie #1.
Rob Pattison doesn't look finished to me. Like he needed a few more hours of cookin.
That's all I have to say about that.
Movie #2.
Has a lot of making up to do. We are in a big fight. BIG FIGHT.
And you know what?
We are totally made up!
The CGI stuff was so much better. No weird "looks like a Ken doll running up a tree" moments. The wolves were a smoosh too big, but I can get on board. I can even overlook Ms. No Tears (KStewart - I am talking to you) because we were given so much else to look at.
And by else, I mean HOLY, How the fuck old is he?
The mother in me is really really trying to focus on Jacob's real life mother. And that she is probably my age - if not younger. If I think about her, I cannot as readily think about...shudder...judgement. Damn it. Why? Why? Why even show us stuff like this?
And as for old Sparkle Tits (totally from skepchick.org)...
You may be Bella's choice. And that is fine.
Because if you make me choose, Eddie, I am always going to be Team Jacob.
Someone has to protect this wolf from all those nasty cougars.
Monday, November 23, 2009
(Semi) Perfect
Home with a semi-sick child.
Semi because we're are at the tail end of sick. The part that has mostly just a lingering cough with a dash of blech. But he still cannot eat any dairy. So of course that's all he wants. I just convinced him there is some cheese in goldfish crackers.
Semi also because with the current flu climate at school, I would rather keep him home one day than have him returned to sender. Because that is how reputations are made. Must not be the working mother who sends a sick child to school. She is never asked to be room mother. And though I need to not volunteer for literally anything else, I really really really want to be the mother that makes other mothers wonder "How does she do it?"
Jack's Halloween costumes are a perfect example -- I love love love making things with him and for him. I love the challenge and figuring and the trial and error but mostly I love the moment when he sees what we've made. Priceless.
Still, as an admitted egomaniac, I also love when someone asks me "Did you MAKE that?"- so I can make quite a show of my almost perfected "smile and nod" routine that I hope looks humble and would convince Spielberg.
Sorry, back to Jack...
If you were to hear him cough, sadly, you would invariably think he started smoking shortly after his first day of daycare in 2006. He is still stuffed up. He still has the sick breathe. Luckily, he doesn't have fever eyes.
I asked my mother when I was pregnant "How will I know if he has a fever?"
She was sweeter than I deserved at the time (I was a real challenge pregnant) and replied "You'll just know."
I thought she was crazy. How would I know? I have never been able to tell a fever from touch. I frankly don't enjoy sick people. Most sick people are not nearly as grateful as I think they should be. (Not like sick, sick - but you know, episodic sick) I couldn't imagine my reaction were I to be thrown up on. (that will have to be a blogspot next- remind me to tell you about Liz watching me nurse)
Another of the millions of things no one tells you before you have a kid - no one tells you that once the kid arrives there are fever eyes and sicky breathe and you'll know the difference. Or that after the 4th ear infection you can diagnose like Dr. Spock. And Strep? Forget about it - I can smell Strep at this point. Pink eye? One month in a daycare and you can spot pink eye at 20 paces.
Amid the chaos of a sick day (semi or otherwise) I look around my tiny house and think how far I am from the picture perfect mom I fancy I could be (if I had the time to get everything together).
I am thinking of the commercials I've seen of children in bed with colds, propped up in their perfectly appointed bedrooms, hair perfect, gently coughing and reaching for a tissue on their side table. Pajamas are pressed, sheet folded at their chest, teddy at their side. Mother looking lovingly from the doorway, hair and makeup all did'ed up.
Yeah, that's not me.
This is my current view.
I am sitting on the floor of our living room under a fort made out of sofa pillows. I am wearing a cape and trying to reply to a work e-mail on my blackberry. Jack is wearing a swimsuit over his pajama bottoms and a OBAMA FOR PRESIDENT t-shirt that could be Lucio's. We've made a table out of Tinker Toys and there is a yard crain fixing what I thought was a fort but have learned is a hotel. Jack's DNA is everywhere in tissue form and he is calmly explaining to Buddy (our aging mix breed dog who does not enjoy dress up) that he needs to stay in the tent to be safe from the Tsunami. I need to figuure out what to make for dinner that he will eat and doesn't contain dairy. Breakfast dished are in the sink and at the table and for some unknown reason, on the back of the toilet in our bedroom. Beds are not made. My cell phone is blinking and I need a shower. Jack's crawls over to me and asks me if he has to go to school tomorrow. I tell him it will depend but he appears to be getting better and he will probably go. He crawls into my lap (almost 4 feet tall and about 50 pounds) and kisses my cheek. Then he coughs.
This is what perfectly happy looks like.
Semi because we're are at the tail end of sick. The part that has mostly just a lingering cough with a dash of blech. But he still cannot eat any dairy. So of course that's all he wants. I just convinced him there is some cheese in goldfish crackers.
Semi also because with the current flu climate at school, I would rather keep him home one day than have him returned to sender. Because that is how reputations are made. Must not be the working mother who sends a sick child to school. She is never asked to be room mother. And though I need to not volunteer for literally anything else, I really really really want to be the mother that makes other mothers wonder "How does she do it?"
