Sunday Morning

Just under five years ago, I had to say goodbye. I remember a conversation I had had with my brother years ago, as we headed home from college on our daily commute. I mentioned that I would love to own a Jeep Wrangler. Rather than silently let me fantasize, rolling his eyes at my lame dream (at least my sister dreamed of owning a sports car), he responded that maybe a Cherokee would be more practical, so that we could fit the whole family in it. Instead, I ended up rolling my eyes.

Jump ahead a few years, and my time had come. I was living in Grand Rapids, Michigan, had a job and no kids, and the lease on my fuel-efficient, affordable Saturn SL sedan was ending. With the harsh Michigan winters, four-wheel-drive made sense. And so, I got my Jeep!!! I loved it. Driving with the top down, with co-workers, heading out to lunch. Heading out to Muskegon or Grand Haven on a beautiful summer day. I didn’t love having to change out the hard top for the soft top, or, honestly, how the poor insulation of the hard top made it pretty cold in the wintertime. The rust – not so great either. But I loved that car. When we moved to Cleveland, and I became a full-time mom, I traded cars with my husband (so I could have an easier time getting the car seat in and out of the back seat), so rides in the Jeep would mean freedom, a respite from the daily business of diaper changes and late night feedings. That is, until the first winter, when my husband had to say goodbye to his dear Corolla and I got a much more practical (and dog-friendly) Subaru wagon. Meanwhile, my husband kept driving the Jeep.

Until five years ago. That was when he got his new car. Which included trading in the Jeep. We were going to trade in the new car on a Sunday, so when I went to a meeting Saturday night, I took the Jeep. As I reached my meeting, the song “Sunday Morning” by Maroon 5 was on the radio, and I sat, car parked, to listen. “someday it would lead me back to you,” they crooned. Perhaps that was the little bit of comfort that I needed. I was ready to let go. The next morning, I offered to drive the Jeep to the dealership, and once again, on Sunday morning, I heard the song again, sealing its fate as forever linked in my mind to my Jeep.

Jump ahead five years, to tonight. Driving home in my minivan, three boys in tow, I heard the song again. And it so richly brought back all these memories. And I wonder whether, instead of even trying to put together a scrapbook (I’ve tried, and I’ve failed, to get into scrapbooking; the scrapbook I’ve started for my eight-and-a-half-year-old has reached when he was 1 ½ weeks old, and thus I’ve not yet started for the other two), the future of memory “albums” need to simply be digital, with musical soundtracks (perhaps this babbling of mine with the song playing the background would do).

Interestingly (to me, anyhow), the next song on the radio was Richard Marx’s “Right Here Waiting.” I sang along, somehow remembering every single word despite not having heard the song in at least fifteen years. And it took me back…to the song. To being a kid in Strongsville, Ohio. But it did not remind me of some lost love, or some relationship that I was in when the song came out (because I wasn’t; I just liked Richard Marx). And I have to say, it was kind of nice. There are songs that just make me smile, the kind I will overplay until my husband starts to hate it (Jason Mraz’s “I’m Yours” or Owl City’s “Fireflies”)There are songs that I simply don’t like (like “Closing Time” or “Single Ladies”). And then there are songs that I prefer not to listen to because they bring back memories I’d rather not remember, associations I’d rather not make. Not because they’re necessarily bad, but because I’m not that person anymore – I’ve grown up – and the music has the power to transport me back to the person I used to be.

I accept that I am the person I am today because of everything in my past, both good and bad, and so I would not change a thing because I don’t know what effect any particular change would have on who I am now (this logic, of course, assumes that one is happy with oneself in the present). I believe that if there’s anything I don’t like in my life, I will either do what I can to change it or accept it, but I will not dwell on the negative (I admit that I will, on occasion, vent, which is useful when trying to figure out whether something needs to be changed or accepted). I know what I believe, and it frustrates me that I get thrown off my game by a “hip three-minute ditty.”

Perhaps I should just switch to listening to NPR.

I Found My Word!!!

During my high school commencement, as I sat in my cap and gown waiting for my turn to rise, I watched a girl who was nine months pregnant march up on stage and receive her diploma. At that moment, twenty years ago this May (BTW, to all you SHS alums out there, is there a reunion planning committee?), I remember thinking that it would be so ...something... if she were to give birth on stage - because then it would be a commencement of another life, and another phase in her life.

At that moment, I believe I actually had a particular word in mind, but it has long since escaped my memory. And off and on throughout the years, I have remembered that moment and tried to come up with the perfect word to fit. And somehow I've rejected all the words I've come across, waiting for that A-HA moment when I am reminded of the very word that my eighteen-year-old brain came up with. Here are some of the words that I, or others, have come up with that have been close, but not quite right:

apropos
appropriate
fitting (just not poetic enough)
ironic (well, not really)
cool (yeah, that doesn't quite grasp the concept)

Now, by now I'm pretty much outed as a geek (who else would ponder something like this during commencement, obsess so much about a particular word, or, worst of all, admit it in public?), so it should come as no surprise that I have, for many years, subscribed to the merriam webster word-of-the-day email mailing list.

And today, I found my word. It may not be the exact word I was thinking of back then, but it does fit both in meaning and sufficient poetic criteria.

Main Entry: fe·lic·i·tous
Pronunciation: \fi-ˈli-sə-təs\
Function: adjective
Date: 1789
1 : very well suited or expressed : apt (a felicitous remark)
2 : pleasant, delightful (felicitous weather)

synonyms see fit

— fe·lic·i·tous·ly adverb

— fe·lic·i·tous·ness noun


I also thought it felicitous that I used to attend a school called St. Felicitas.

And how's this for a coincidence (which it probably truly is): I moved to Strongsville and started at the schools there in January in 3rd grade. And today, my eldest son returns to school after winter break - and he's in 3rd grade.

And I remember a kid in my class (named Brian) wearing a Browns jersey (Brian Sipe's, which is why I remember the kid's name, though I have no idea anymore of his last name). And today, my 2nd son wore his Browns jersey to school!

I think I'll stop now.

Go Mustangs!

Honesty

In the recent past, we had an incident occur at our house where my son inadvertently really hurt the feelings of a neighbor friend who he has known all her life (and since he was a year old). My son, being raised up until now to always be honest, is not always tactful. He means no harm by it, is not malicious in any way, but does not know the fine art of telling people what they want to hear. I am attempting to teach him proper phone etiquette as well, but before I wander too far down this path, I find myself stopping and taking careful stock of the situation.