Jack's Halloween costumes are a perfect example -- I love love love making things with him and for him. I love the challenge and figuring and the trial and error but mostly I love the moment when he sees what we've made. Priceless.
Still, as an admitted egomaniac, I also love when someone asks me "Did you MAKE that?"- so I can make quite a show of my almost perfected "smile and nod" routine that I hope looks humble and would convince Spielberg.
Sorry, back to Jack...
If you were to hear him cough, sadly, you would invariably think he started smoking shortly after his first day of daycare in 2006. He is still stuffed up. He still has the sick breathe. Luckily, he doesn't have fever eyes.
I asked my mother when I was pregnant "How will I know if he has a fever?"
She was sweeter than I deserved at the time (I was a real challenge pregnant) and replied "You'll just know."
I thought she was crazy. How would I know? I have never been able to tell a fever from touch. I frankly don't enjoy sick people. Most sick people are not nearly as grateful as I think they should be. (Not like sick, sick - but you know, episodic sick) I couldn't imagine my reaction were I to be thrown up on. (that will have to be a blogspot next- remind me to tell you about Liz watching me nurse)
Another of the millions of things no one tells you before you have a kid - no one tells you that once the kid arrives there are fever eyes and sicky breathe and you'll know the difference. Or that after the 4th ear infection you can diagnose like Dr. Spock. And Strep? Forget about it - I can smell Strep at this point. Pink eye? One month in a daycare and you can spot pink eye at 20 paces.
Amid the chaos of a sick day (semi or otherwise) I look around my tiny house and think how far I am from the picture perfect mom I fancy I could be (if I had the time to get everything together).
I am thinking of the commercials I've seen of children in bed with colds, propped up in their perfectly appointed bedrooms, hair perfect, gently coughing and reaching for a tissue on their side table. Pajamas are pressed, sheet folded at their chest, teddy at their side. Mother looking lovingly from the doorway, hair and makeup all did'ed up.
Yeah, that's not me.
This is my current view.
I am sitting on the floor of our living room under a fort made out of sofa pillows. I am wearing a cape and trying to reply to a work e-mail on my blackberry. Jack is wearing a swimsuit over his pajama bottoms and a OBAMA FOR PRESIDENT t-shirt that could be Lucio's. We've made a table out of Tinker Toys and there is a yard crain fixing what I thought was a fort but have learned is a hotel. Jack's DNA is everywhere in tissue form and he is calmly explaining to Buddy (our aging mix breed dog who does not enjoy dress up) that he needs to stay in the tent to be safe from the Tsunami. I need to figuure out what to make for dinner that he will eat and doesn't contain dairy. Breakfast dished are in the sink and at the table and for some unknown reason, on the back of the toilet in our bedroom. Beds are not made. My cell phone is blinking and I need a shower. Jack's crawls over to me and asks me if he has to go to school tomorrow. I tell him it will depend but he appears to be getting better and he will probably go. He crawls into my lap (almost 4 feet tall and about 50 pounds) and kisses my cheek. Then he coughs.
This is what perfectly happy looks like.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
You know why I yell? Because YOU DON'T LISTEN!!!
Festival of Trees is almost over. Festival of Trees Baby. FOT.
Or depending on the day Eff Oh Tee.
I was an assistant chair for a FOT committee. I learned a fair bit about League and here I sit on the other side of Girls Night Out, Daddy/Daughter Dance, Mommy/Son Breakfast and of course, Gala. What can I say? I feel such genuine pride telling people I am in League. Yes, yes, there's that elitist thing. I know it's not my best quality. But I cannot help it.
League. That's what we call it. To the ousider, we might say Junior League. But when we talk about it conversationally, it's just League. I am a member of League and I love it. I have real friends now - right here, in Champaign. For all my longterm friends back east, a collective sigh of thank fucking goodness...she has met people. I fear my problems were exceeding their pay grade, so yes, local friends are lovely. Some are fucking amazing.
No, we don't only wear pearls. Or twin sets. I might need to invest in some Tory Burch but I wanted to do that anyway. And finally, yes they really let me in.
Anyway, my committee was responsible most printed items. Save the dates, email texts, invitation design, posters, billboards, lawn signs. If there was printing on it, we had a hand. If it was read in a newpaper, came out of an envelope or was on the radio some member of my committee was involved.
Big departure from last year where as a new member and all I had to do was volunteer 13 hours and help design a tree. We designed the Sex and the City tree (Biggie shouts to Mary Beth who came through with a Jimmy Choo clutch worth over $950.00 Miss & Love you long time!) It was all pink and sparkly. It was also the only part of FOT 2008 I enjoyed.
2009 - totally different. I knew a little more and I had a title. I love a title. (again, elitism)
My committees' work was really done by late September. Marketing picks up speed early - like in June. We were cooking with gas by July. Nope, not everything was perfectly smooth. There were moments of I CANNOT BELIEVE THIS... and REALLY? ANOTHER E-MAIL FROM. Being a fund raiser by profession, marketing is mostly something I dabble with in a staff meeting when I have an idea that warrents speaking out loud. Each item we worked on had nuance. Some pieces needed to be bright and eye catching. Some needed elegance. Some needed information. The only thing I can assure you was everything I did had something to do with marketing.
Get it? Let me be clear. I never once in the past 6 months mentioned an actual tree.
True to form, Lucio handled my new title well, listening to my rants and congratulating me when he suspected I needed a boost. Getting out of the house a few times with Jack so the committee could take over our dining room. Picking up Jimmy Johns. He knew what I was working on and he liked what I was doing. Or so he had me thinking.
I told him about the laborious choice of printers, lamented when the designer had evidentally stopped listening to us and needed a stern talking to (she totally rallied) and shared moments when I was being such a totally superb team player and never once called a name or used my jersey gene.
Flash forward to this morning. Public Hours. 9:40 am.
In Lucio walks with Jack. I am headed to help set up for Gala. I'm in my apron and sharing which trees could use some more of our tickets. I kiss his cheek and tell him we've already put about $20 worth of tickets in the UP tree. I turn to walk away and I hear Lucio say the following.
"Okay, see you later. Love you. Hey -which tree is yours?"
Argh. You want to know why I yell? Because you don't listen.
I was never in a sorority. Didn't make the cut. When I hear Julie and Valerie chide Lucio (gently, or course) for not knowing that I didn't design a tree - as I was on the marketing committe - I have my first sorority moment.
It turns out I pledged at the tender age of 37.
Just under the wire.
Or depending on the day Eff Oh Tee.
I was an assistant chair for a FOT committee. I learned a fair bit about League and here I sit on the other side of Girls Night Out, Daddy/Daughter Dance, Mommy/Son Breakfast and of course, Gala. What can I say? I feel such genuine pride telling people I am in League. Yes, yes, there's that elitist thing. I know it's not my best quality. But I cannot help it.
League. That's what we call it. To the ousider, we might say Junior League. But when we talk about it conversationally, it's just League. I am a member of League and I love it. I have real friends now - right here, in Champaign. For all my longterm friends back east, a collective sigh of thank fucking goodness...she has met people. I fear my problems were exceeding their pay grade, so yes, local friends are lovely. Some are fucking amazing.
No, we don't only wear pearls. Or twin sets. I might need to invest in some Tory Burch but I wanted to do that anyway. And finally, yes they really let me in.
Anyway, my committee was responsible most printed items. Save the dates, email texts, invitation design, posters, billboards, lawn signs. If there was printing on it, we had a hand. If it was read in a newpaper, came out of an envelope or was on the radio some member of my committee was involved.
Big departure from last year where as a new member and all I had to do was volunteer 13 hours and help design a tree. We designed the Sex and the City tree (Biggie shouts to Mary Beth who came through with a Jimmy Choo clutch worth over $950.00 Miss & Love you long time!) It was all pink and sparkly. It was also the only part of FOT 2008 I enjoyed.
2009 - totally different. I knew a little more and I had a title. I love a title. (again, elitism)
My committees' work was really done by late September. Marketing picks up speed early - like in June. We were cooking with gas by July. Nope, not everything was perfectly smooth. There were moments of I CANNOT BELIEVE THIS... and REALLY? ANOTHER E-MAIL FROM. Being a fund raiser by profession, marketing is mostly something I dabble with in a staff meeting when I have an idea that warrents speaking out loud. Each item we worked on had nuance. Some pieces needed to be bright and eye catching. Some needed elegance. Some needed information. The only thing I can assure you was everything I did had something to do with marketing.
Get it? Let me be clear. I never once in the past 6 months mentioned an actual tree.
True to form, Lucio handled my new title well, listening to my rants and congratulating me when he suspected I needed a boost. Getting out of the house a few times with Jack so the committee could take over our dining room. Picking up Jimmy Johns. He knew what I was working on and he liked what I was doing. Or so he had me thinking.
I told him about the laborious choice of printers, lamented when the designer had evidentally stopped listening to us and needed a stern talking to (she totally rallied) and shared moments when I was being such a totally superb team player and never once called a name or used my jersey gene.
Flash forward to this morning. Public Hours. 9:40 am.
In Lucio walks with Jack. I am headed to help set up for Gala. I'm in my apron and sharing which trees could use some more of our tickets. I kiss his cheek and tell him we've already put about $20 worth of tickets in the UP tree. I turn to walk away and I hear Lucio say the following.
"Okay, see you later. Love you. Hey -which tree is yours?"
Argh. You want to know why I yell? Because you don't listen.
I was never in a sorority. Didn't make the cut. When I hear Julie and Valerie chide Lucio (gently, or course) for not knowing that I didn't design a tree - as I was on the marketing committe - I have my first sorority moment.
It turns out I pledged at the tender age of 37.
Just under the wire.