When I see my son, I see an incredibly caring, smart boy who is straddling the fine line between being a big kid and staying young. His is a carefree childhood, and while he does balk at being asked to do work when his brothers do not, he is helpful and genuinely caring - to those that care about him. When his brother was injured, he stood by his side, and wouldn't move until the bandage was changed. Perhaps this is mere curiosity, but on the other hand, when he told him "I'm sorry that you got hurt," it was not out of guilt; he was upstairs when his brother's hand got stuck on the treadmill in the basement. He simply felt horrible hearing his brother scream in pain. He even created a little book/story for his brother (using up the last of our black toner, incidentally, but that is easily overlooked when you read "Hand Cast"). He is thoughtful and kind, and is who his littlest brother will complain to when Mommy and Daddy don't give him the answer he wants.

Yes, it's important to teach kindness. But is it really kind to lie? When I first got married, I would go shopping with my husband, and I would try on clothes, and he would actually tell me if my butt looked big in a particular pair of pants. Personally, I loved seeing the shocked looks on the other couple's faces when they'd hear that. Why would I put up with that, you wonder? Because he cares. Because he has nothing to gain by telling me something like that if it's not true. Would I rather he not tell me that certain clothes look bad on me, and then proceed to wear them and actually look like I have a big butt (no comments from the peanut gallery!). Or would I rather know before I spend money on unappealing clothes, and instead buy and wear clothes that are flattering? I could get all offended by his seemingly rude - albeit honest - comment, or I could take it at its worth and benefit from it. Personally, I think I'm better off now for the honest approach.

So I would rather my son get turned down by girls who would take offense at his honesty, and instead find someone who appreciates him for not being a master of flattery. I will put up with the awkward years and heartbreak until then. I respect that other parents will have different ideas about "white lies," but I hope they will understand and respect mine. When my son pays a compliment, I expect it to be genuine. The world has too many people who will say what they want to get what they want.

When I also think about the big picture, I think that my boys are really trying. Sometimes I think I'm on them too much for every little thing, and I need to pull back and appreciate how much they are getting right in any given day. If I expect perfection I'm going to drive them to the psychiatrist's couch!

p.s. I know I have written in the past about never lying to my kids, and while it is difficult at times, I work really hard to stick to that. And it's nice to get reinforcement for my beliefs: http://cosmos.bcst.yahoo.com/up/player/popup/?rn=4226712&cl=16329921&src=news. Thanks for the link, Marci. If I expect honesty from them, I have to be honest with them.

Cleveland: What a City

I’ve recently read and heard about how Katrina victims are still living in trailers, waiting for their city to be rebuilt and their lives to be returned to some semblance of normalcy. 9/11 will long be a part of all New Yorkers’ daily lives, with rescue workers going into the hospitals with respiratory symptoms from everything they inhaled that day. Mines collapse in West Virginia. Earthquakes and forest fires ravage California. Snowstorms coat the Dakotas in April. Floods along the Mississippi, hurricanes on the East Coast, and droughts throughout the Great Plains all make this country a harsh place to live.

Cleveland, however, is relatively sheltered from the harshest treatments that Mother Nature throws at this country. Sure, we have some tornadoes, the occasional minor earthquake shakes our foundation every once in a while (I believe we’ve had two in twenty years), and every year snowstorms smother our city with the weight of its whiteness.

But we can handle it. I can’t think of one time that any natural disaster has led the President of the US to request emergency funding to help us out of a jam. No, we’ve been generally pretty self sufficient in that regard, relying instead on what money we’ve got. Being in the Snow Belt, we budget for snowplows and salt trucks. And while our education system might need a little re-hauling, our public schools aren’t so much worse than those across the US of A.

But when it comes to our reputation, it sucks. People remember Cleveland for the Cuyahoga River fire (which happened back in 1969!), the Drew Carey show (which was shot in LA, although he was from Cleveland), or for where Bill Belichick used to coach before he led the New England Patriots to three Super Bowl victories in four years. Despite being listed (along with Pittsburgh, PA) as the most livable city in the US in 2005 (see the second to last paragraph in this article.

Cleveland: Hurricane Free Throughout Our History
Cleveland: Livable and Landslide Free

Now, these may not be the best marketing slogans, but then, I’m no expert in marketing. I leave the real catchy slogans to those who know what they’re doing (I freely admit I don’t know everything). But here’s the thing. Cleveland’s a great city, and yet people come here because they grew up here, or because their spouse dragged them here. People living here a while grow to love it, and get spoiled by the shorter commutes or the cheaper ticket prices to go to shows, or the sports, or, most often, the people.

Yes, I said the sports. Now, I’m not just saying this because the Cavs are in the playoffs. I admit, having grown up in Cleveland, I’m a little (okay, a lot) biased, but Cleveland is a great sports town. Never having won a championship in any major sport (and I’m sorry to all you soccer fans out there, but even in its heyday back – I believe sometime in the eighties – major league soccer never qualified as a major sport; don’t get me wrong, I went to several games, and loved cheering on the Force as we won, but I also grew up watching my brother play his little league soccer games), we Clevelanders are, I would argue, truer sports fans than anyone else.

Never having achieved the ultimate goal in any sport – as of yet – we still have hope. We still believe our teams have what it takes to be champions. And in the meantime, we relish each victory. Like proud parents, we see the good in the closest loss or even the blowout. If our teams comes so close and loses by just a few points, we hold our heads high, absorbing the loss and telling ourselves – with all honesty – that is was a great game and next time, yeah, next time, we’ll win it. If we lose by a lot, well, we’re rebuilding. It builds character. Did you see that one play? That guy’s reception or block or free throw or dive in the outfield showed great potential; this guy’s gonna be big in a couple of years. Just you wait. Did you see that great catch by the shortstop? Did you notice how the running back juked the defender? That was sweet.

We Cleveland fans notice all aspects of our sports, including the officiating and the environment. We play football outside, in the winter, in our domeless stadium next to the lake. Real football, like it ought to be. Okay, admittedly, I haven’t attended a game there in several years, but, well, you know, someone’s gotta take care of the kids. We know the odds are in our favor when a warm-weather team comes into a slushy, snowy December game. And Cleveland fans will be there, bundled up, physically and mentally suffering, and cheering on our teams, packing the stadiums and Arena, vowing to be there to witness all those defining moments that lead us to that unachievable pinnacle of joy.

Honestly, though, I don’t know what we’d do if we won. The closest we came was when the OSU Buckeyes won the 2002 national championship in college football. My husband went to OSU for eight years, so it was definitely a huge victory for us. I say it’s close because it’s not really a Cleveland team. Many Clevelanders are actually Michigan fans (grrrr), and it’s not quite the same. But my point here is that after we won, for a long time, we were still waiting for the bad news. We are so used to that last second reversal of fortune, of balls going through the second baseman’s legs and letting a late inning run score, or a last second kick just making it through the corner of the uprights. The Drive, the Fumble, Red Right Eighty-Eight: these are words that long time Browns fans know and will never forget, memories just as strong as their first kiss, their wedding day, the birth of their children. They most likely remember where they were when they witnessed these events, and they remember the tears of disappointment hastily covered up as “something in their eyes.”

Perseverance is a trait common among Cleveland sports fans. Those who turn their back on any church still show how strong faith can be, continuing to believe, despite a complete lack of proof, that we can be victorious, that we will get to the promised land. The draft is such a huge event here (I honestly don’t know what it’s like in other cities); the papers list the prospects, and my husband, who had to be out of town for a few days before the draft, had me save the sports pages while he was gone so he could be prepared for Draft Day. I don’t get it; it’s more boring than golf, and it’s literally a show where nothing happens for a really, really, really, really, really, really long time. I understand, conceptually, that the draft is important, and that the future direction of many teams is decided during the course of the weekend, but I don’t understand it as a televised event. It’s negotiating, and meetings, and a lot of behind the scenes decision-making that makes for extremely dull viewing, and yet people watch. It reminds me of an old Monty Python skit where people come to a stadium to watch a guy write a novel.
In it, a guy walks up to his desk and the commentators provide statistics about how many novels of his began with the word “The”, versus “A”, or other articles. I can imagine you yawning already. But I see it as strangely appropriate whenever I think about watching the NFL Draft.

But anyhow, I digress. In Cleveland, we like our sports teams so much, we watch the draft (okay, I don’t, but many do). We are a city full of humble, appreciative, faithful fans. Now that’s character. Cleveland is a great place to raise your kids if you want them to learn that winning isn’t everything. And though many may move away at different times in their lives, no matter where you go or how long you’re gone, a part of you knows that you’re still a Clevelander at heart.

Ah, Spring

Ah, chalk, a gate, and a window: three tools for a peaceful five minutes of parenting. The boys don’t want to come in, I want to sit down for a few minutes, and my elder son finds the perfect solution. From the shelf in the garage he pulls out the carton of Sidewalk Chalk, pulls it out, and starts drawing. His brother joins in, so I walk to the gate, close it, and head inside. Not a sound is to be heard, the beautiful silence of kids coloring. Of course, silence makes me nervous and I look outside every 30 seconds or so. But all is well, and I relax.

Now, five minutes later, my email is checked, and the driveway is decorated with my son’s name in blue, three umbrellas and a person in pink, and lots of scribbles in yellow, blue, grey, white, pink, and purple. The basketball is out, and my four year old needs to change his pants before we leave for the restaurant, but how wonderful it is that finally, outdoor time is possible in Cleveland. Warm, without rain.

Ten minutes, now I’m pushing my luck. When should I go out and summon them in? When do we start picking up the chalk? Can I bring back this peace later, after lunch, or is this a one-time deal? Later, inside, it’ll be different. Outside, it seems the screams dissipate almost immediately, as the world full of new toys – look at that stick; ooh, a basketball; is that mud? – draws their attention from their disagreements.

The winter doldrums have ended, bringing on the promise of a wonderful Spring where the whole world is opened up to us.

Darn, they came inside. Time’s up.

Allergies Suck

Allergies suck. My allergies started the night before my first day of ninth grade, and I showed up to my first day of classes with puffy red eyes (that were sealed shut by eye boogers all night and that my mom stayed up at night wiping off with a warm, wet cloth – by the way, thanks for that, Mom). That was the year I got the perfect attendance certificate, and I’m not really sure why I bothered, or why it mattered so much to me that year; perhaps it was then that I learned to truly embrace my inner nerd, but since I still wasn’t a great student, I don’t think I truly ever acquired true nerdiness. Nope, I was a poser nerd.

But anyhow, as I was saying, somehow, I would have allergies every other year just in the fall, from right before school started until the first frost (making me forever wish for an early winter). My major allergy is to ragweed, and evidently they grow well only every other year. So on the one hand, I consider myself quite fortunate that my allergies only bug me every other year. But on the other hand, no medicine seems to have any effect, so I suffer through allergy season drug-free.

I know a lot of people have it worse than I do, and I appreciate how lucky I generally am, but evidently, I now also have allergies in the spring! This is a new discovery, and I figure at the age of 34 I should not be picking up new allergies. At least I don’t wear contacts anymore.

So why am I talking about allergies? Well, I’ve mentioned several times throughout this blog how lazy I am. So it seems kind of ironic, then, that my immune system is working needlessly, reacting to stimuli that aren’t supposed to make me sick. But then again, being a mom of two toddlers, I guess I do have a tendency to overreact to little things, so maybe I’m allergic to my kids. Hmmm…

So my purely non-medical mind thinks, then, that there should be some way to channel the power of allergies to fight AIDS and other immune deficiency ailments. Think about it: AIDS is when your body fails to fight off diseases. If you could inject allergy-fighting cells into the bloodstream, cells that could be programmed to be allergic to actual diseases (instead of wasting time reacting to ragweed and cat hairs), problem solved. A bit simplistic, maybe, but it sounds good, right? Of course, the medical-mind of my husband points out that they are completely different mechanisms and don’t inter-relate. Of course, I took one class of Biochemistry, and that was four days a week at 8:30 in the morning, while I commuted forty minutes each way (did I ever mention that I’m not a morning person?). Oh, and I squeaked by with a C. And then I changed majors. So clearly, my grasp of biochemical processes of the human body is not so strong.