Friday, November 20, 2009
If you can't say anything nice, you best not be talking about anyone I like
We worked the photo table at the JL Daddy Daughter dance tonight. You know what we did? We helped fathers describe their daughters dresses. And never once did we say (to their face) "It's a Mariah Carey Christmas" or "Toddler first faux fur". Because let's be honest, it's east central Illinois and this is no ones first faux fur. We took cash and credit and checks and said things like, "Sir, it's probably better to describe your daughter's dress, rather than your suit. Where is your daughter? I can help."
Oh, right, the daughter. Where is she? GONE. Running around barefoot (no fewer than 4 pairs of shoes were found underneath trees waiting to be reclaimed) Not with her father. Nope. Already pulling shit off trees and trying to get on the stage to play American Idol.
So we wrote things like "purple bow with silver sash" and "red headband". Our favorite was from a Dad.
"Two blondes with a bald man in brown"
Daddies were happy to have the pictues taken. You know what they didn't love? That we didn't put a bar in the dance room. What? Say it ain't so. You mean I have to watch my daughter while I am at this thing? What are all you women doing while I am watching her?
We gave you a bar the last two years and you simply didn't handle it well. Two years ago some of you sent your small princesses to procure beers. Last year, you let them run all over the stage and play dress up with some stuff in the auction (including a playhouse that they had to climb over faux snow to get at). So, no bar in ballroom this night fellas. Sorry - you have only yourselves to blame.
Um sir, do you know it's considered poor parenting when you leave your 5 year old alone in a conference center so you can get a drink. IN ANOTHER ESTABLISHMENT. And stop to watch TV for a bit.
Here's my breakdown on being a part of League - it's the snark. I am guilty of snark talk. I do it all the time. Mostly with Julie, though I may be guilty of a few bitch leaks on occasion with like minded ladies (shout out to..well, you know who you are)
But O M effing G - if I think you're out of line, sister, please, you have passed snark and moved into MEAN.
Mean showed up tonight. With really bad hair. Talking about anyone the second they were out of earshot.
Personally, I think snark girl is just really upset about the haircut and it's making her meaner than normal. Every single woman here is a volunteer. Like not for money. And it's Friday and we all had busy weeks and lives and Thanksgiving is 5 days away and maybe we should all cut each other some slack.
Snark has it's place. And it's at League. Just not when were are all trying so effing hard to get through FOT weekend.
Put on your big girl panties and BE NICE. Don't make me whip up a can of Jersey on you. Because I would love to.
Oh, right, the daughter. Where is she? GONE. Running around barefoot (no fewer than 4 pairs of shoes were found underneath trees waiting to be reclaimed) Not with her father. Nope. Already pulling shit off trees and trying to get on the stage to play American Idol.
So we wrote things like "purple bow with silver sash" and "red headband". Our favorite was from a Dad.
"Two blondes with a bald man in brown"
Daddies were happy to have the pictues taken. You know what they didn't love? That we didn't put a bar in the dance room. What? Say it ain't so. You mean I have to watch my daughter while I am at this thing? What are all you women doing while I am watching her?
We gave you a bar the last two years and you simply didn't handle it well. Two years ago some of you sent your small princesses to procure beers. Last year, you let them run all over the stage and play dress up with some stuff in the auction (including a playhouse that they had to climb over faux snow to get at). So, no bar in ballroom this night fellas. Sorry - you have only yourselves to blame.
Um sir, do you know it's considered poor parenting when you leave your 5 year old alone in a conference center so you can get a drink. IN ANOTHER ESTABLISHMENT. And stop to watch TV for a bit.
Here's my breakdown on being a part of League - it's the snark. I am guilty of snark talk. I do it all the time. Mostly with Julie, though I may be guilty of a few bitch leaks on occasion with like minded ladies (shout out to..well, you know who you are)
But O M effing G - if I think you're out of line, sister, please, you have passed snark and moved into MEAN.
Mean showed up tonight. With really bad hair. Talking about anyone the second they were out of earshot.
Personally, I think snark girl is just really upset about the haircut and it's making her meaner than normal. Every single woman here is a volunteer. Like not for money. And it's Friday and we all had busy weeks and lives and Thanksgiving is 5 days away and maybe we should all cut each other some slack.
Snark has it's place. And it's at League. Just not when were are all trying so effing hard to get through FOT weekend.
Put on your big girl panties and BE NICE. Don't make me whip up a can of Jersey on you. Because I would love to.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Half is Half unless it's the wrong half
We had dinner at Vinny's East Coast Pizza tonight.
It's new for Champaign and it promises to be real east coast.
East, maybe.
Coast, sadly no.
Pennsylvania east, at best. Not NJ.
Not even Hunterdon county.
Still, it's the closest we're going to get here where they for some reason think pizza should be as thick as pastry and cut into odd shapes.
I called and asked for an extra large pie.
They told me they don't sell pie. I said "right, sorry, Extra large plain pizza".
"You mean no sauce?" or no cheese?"
"No, no - a regular normal pizza."
Okay. Anything else?
"Do you have cheese sticks?"
"No. We do have mozzarella sticks."
"Yes, an order of mozzarella sticks please," I say rolling my eyes.
This night we choose to eat at Vinnys when arriving to pick up dinner. Hoping in vain that eating it there will make it better. It doesn't but we're out of the house and that counts for something.
Almost done with a whole PIE, Lucio says he wants half of a slice.
I give him a whole one. He says half.
I am distracted by Jack having too much cheese in his mouth. Fearing our son could choke, I focus on the child.
When I look back Lucio has torn the pizza in half - taking the whole end with crust and leaving the triangle of cheese.
I am shocked at what I see.
"That's not half."
"Of course it is."
"That's not how you half a slice of pizza. You cut down the length, leaving an equal amount of crust on each slice. That's the rule."
"Whose rule?"
"EVERYONES!"
"Half is half. Ask anyone"
I go for my phone and call Caye. She worries rightly that settling a domestic dispute is not in her best interest. She wisely says my halfing is correct. I thank her and move on to call Jamie. He doesn't answer so I leave our dilemna on his voicemail.
Two hours later we are saying goodnight to Jack. I hear my phone tink to let me know I have a texd message. It's from Jamie.
It reads.
Lucio is right. He usually is. Half is half.
Doing his smug little dance down the hallway, Lucio calls out "Jack, I love your Uncle Jamie."
Rightly guessing he is not going to get an extra book tonight unless he chooses sides, Jack yells, "It's not half Daddy."
3 books for Jack. No Friday special for Lucio.
Writers Note: Portions of this have actually happened to other people. But these are people who love me. And know that I would never let the frivolous things like "facts" get in the way of a good story.
Fine. So the mozzarella was my story.
The pizza? Caye. Still a great story. She should blog too.
It's new for Champaign and it promises to be real east coast.
East, maybe.
Coast, sadly no.
Pennsylvania east, at best. Not NJ.
Not even Hunterdon county.
Still, it's the closest we're going to get here where they for some reason think pizza should be as thick as pastry and cut into odd shapes.
I called and asked for an extra large pie.
They told me they don't sell pie. I said "right, sorry, Extra large plain pizza".
"You mean no sauce?" or no cheese?"
"No, no - a regular normal pizza."
Okay. Anything else?
"Do you have cheese sticks?"
"No. We do have mozzarella sticks."
"Yes, an order of mozzarella sticks please," I say rolling my eyes.
This night we choose to eat at Vinnys when arriving to pick up dinner. Hoping in vain that eating it there will make it better. It doesn't but we're out of the house and that counts for something.
Almost done with a whole PIE, Lucio says he wants half of a slice.
I give him a whole one. He says half.
I am distracted by Jack having too much cheese in his mouth. Fearing our son could choke, I focus on the child.
When I look back Lucio has torn the pizza in half - taking the whole end with crust and leaving the triangle of cheese.
I am shocked at what I see.
"That's not half."
"Of course it is."
"That's not how you half a slice of pizza. You cut down the length, leaving an equal amount of crust on each slice. That's the rule."
"Whose rule?"
"EVERYONES!"
"Half is half. Ask anyone"
I go for my phone and call Caye. She worries rightly that settling a domestic dispute is not in her best interest. She wisely says my halfing is correct. I thank her and move on to call Jamie. He doesn't answer so I leave our dilemna on his voicemail.
Two hours later we are saying goodnight to Jack. I hear my phone tink to let me know I have a texd message. It's from Jamie.
It reads.
Lucio is right. He usually is. Half is half.
Doing his smug little dance down the hallway, Lucio calls out "Jack, I love your Uncle Jamie."
Rightly guessing he is not going to get an extra book tonight unless he chooses sides, Jack yells, "It's not half Daddy."
3 books for Jack. No Friday special for Lucio.
Writers Note: Portions of this have actually happened to other people. But these are people who love me. And know that I would never let the frivolous things like "facts" get in the way of a good story.
Fine. So the mozzarella was my story.
The pizza? Caye. Still a great story. She should blog too.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
eye key ah
Since moving in June, the PC is in the basement. It's on a cluttered desk also holding the dehumidifyer, an item I've never owned before. I never had a room inclined to moisture that didn't have an exhaust fan in the ceiling and a toilet. In fact, I've mostly lived in buildings that needed moisture added. My room in graduate school was so parched, I would put a bowl of water on the radiator each night and it would evaporate while I slept. If it's not odd enough that we elected to put our most expensive electronic item next to an item that absorbs water, the chair at the desk is surely enough to make anyone take notice. It's one of the small chairs from my 5 year old son's drawing table. In the first weeks of classes, I would go down to the basement to get laundry or bring Lucio some tea and there he'd sit, a 35 year old man with a human development text book propped up on his knees which were 13 inches below the keyboard.