But you know, being married to a doctor works for me. I can hear his stories, listen to his descriptions of the research he’s doing, and actually use the part of my brain that was stretched a bit during my pre-med days. And, if I don’t get it, it’s okay. I’m not going to fail, nobody’s going to die, and my husband doesn’t mind. I will never claim to have “special powers” or any extra medical knowledge just because I’m married to a physician, as some other people do. I mean, I am a more relaxed mom because, instead of calling my pediatrician every time my kid falls or bumps his head (which is, sadly, quite often), I can just ask my husband. “Do I need to go to the ER? Is there anything wrong? Should I give him some medicine?” If anything, I’m actually less capable of learning because I know I have this great resource for information. Part of what I learned in school is not just to memorize a bunch of data, but rather where to find information when I need it. And that’s what I do.

So I read the paper every day, usually just the Arts and Life section, starting with the comics, and moving on to the celebrity gossip, Dear Abby, and other fluff pieces. Then, if I have time, I move on to the front page section, and maybe even Metro, to learn what’s going on locally. Well, once a week, they have some little article about medicine, or home remedies, or something like that in the Arts section. And last week, it was talking about allergies. It mentioned that one thing you shouldn’t do is over-expose yourself to the allergen in the hopes of desensitizing yourself, because it doesn’t work. Okay, I could see how if you’re allergic to peanuts you shouldn’t eat a whole jar of peanut butter because it could kill you. And logically, it does make sense. But the problem is, if I’m allergic to something outside, it says I should stay indoors and run the air conditioner.

I have two problems with that. And I’m not even counting the fact that we don’t have central air, because I don’t really want to have air conditioning. I have a friend who keeps his house refrigerator-cold in the summer, so when we go over to his place, I have to take a sweatshirt along. Seriously, a sweatshirt on a 90-degree day! But, it’s his home and he gets to keep it like he likes it. He probably hates coming over to our house where we barely run our window units. No, my problems are that 1) I spend months of winter waiting for the warm weather to return. The number of sunny, 70-degree days in Cleveland is quite limited, and I’ll be darned if I have to miss them by sitting inside. It’s not like I have a job that requires me to go sit in an office all day; I’m a stay-at-home mom, for crying out loud. One of the perks is that I get to be indoors or outdoors whenever I darn well please (and I’m sorry about the use of the word “darn”; as I mentioned before, I’ve got two toddlers at home, and if talking like Ned Flanders keeps me from being a bad influence, since I can’t – and don’t want to – control the language of others around me, then it’s what I’ll have to do; besides, as a writer, I feel that using profanity is a crutch, and that a writer should be able to express strong emotions in a more creative manner, though I’m not claiming that “darn” is very creative). And 2) last summer, my husband and I built a playground for our kids in the backyard. It took about a month to put up (you know, from one of those kits you get at Lowe’s that you should be able to put together in a weekend), and it’s got a rock wall, two slides, and two swings (with room for one more that we’ll put in next summer). Leaving kids unsupervised for too long is a bad idea, so I kind of have to spend some time in the backyard with them. Oh, and we have a dog that needs a walk everyday (although he misses them if it’s raining). And we have a nice grill that we like to use when we can.

So really, it’s not practical to completely avoid the outdoors. Nor, I believe, is it healthy. We can’t really open up all the windows and let all the allergens inside, so our fresh air intake is limited to when we’re actually outside.

I know. I could get a mask, or some sort of air filter helmet that I could wear when I am outside. Yeah, that would work. My husband is allergic to cut grass, so for a while, he would mow the lawn wearing a surgical mask he got from the hospital. I figured it was a small sacrifice for me to make to actually mow my own lawn, so I did it for a while. It was kind of fun, making different patterns in the grass – diagonals, spirals, stripes in all directions. But then, mowing the lawn when seven months pregnant isn’t so wise, and then trying to find the right time to mow when you have a kid around is also tough, and even harder when you have two, and so we hire a company to come do it for us now. It is, as my husband says, why we make money. Because really, you can only buy so much stuff. After a while, you’re going to run out of places to put it. You may as well make your life easier.

So while my eyes may itch, and I may sneeze every now and then, I refuse to let my allergies control me. I just better learn what the heck ragweed looks like; for all I know, I’m probably letting it grow in my garden or eating it in some mixed green salad (for those who know me, you know that’s highly unlikely, considering how little salad I eat).

My Car Has A Name

I am not a religious person. For those of you out there who are, perhaps I should preface this story with a disclaimer: all musings contained herein are meant to be obnoxious, or maybe just a little annoying, but are not meant to insult. If you are insulted, perhaps you and the guy who played Chef in South Park should get together. Of course, I am not trying to compare myself to the writers of South Park, but I do think if you can’t take a little humor at the expense of your religion may need to look inward to the source of the discomfort (are you offended at my ignorance or your own doubt in your faith?).

So anyhow, sometime this past Friday, Good Friday to be exact, I last drove my car. I suppose my younger son had played in it for a while, turning on and off various lights and messing with the wipers. Well, Saturday, it wasn’t driven. But today, on Easter Sunday, I had to drive my cousin to his friend’s house so they could drive back to Kentucky (where they go to college). We needed to get to his place at 3, so at 2:15, we loaded up the car and I went to start it. I got in the driver’s seat and found that the clock and odometer were blank (normally a digital display).

Uh-oh, I thought. That’s not good. And sure enough, my car wouldn’t start. Great. We let the kids play on the playground while we tried to use the battery-powered jump starter that my dad got me sometime in the past year and that my husband had mocked. Unfortunately, neither of us was entirely sure how to connect it, and with that doubt, we decided not to proceed. Research was in order.

I looked through the manual. Nothing. I looked online. Nothing. I went inside and found the receipt for when I got the battery last summer. I tried calling the place, but they were closed. Argh. My patience grew thinner and thinner. I grew more frustrated with each passing minute. My cousin called his friend, who agreed to come pick him up, so at least I wouldn’t be making him get back to college too late. A few minutes later my husband came home from work and, after changing out of his shirt and tie (his “fancy clothes”, as my elder son likes to call it), jump started my car.

And now, it works. We had to go to dinner, but after returning, I took it for a drive, and it is fine. I know, not a very exciting story. Rather ordinary, in fact.

But here’s the thing. My car died on Good Friday and came back to life on Easter. Does that sound familiar to you? You may say that it was just a coincidence, but was it really? Or was it a sign that my faith has been misguided (or, well, non-existent) for too long. And a savior has been born (again).

And so, from now on (or at least until I get my minivan), my car shall be called Jesus. Or maybe just J.C. Believe!

p.s. I know I haven't posted in over a week, and you're looking at this and thinking "THIS is what she came back with?!" Sorry. I promise to do better next time.