Lucio is never going to move the computer to the larger table I've suggested. It's not his nature to be concerned about this sort of thing and I think he actually uses the discomfort to keep himself awake. But after 4 weeks of classes, it now bothers me. I decide I will go to Ikea and buy him a new rolling chair. I will make his desk more appealing because isn't that what a nice wife should do. I will do this because I sold the old rolling desk chair at the garage sale when me moved in June so maybe this is my fault. I arrive home with the new chair in a box. I ask Lucio to get it out of the car. He asks, "What is this for? We have a rolling desk chair."
"We do?"
"Yes."
"I thought we sold it at the garage sale. Where is it?"
"In the back of the garage. Been there the whole time."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"So you're sitting at the little chair on purpose?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because it's ridiculous. You cannot be comfortable like that."
"I am fine."
"But you look ridiculous."
"Who cares how I look?"
"I do."
"I don't."
"Well, that's stupid. Can you get the rolling chair and use that."
"As you wish," he tells me, leaving me feeling way more annoyed than Buttercup anyday.
"
With a forced smile, I say a quick, "Thank you."
He doesn't look back, but I hear, "Happy wife. Happy life."
"Oh. Well, I can return the chair. Maybe we can go to Ikea together? I'd like you to see this ottoman."
Having managed to get his attention, He says the old rolling chair has a tear in the seam and maybe we do need this new chair. I ask him to show me. The tear is small and can be fixed. But now Lucio doesn't want me to make him go to Ikea. I assure him I will not make him go.
Deflated, we put the box back in the car. And there it sits for a week or so. Finally, I have work that will take me near enough to Ikea that I can make it work. I love the idea of Ikea. I am the wife and the idea end of our agreement. I know the execution end of the relationship does not share my love for Ikea. He still laments the day I found the corner computer unit with doors and storage in 2004. He swore he'd never take that thing apart after 17 pages of that little cartoon person mocking him through 57 separate instructions. We bought it at the Ikea in College Park, MD when Jack was born in 2004. We've moved twice since then and I am looking right at it. And now it's been painted. My idea. Much softer and it really works with the furniture now.
So, I get to Ikea, I don't have the time or funds to do anything more than make my return. I march in, pushing my cart with the chair, take number and wait. Number 12. There is one person behind a counter assisting a customer. The red sign above says they are serving Number 11. Lookin good. But there's a woman in front of me with a living room contained in three large boxes. I think she has a door or two, and a large mirror and some sort of ottoman. She is certainly in front of me. But she is not being helped, so I gather she is not Number 11. I remain quiet. Not my fault living room lady cannot follow instructions.
Number 11 is not going quickly. Living room is starting to to rock back and forth. Huffing and breathing rather deliberately. She catchs my eye.
Rolling her eyes, she tells me "This is a nightmare."
I choose silence.
She says it again.
More eye rolling and watch checking. She is now on her tiptoes looking towards the doors.
"I had to practically take my car apart to get this stuff in it and now my car is open. This is a nightmare."
Still I am silent. She left her car open? What does that mean? Who does that on purpose?
More huffing. More puffing.
"I have to get my kids. I have to leave this here. I have to leave. This is a nightmare."
Really? Where the fuck are your kids, lady? In the open car waiting to be stolen along with your GPS?
I silently congratulate myself for not engaging this lunatic and even try on a smoosh of empathy as no one has ever accused me of being overly patient.
Sidebar that proves my point - Julie and I were in Walgreens one time and we SWORE we were being punked because there was this man with coupons at the photo lab counter who had the wrong dental floss for the coupon. And then the wrong toothpaste. And then the wrong size. And the check out lady at the front was in her early 100's and was actually scanning items while sitting in a lawn chair. Really?
I can totally go back there as long as grandma is not working. Or after December when I assume she'll have forgotten completely that I was, um, vocally impatient.
Huffi Puffinster is really pulling out all the stops now.
Just don't make eye contact. All I can think is please leave your paid for stuff here. Please. I can find something to do with the doors and mirror, and I know that's the ottoman I wanted anyway. Hell, I'll leave the doors there for someone else to have. I just want the ottoman.
After about 5 minutes, number 11 is done.
"Number 12," calls the yellow and blue clad Ikea employee.
"That's me," I call, standing up.
Huffi Puffy implodes. "No way! I WAS HERE FIRST! YOU KNOW I WAS! WHAT THE HELL - THIS PLACE IS A NIGHTMARE!"
I smile and nod. "By all means, ma'am. Please go first" I say in my quietest extremely superior elitist voice I usually save only for my mother on the 4th day of her 7 day visits.
She bought the damn stuff on her debit card and had to get reimbursed in cash. That almost killed her. A couple more puffs and she is RUNNING out of the store, literally screaming "EXCUSE ME, I HAVE TO GET MY CHILDREN."
Like they are outside playing hopscotch with Manson.
"Number 12."
I walk up. I hand Ms. Ikea my receipt and say. "Hello. I'd like to return this item. And I am sorry you had to deal with that woman."
Oh, man, I love my moments of elitism.
Judge all you want - we all do it.
Miss Ikea smiles at me. "Her? She'll be back. She forgot her car keys," she says motioning to the keys on the counter. WHich she promptly picks up and tosses in the cart with all the stuff Huffybitch returned.
Turning on my heel with my receipt, I walk swiftly towards to door.
And there she is - screaming from the back of her Escalade that she cannot find her FUCKING KEYS!!!
I stop to fill out a compliment form about Miss Ikea. I hope she gets a raise.
And I pointed her out to Lucio the following Saturday when we were there to buy the ottoman.
Lucio is never going to move the computer to the larger table I've suggested. It's not his nature to be concerned about this sort of thing and I think he actually uses the discomfort to keep himself awake. But after 4 weeks of classes, it now bothers me. I decide I will go to Ikea and buy him a new rolling chair. I will make his desk more appealing because isn't that what a nice wife should do. I will do this because I sold the old rolling desk chair at the garage sale when me moved in June so maybe this is my fault. I arrive home with the new chair in a box. I ask Lucio to get it out of the car. He asks, "What is this for? We have a rolling desk chair."
"We do?"
"Yes."
"I thought we sold it at the garage sale. Where is it?"
"In the back of the garage. Been there the whole time."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"So you're sitting at the little chair on purpose?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because it's ridiculous. You cannot be comfortable like that."
"I am fine."
"But you look ridiculous."
"Who cares how I look?"
"I do."
"I don't."
"Well, that's stupid. Can you get the rolling chair and use that."
"As you wish," he tells me, leaving me feeling way more annoyed than Buttercup anyday.
"
With a forced smile, I say a quick, "Thank you."
He doesn't look back, but I hear, "Happy wife. Happy life."
"Oh. Well, I can return the chair. Maybe we can go to Ikea together? I'd like you to see this ottoman."
Having managed to get his attention, He says the old rolling chair has a tear in the seam and maybe we do need this new chair. I ask him to show me. The tear is small and can be fixed. But now Lucio doesn't want me to make him go to Ikea. I assure him I will not make him go.
Deflated, we put the box back in the car. And there it sits for a week or so. Finally, I have work that will take me near enough to Ikea that I can make it work. I love the idea of Ikea. I am the wife and the idea end of our agreement. I know the execution end of the relationship does not share my love for Ikea. He still laments the day I found the corner computer unit with doors and storage in 2004. He swore he'd never take that thing apart after 17 pages of that little cartoon person mocking him through 57 separate instructions. We bought it at the Ikea in College Park, MD when Jack was born in 2004. We've moved twice since then and I am looking right at it. And now it's been painted. My idea. Much softer and it really works with the furniture now.
So, I get to Ikea, I don't have the time or funds to do anything more than make my return. I march in, pushing my cart with the chair, take number and wait. Number 12. There is one person behind a counter assisting a customer. The red sign above says they are serving Number 11. Lookin good. But there's a woman in front of me with a living room contained in three large boxes. I think she has a door or two, and a large mirror and some sort of ottoman. She is certainly in front of me. But she is not being helped, so I gather she is not Number 11. I remain quiet. Not my fault living room lady cannot follow instructions.
Number 11 is not going quickly. Living room is starting to to rock back and forth. Huffing and breathing rather deliberately. She catchs my eye.
Rolling her eyes, she tells me "This is a nightmare."
I choose silence.
She says it again.
More eye rolling and watch checking. She is now on her tiptoes looking towards the doors.
"I had to practically take my car apart to get this stuff in it and now my car is open. This is a nightmare."
Still I am silent. She left her car open? What does that mean? Who does that on purpose?
More huffing. More puffing.
"I have to get my kids. I have to leave this here. I have to leave. This is a nightmare."
Really? Where the fuck are your kids, lady? In the open car waiting to be stolen along with your GPS?
I silently congratulate myself for not engaging this lunatic and even try on a smoosh of empathy as no one has ever accused me of being overly patient.
Sidebar that proves my point - Julie and I were in Walgreens one time and we SWORE we were being punked because there was this man with coupons at the photo lab counter who had the wrong dental floss for the coupon. And then the wrong toothpaste. And then the wrong size. And the check out lady at the front was in her early 100's and was actually scanning items while sitting in a lawn chair. Really?
I can totally go back there as long as grandma is not working. Or after December when I assume she'll have forgotten completely that I was, um, vocally impatient.
Huffi Puffinster is really pulling out all the stops now.
Just don't make eye contact. All I can think is please leave your paid for stuff here. Please. I can find something to do with the doors and mirror, and I know that's the ottoman I wanted anyway. Hell, I'll leave the doors there for someone else to have. I just want the ottoman.
After about 5 minutes, number 11 is done.
"Number 12," calls the yellow and blue clad Ikea employee.
"That's me," I call, standing up.
Huffi Puffy implodes. "No way! I WAS HERE FIRST! YOU KNOW I WAS! WHAT THE HELL - THIS PLACE IS A NIGHTMARE!"