Car Buying 101

Well, I’m not getting a Tribeca. Friday morning, after getting the e-Check done on my car, I had an hour to waste before taking my little one to a makeup class at the Little Gym (a class he didn’t want to attend and that he ended up leaving early). I had planned on visiting a couple of furniture stores between the e-Check place and the Little Gym, but unfortunately, nothing was open. So, as I approached the Subaru dealership where I purchased my current car, I noticed they were open and decided to stop in.

We had seen an ad or a commercial or something about the 7-passenger Tribeca, and being quite satisfied with our current Outback, I thought it was worth considering. Apparently, some major traffic jam on 271 caused all the salespeople to come in late, so I waited around for ten minutes just wandering around the showroom, looking through the brochure, and playing with my son.

Finally, a salesman came in and made his way over to me. Now, I’ve been through the car-buying experience several times now, and I’m not saying I’m a pro, or necessarily very good at getting a great deal, but I do have a personal pet-peeve list about sales tactics. A few months after getting married, my husband and I went around looking to get a second vehicle. I was 22 years old, and probably looked younger, but I was looking to spend a decent amount of money (more than a cup of coffee or a meal). So I expect to be treated as, say, an adult, especially if I go unaccompanied by a parent. So when I went to the Nissan dealership and the salesman kept referring to me as a “kid”, yeah, I was kind of turned off. As we walked around the lot, he asked if I minded if he smoked. I admit, I did say no (even though, honestly, I did), but when we stepped into a car and I took it for a test drive, I really didn’t like the overwhelming smell of smoke permeating through the car. That really affected my impression of the car. In the end, we leased a Saturn from the “no haggle” dealership across the street from a guy named Jody who, although he laughed too much, treated us with respect.

So much of the car-buying experience is emotional. It is. You research the car, get the numbers, and order the Consumer Reports car report. You go in and negotiate, but really, the salesmen have the upper hand. They see people day in and day out, know which person is emotionally vested and which is not. They know how to pull your emotional strings and convince you, with “facts” and statistics, and some good acting, that you are really getting a good deal. I’m sure they have to go back to the finance manager “for that extra discount” not for approval, but to get the laughter out of their system before they get you to sign a contract that shows what a chump you are. In return, they offer you the emotional satisfaction of driving away in a pretty new car with the new car smell sprayed in, in the color you want, with the extra features you overpaid for. And month after month, as you sign check after check (or file statement after statement if you sign up for auto-pay) for your car, that emotional rush fades a little more, and you convince yourself as you drive your car just how much you love it and just how much it was worth how much you paid for it. And you are resolved that next time, you’re going to get a better deal.

So yes, I am shopping not only for a good car, but also for a good shopping experience. I’m dropping a good deal of money, and expect to come out of it without any bitterness toward the dealership where I purchase or lease my car. I don’t want that negative emotion accompanying me every time I look at my car.

So anyhow, the salesman at the Subaru dealership greeted me, and I told him I was interested in learning more about the Tribeca. Mind you, the salesperson who had sold us our last car, and had sold our friends their car shortly afterward (in a show of great customer service, since the sale occurred right around the time my friend went into labor) sent us a letter after this dealership underwent new ownership, stating she had left to go elsewhere. So I was talking to someone completely different, the first guy that happened to show up at work that day. And he proceeded to open up the brochure (that I had been looking through off and on for the past ten minutes) to the last page, and began to read off the colors in which I could get the car.

I’m not one to be rude. Really. I will not talk back to an elder (okay, except my parents, and I know I ought to cut back on that). And even on my worst days, even if I am horribly offended, I will recite what I ought to say, figure out the perfect words to convey my disappointment (or whatever) and end up leaving without saying a word.

I let him read (yes, read) about four colors (including obsidian, which he kindly translated as black for me, in case I couldn’t figure it out by the accompanying color swatch). He only had about three more to go, so I could have kept my mouth shut.

“Honestly,” I said, “the color is probably the least important thing to me right now.” Honestly, I’m kind of surprised I actually said anything. What’s happening to me? I mean, I still had about 40 minutes to waste; what’s the hurry?

His response? “Oh, you just want to take it for a drive.”

Again, wow. Has this guy been to a sales seminar ever?

“No, I’d just like to take a look to see if it’s a practical upgrade for me.”

Since it was a rainy day, and I had my kid with me, I really was in no mood to move a car seat in order to take the car for a spin. I figured I could look inside and get a good sense of whether three car seats would comfortably fit inside. So he pulled up a five passenger Tribeca. I’m pretty sure I had mentioned that I was looking at the seven passenger one, so he really wasn’t getting very many points on receptiveness at this point.

I looked inside, and he confirmed that it has no third row of seats. “Okay, can I look at a seven passenger one?”

We went back inside. I waited while he wandered outside to pull up the car (which turned out to have a dead battery). I waited for about five minutes or so, during which I was tempted to leave, but didn’t (having nowhere else to go). The guy at the front desk, a burly, friendly grey-haired man who had welcomed me initially, talked a little to my son. Finally, I said something.

“You know, you may want to mention to the salesman that he shouldn’t start off by reading off the color choices of the car.”

That’s it. I didn’t go into how insulted I was by it, not only by the assumption that that’s all I would be interested in, or that I couldn’t read that in the brochure by myself, but also by the fact that since he came after I had looked through the brochure for ten minutes, perhaps I might have already looked at that page (and was capable of reading it). I don’t know. Maybe it was more than that. Maybe it was less.

I talked to the receptionist guy about how I don’t know if it’s even a practical alternative to a minivan, something I mentioned to my salesman as we walked to the car. He mentioned that minivans don’t have all wheel drive (and asked me if I was familiar with the Subarus; I’m pretty sure I had already mentioned that I’m looking to upgrade from my Outback, but I mentioned it again anyhow). I let him know that a couple of the minivans actually have all wheel drive options (don’t know why I felt I needed to share that information with him, but it felt good). In any case, he was talking apples to my oranges.

I looked inside. It’s nice, but it would never work. To access the back row, the seats in the front row would have to fold down. With car seats, that’s not so easy to do. And having my five year old have to climb over the folded-down middle seat every day is just impractical. As it is, I feel bad that he’s going to probably have to sit in the far row.

He showed me the engine (by then, I really didn’t care. But I thought, sure, what the heck. Let’s just keep this experience alive. What else can he add to my blog entry (yes, as I lived it, I knew I would be sharing it, and that was my silver lining)? So it turns out that the Tribeca is built in the same plant as some Porshe, and in fact has a Boxer engine.

Under the hood, the Tribeca is a nice looking car. Inside, it’s decent. On the outside, I don’t know, it’s a little weird, but I could have gotten used to it. And later, when we’re out of car seats, maybe I would consider it (although by then, what’s the point? Make them sit next to each other in one row in the backseat of some sedan). But on a purely practical standpoint, the Tribeca is not a feasible alternative to a minivan.

And I have to say that, in the end, I am happy to know that I am capable of judging a car purely on its merits (or lack thereof) and not on the sales experience. But I’d be lying to say I’m not a little relieved that I won’t have to go back and deal with this guy again.

National Chole Day

I made meatloaf for lunch today. It was actually pretty good, a Santa Fe Southwestern Meatloaf that was spicy (minced jalapenos) and the boys actually gobbled up with some ketchup. I hadn’t eaten meatloaf in almost twelve years, when I had eaten it on an RV with ten other people on the way to Alaska. And normally, we don’t like to eat that much meat.

But you see, April 1st was Meatloaf Appreciation Day, and it made me think I ought to give it a try. As it turns out, pretty much every day in April has some reason to celebrate, some special meaning to make every day special. Perhaps this is to make up for the fact that four days after wearing shorts, a tshirt, and sandals, we have snowfall.

http://www.123greetings.com is where I go to find out about what special days are coming up. For example, April 6th is Animated Cartoon Day, California Poppy Day, Caramel Popcorn Day, Ram Navami, International Fun At Work Day, Tartan Day, and International Special Librarian’s Day. Whew! What a busy Thursday. I could start the day with a poppyseed muffin, have some caramel popcorn as a mid-morning snack as I drive to the library. I’ll wish all them Hindu’s out there a Happy Ram Navami (the website’s spelling, not mine), and watch a rerun of the Simpsons, all while wearing a kilt. The 15th: Bengali New Year, Tax Day, Malayalam New Year, Fast Food Day, Rubber Eraser Day, Freak-out Day, and Leonardo da Vinci’s Birthday. Busy, busy, busy. On the 17th, be sure to appreciate a nosy neighbor. On the 20th, Respect Lima Beans. Check it out for yourself.

Now, admittedly, I’d like to attend the Chocolate Festival in Illinois on the 28th, and while I do appreciate the ingenuity of the Zipper (Zipper Day, 29th), I have to wonder. Who came up with all these days, and why? I’m sure it wasn’t all the same person (Hot Dog Day, Jelly Bean Day, 22nd), and maybe I just lack that true devotion to something, anything, that would drive me enough to push to get a day to commemorate it, but I just don’t understand.

I mean, I celebrate the standard days: New Years, Valentine’s, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas (although, since I don’t observe it religiously, I’ve been pushing my family to switch to celebrating Kwanzaa, since it would make dividing days with the in-laws much easier). But beyond that, well, I don’t know. Wasn’t Sweetest Day created by chocolate manufacturers and greeting card companies? I’m sure many of these days have corporate sponsors. And yes, a Festival is different from a “Day” since it’s an event celebrating something, usually to raise funds for some organization.

You know, I’ve had a couple of ideas of events that the Indian community could organize to spread awareness and/or raise funds. And I would organize them myself if I had any real interest in getting involved. But as an idea girl, I’m willing to share these gems with the public purely for the sake of seeing them done (and gloating when they succeed).

Now, I’m sure you’ve all heard of the Chili Cook-off. Restaurants and individuals pay a fee to compete and present their best chili recipes to be evaluated by a group of judges, and people show up, paying for tickets to buy small samples of all these different chilis. It’s great for advertising, and with money coming in from competitors and attendees, I reckon it raises a decent amount of money, too. Well, how about a Chole Cook-off? It’s the same concept, but with Indian food. Everyone’s got a slightly different recipe for chole (Indian chili made with garbanzo beans instead of beef or beans). Someone could have a stand selling various flatbreads (I prefer Batura) or rice, and maybe even stalls selling lassi and other beverages. But aside from that, different Indian restaurants from around town (and as the event grew bigger, from surrounding towns), as well as ambitious Indian Aunties, would bring out a large vat of their best chole, and compete for the title of Chole Cook-off Champion, not to mention bragging rights. I would hold it in late Spring, preferably on the grounds of the local temple (so it could be outdoors). It’s completely vegetarian, so I don’t see how they would have a problem with it. It could be a temple fundraiser, perhaps. I once went to a Chili Cook-off in a parking lot. Heck, that works too. Doesn’t really matter where it is, as long as the proper permits are acquired, right? Advertising would be very important.

The key, I believe, would be to draw in a non-Indian crowd. Because, admit it, an Indian family showing up to this event would 1) eat before coming, 2) find the stall that fills the Dixie cup up the highest, and 3) come to get a cheap meal. Yes, it’s a horrible stereotype, and I’d love to be proven false, but c’mon.

In Cleveland, we have a community center that’s not fully utilized. It’s a nice space, with a large kitchen and a larger open room with a sound system. And so, it made me wonder, why isn’t the space used as a chaat house? When I went to San Francisco, I ate at a Chaat House, a restaurant whose main dish is chaat, which is a simple dish, originally served in roadhouse dhabas, or stalls, with flat fried puris topped with a tangy, spicy mix of potatoes, lentils, garbanzo beans, yogurt, tamarind sauce, onions, and other stuff that I’m forgetting at the moment (or maybe not). Evidently, there’s a bunch of chaat houses in California (as googling for chaat house will reveal), but the phenomenon has not yet spread to Cleveland (please, hold back your expressions of shock). I heard about one place that was basically a warehouse with folding tables and chairs, sold plates of chaat on paper plates, and was so crowded that you’d often have to sit outside on the curb to eat. Chaat is the ultimate fast food. Most of the ingredients are raw or require very little preparation. Heck, a Subway store could theoretically be converted very easily to a Chaat house since the ingredients would be all laid out and you could let the customers choose what they wanted or didn’t want. It would probably do well in a food court.

After coming back from Paris last October, I also realized that what Cleveland needs is a creperie. We ate some of the best crepes (having at least one almost every day we were there) at a roadside stall, where, again, the toppings were in little steel containers, and a stack of crepes was kept warm. You would order, and the guy working the stall would grab a crepe, slather it with the toppings, fold it into a wax wrapper, and hand it over.