I smile and nod. "By all means, ma'am. Please go first" I say in my quietest extremely superior elitist voice I usually save only for my mother on the 4th day of her 7 day visits.
She bought the damn stuff on her debit card and had to get reimbursed in cash. That almost killed her. A couple more puffs and she is RUNNING out of the store, literally screaming "EXCUSE ME, I HAVE TO GET MY CHILDREN."
Like they are outside playing hopscotch with Manson.
"Number 12."
I walk up. I hand Ms. Ikea my receipt and say. "Hello. I'd like to return this item. And I am sorry you had to deal with that woman."
Oh, man, I love my moments of elitism.
Judge all you want - we all do it.
Miss Ikea smiles at me. "Her? She'll be back. She forgot her car keys," she says motioning to the keys on the counter. WHich she promptly picks up and tosses in the cart with all the stuff Huffybitch returned.
Turning on my heel with my receipt, I walk swiftly towards to door.
And there she is - screaming from the back of her Escalade that she cannot find her FUCKING KEYS!!!
I stop to fill out a compliment form about Miss Ikea. I hope she gets a raise.
And I pointed her out to Lucio the following Saturday when we were there to buy the ottoman.
Monday, September 14, 2009
it's all up here...
All day I do it. I cannot help it. I have to do it or I will forget. I have to write myself little notes of things I know I need to think about or say outloud to Lucio, but if I don't remind myself with a note then and there, I will forget later. Occasionally I have too many things in the note and I fear I will forget the priority order. At that time, I call Lucio and do a data dump. I ramble on for a few minutes and he tells me quickly and assuredly that he is both listening and retaining.
Three days later I will get a call about the missed haircut for Jack or the field trip money that was due this morning. Always one thing forgotten.
Tonight I came home with a sizable list of things I need to do - Jack's thank you notes for his birthday party (a terrible exercise but every other party we've been invited to did them. Technically, they did it when delivery meant dropping a note in a cubby at daycare and I need to mail to home, but whatever, I'm a team player.) A few sewing projects and some ironing. And I need to remember to see if I can find two more panels like the silk ones I used to have in the old bedroom and now want to hang in the dining room. And I want to play tennis before it's too dark.
There are some things that have occurred to me over the course of the day that I would like Lucio to do. Schedule appointments with certain people - his advisors at school, both financial aid and academic, the chick at his former office that can roll over his 401K, John to see if he can help install the new mirror, the carpenter guy who is supposed to do something in the attic so the exhaust fan works in the 2nd bathroom. No one could remember all this for someone else and remember all the things they themselves have to do. No one.
After dinner, while changing into a tee shirt, I ask Lucio if he had a notebook somewhere where he writes down all the stuff I ask him about. Maybe next to where he keeps his schedule of what he wants to accomplish each day?
Without looking up from his reclined position on our bed and with his eyes closed (I really want to look for new bedding - something crisper and rich looking...add that to the list), Lucio simply taps his head. It's all up here.
Not 20 minutes later, the phone rings and it's Tina. She cuts Lucio's and Jack's hair. They were due 10 minutes ago.
Running out the door with Jack trailing behind trying to eat his chicken tenders and put on his crocks Lucio tells me I never reminded him of this. And he is sure he because he remembers everything I tell him.
Really? Really.
Walking back into our room, I stand staring at our bed thinking I know there was something I was thinking about...
Three days later I will get a call about the missed haircut for Jack or the field trip money that was due this morning. Always one thing forgotten.
Tonight I came home with a sizable list of things I need to do - Jack's thank you notes for his birthday party (a terrible exercise but every other party we've been invited to did them. Technically, they did it when delivery meant dropping a note in a cubby at daycare and I need to mail to home, but whatever, I'm a team player.) A few sewing projects and some ironing. And I need to remember to see if I can find two more panels like the silk ones I used to have in the old bedroom and now want to hang in the dining room. And I want to play tennis before it's too dark.
There are some things that have occurred to me over the course of the day that I would like Lucio to do. Schedule appointments with certain people - his advisors at school, both financial aid and academic, the chick at his former office that can roll over his 401K, John to see if he can help install the new mirror, the carpenter guy who is supposed to do something in the attic so the exhaust fan works in the 2nd bathroom. No one could remember all this for someone else and remember all the things they themselves have to do. No one.
After dinner, while changing into a tee shirt, I ask Lucio if he had a notebook somewhere where he writes down all the stuff I ask him about. Maybe next to where he keeps his schedule of what he wants to accomplish each day?
Without looking up from his reclined position on our bed and with his eyes closed (I really want to look for new bedding - something crisper and rich looking...add that to the list), Lucio simply taps his head. It's all up here.
Not 20 minutes later, the phone rings and it's Tina. She cuts Lucio's and Jack's hair. They were due 10 minutes ago.
Running out the door with Jack trailing behind trying to eat his chicken tenders and put on his crocks Lucio tells me I never reminded him of this. And he is sure he because he remembers everything I tell him.
Really? Really.
Walking back into our room, I stand staring at our bed thinking I know there was something I was thinking about...
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