My local bakery needs to start selling sandwiches made just of their focaccia split in two with sliced tomatoes and mozzarella in between, and perhaps fresh basil. Or with sliced proscuitto and arugula for meat-eaters, I suppose. For that matter, since the owner’s son is in my kid’s school (just down the street from the bakery), it would be nice if she took orders and brought lunch orders to the school to distribute while we all waited to pick our kids up from preschool. Personally, I think it’s a market she’s missing out on, but maybe that’s just me being a little lazy.

And there it is. There’s the reason I’m such an idea person. Because I’m too damn lazy to act upon any of these ideas. Well, that and since I have absolutely no business sense, it wouldn’t really make much sense for me to start a business. Well, that and I have no desire to give up the little free time I do have. Not yet, anyhow.

Before I had kids, I considered starting a business. A coworker friend and I were going to quit our jobs (after we got the business going – we even had a name and everything) and start this business. It was a good idea, and we thought through what it would entail. And for Christmas that year, my husband even bought me a book about starting a business (see, he has always been very supportive of my crazy endeavors, choosing instead of discouraging me to let me figure out on my own that I really don’t want to proceed). Well, I ended up returning the book after a couple of weeks, when this friend and I took the quick Are You Ready To Start A Business quiz and failed it miserably. See, neither of us was the least bit inclined to relinquish our treasured free time. He was married with two young kids (or at least one with one on the way, I can’t remember now), and I, well, let’s just say I didn’t want to offend my good friends, the television and the couch. I liked working and being social, but sometimes, it was nice to know I could leave work and not have to think about it.

It’s still a belief I hold onto, that home is no place for work (well, unless you’re trying to be a writer and have young kids sleeping and you would like to go to the coffee shop to write but could be arrested for doing so if you left them under the care of your dog). I mean, of course there’s the housework, and lawn care, and home improvement, but when that’s all taken care of (ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha), it’s a place to forget work. I’ve never had an office job since having kids, but my goal is to one day acquire one, and while there, I’d like to think that I can keep my home life (other than a few cute photographs in my cubicle, and, I suppose, an anecdote or two) out of the office. Work at work, then leave. I’m a good worker bee that way.

And that, I suppose is why I’m hoping some enterprising individual out there with the personality and drive to actually act upon these ideas will do so. I’d like some credit, of course, since I did suggest the idea. For now, though, I’d like to start a petition (someone send me a link to a website that creates and manages them, please) to create Chole Day. Send me your chole recipes (well, wait until I put together or find some website where you can submit your recipes online) and I’ll compile a Chole Cookbook. Then again, maybe the cookbook should be compiled from the winning recipes at the Chole Cook-off. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do.

So, is anyone good at organizing events? Oh damn, that’s me. Umm, anyone know anyone involved with an organization around Cleveland that might want an event organized? Damn, again, that’s me. Umm, ooh, here’s a good one. Anyone interested in pursuing this for real? Contact me. We’ll talk. I’ll help get this thing moving. Really. Seriously. Why don’t you believe me?

Prison Retreat

I don’t remember exactly when I heard the news story, sometime in the past year (though definitely before December). But just today, I came across this little tidbit I wrote in reaction to it. Perhaps you remember the story…

“So I was listening to NPR this morning. I wasn’t having a particularly bad day; in fact, the day promised to be quite relaxed and enjoyable. But I heard about a French journalist who had been held captive for five months and I have to confess, part of me was jealous. I thought, wow, five months without diaper changes; laundry; dishes; cooking; deciding what to cook; feeding a husband, two kids and a dog; running errands; and all the other stupid stuff that fills up my days. In five months, as long as I have access to paper and pen, I could probably write a novel. Sure, the food wouldn’t necessarily be good, but then I guess I could lose those last five pounds.”

So then that just begs the question: does that little glance into my psyche indicate that I’m an optimist (seeing the best in an obviously horrible situation) or a pessimist (seeing what’s sucky in my life)? Then again, does it really matter? (Does that make me a defeatist?)

Thinking more deeply about the concept of imprisonment, especially in light of the recent journalist that was kidnapped in Iraq, it’s really got to work out for writers. Instant bestseller, and it hasn’t even been written yet, or even completely conceived (unless she needed something to think about while she was imprisoned). Everyone will buy it, or at least feel guilty about not buying it. I’ll make millions. I mean, you know the quality will be good; I’m a writer after all. And if I do something a little different, like tell it from the kidnapper’s point of view, or write a how-to survive a visit to a war-torn land, then maybe I’ll even get invited to the Oprah show.

I just heard about a nineteen-year-old girl who has received some incredible advance (over a million dollars) for her novel. Nineteen! On the one hand, good for her. On the other hand, grrr. So I’m on my kick again to get a novel written. Apparently this blog just isn’t good enough for me. And I’ll use this little tidbit of info to motivate me. If some nineteen-year-old can get published (no, I’ve never read her writing, and yes, she could be a brilliant writer, and yes, I did write some damn good stuff in high school, but still), then so can I. I’m almost twice her age. Surely the knowledge and maturity I’ve acquired in that extra lifetime counts for something (like not getting all jealous over someone else’s good fortune, perhaps? – don’t you hate it when you talk back to yourself?). I can do it. I can write a book that’s not just drivel (like this blog generally is). Let’s assume all my crappy writing has been punted out of my system and onto this blog (don’t you feel special reading this now?). All the good stuff can go into my novel. And it will. It’s in me, and now that I’m in the habit of writing (thanks to this blog), it can come out. So, some time in the next couple of years, expect to hear something about my novel.

And hopefully it won’t just be another blog entry, written from prison, talking about how I used to be moronic enough to think I might one day actually publish a novel.

Just Another Day

Do you believe in fate, karma, and all that stuff? I don’t. I think things just happen, or you make things happen. Some events are just random and can’t be made to be more than that. Some days, good things keep on happening and in the end it’s a crappy day, and other days, despite getting crapped on, you can’t shake the smile from your face.

Thursday night, at 11:15pm, my husband got a call from work. The guy who was supposed to work the midnight shift had to leave, because his partner had gone into labor. This meant that my husband, who was scheduled to work at 7 the next morning, had to get up immediately, jump in the shower, and hustle to work the midnight shift. Normally, he takes a two-hour nap before going in; this time, he couldn’t.

So Friday morning, since keeping the boys quiet inside the house can be quite difficult and rather stress inducing, I decided to take the boys out to breakfast at Tommy’s. Since it was so nice out, I ran into the attic to try to find sandals for the boys (hoping in our outgrown stash the little one could use a hand-me-down; no luck). And, since it was so beautiful outside (sunny and 65 degrees), we decided to then walk to Turtle Park, a little playground about a mile away from Tommy’s specially designed for kids 5 and under.

Breakfast went well, and the kids ate up their pancakes topped with strawberries, bananas, and whipped cream. I even got to eat my French toast and bacon. But then, as I reached for the bill, my hair got a little too close to my plate and was syruped. And of course, I had just washed my hair that morning.

Syrup in the hair was annoying, yes, but not horrible. The waitress saw what happened and immediately brought over a glass of water for me to dip my hair into, so no harm was done. The cosmic balance had been restored. We left the restaurant. My younger son got in the stroller, my elder son walked, and his friend (who had joined us as we were finishing up with her mom and younger sister) walked with us (while her mom and sister drove to the playground). For a moment, I contemplated driving over, since the diaper bag was in the car, but I decided it was too nice a day, and besides, I probably wouldn’t need to change my son anyhow.

We walked. It took a little urging to get the kids to keep walking, what with all the fascinating leaves, sticks, and blades of grass to examine. But, soon enough, we could see the girl’s mom and sister waving to us from inside the fence. My son and his friend rushed ahead as I strolled past a tree a few yards behind.

That’s when I felt it. Splat. A small, wet, cold sensation drew my eyes to the back of my right hand. Less than half an hour after getting syrup in my hair, a bird pooped on my hand. I grabbed a stick and scraped off what I could, then wiped my hand on the grass. After getting inside the fence and letting my younger son go play, I proceeded to clean myself off more thoroughly (with my trusty companion, Purell), only to discover that the splatter had hit my shirt, my jacket, and my purse. I cleaned the best I could, and decided to just deal with it later when I got home.

So then, a few minutes later, I watched my younger son standing in the sandbox, straining his face as he – give yourself five points if you guessed it – pooped. If you recall, I had decided AGAINST bringing the car, with the diaper bag, to the park. Fortunately, my friend had her diaper stuff in her car (just in front of the playground) and let me borrow it. So, we were able to stick around and let the kids actually play at the playground.

The afternoon was forecast to by rainy, so my husband had asked me to walk the dog early. My plan was to come home, change a diaper if necessary, switch strollers, and head out. But, the kids were hungry, so we ate what I hoped would be a quick lunch before heading out (of course, that never really happens). So finally, we got out, and we started walking. My elder son actually held the leash (handing it over if we ever saw a dog or squirrel) for half the walk, and I half-wished I had the camcorder to record the two of them running side by side (the other half realized I had enough on my hands with two kids and a dog). Well, we were about a mile away from home when the droplets started. We sped up. Then finally, about five houses away from our house, the rain started. Now, I know that a little rain never hurt anyone, and normally, I wouldn’t have cared. But the smell of wet dog was not something I really wanted to face, especially since I had neither the time nor the inclination to bathe the dog.

The little one took a nap – in his brother’s bed – and I went to my bedroom to change out of my bird-soiled clothes. Now, despite knowing that I had just seen a particular pink shirt of mine the night before – and discussing it with my husband when we’d had a conversation about how so many of my clothes don’t fit me very well, a conversation that he took quite a surprising bit of interest in – I couldn’t find it. Odd, I thought, but just put on another top, trying to dress somewhat nicely since my husband’s cousin and his family were also going to be at my in-law’s house for dinner that evening. I headed downstairs, where my son and I hung out until my husband woke up an hour or so later.

So as of this point, my mood was still good. Other days, less than that would totally set me off, so I’m not really sure what kept my spirits up. Perhaps it was the fact that it was warm and sunny out, and that I got to enjoy it for as long as it lasted (and then some).

Well, the big one (my husband) woke up, the little one woke up, and the boys and I packed the boys’ suitcase while my husband showered. My firstborn started wavering, saying he didn’t want to sleep over Grandma’s house, so I reassured him that he didn’t have to; that we could just as easily bring the suitcase back, but if he decided when he was there that he wanted to stay, he should have some clothes. And, of course, once we got there, he announced to Grandma that he was sleeping over. Such is the mutability of a child’s mind.

My husband said he’d go back to the car and get the suitcase in a few minutes, which I thought was a little odd (considering we normally let the boys drag it behind them) but then, sometimes he is a little odd. I went in and started feeding the little one dinner (when he walked in, he headed straight for the dining room and climbed right into the high chair). My husband disappeared for a while, and I simply presumed he must have decided to go put gas in the car – while he was out there – and would be back shortly. Finally, my elder son couldn’t stand waiting anymore, and went upstairs to look for him. I kept sitting, starting the little one on his second rotli.

A couple of minutes later, my son runs downstairs calling, “Happy Birthday!” Now, my birthday isn’t for a few weeks, so I don’t think it registered. But I took the paper from his outstretched hands and read the receipt for two tickets for that night’s performance of “Bombay Dreams.” I looked up and saw my husband wearing a suit and green shirt, which was one of the several shirts he had ironed the night before. He sent me upstairs to change, and there I found that he had picked out two outfits for me, including matching shoes and the proper strapless bra. He had packed the garment bag with his clothes the night before (and left them in the attic, where I didn’t even notice it when I went up earlier that morning) and, after I headed off to Tommy’s, he had packed my clothes and shoes.

I got dressed, thrilled that my dress still fit me, and rushed downstairs. The whole drive over, and the whole drive back, I wanted to call up someone, anyone, and tell them. I had completely written off getting to see the show. It was unfortunate, I thought, since it occurred over Spring Break, when babysitting shouldn’t be an issue, but my husband’s work schedule, plus the need to actually do our taxes, and the timing just wasn’t working out.

I rationalized. It’s not like I really get to go to that many shows anyhow, and I could always go to New York sometime to see it, and I just went to see Coldplay, and what I really want to see is Wicked, so it’s all right. And it would have been all right. I’m not a child; I wasn’t going to pout and hold a grudge or insist I get to go no matter what.

So instead, I had the most marvelous evening, sitting fourth row center (!) and having a ton of fun. The lengths that my husband went to, the way he pulled off the surprise, and how he’d thought of every single detail, the fact that my in-laws agreed to watch the kids instead of going out with their friends on a Friday night: wow. (Incidentally, as he was getting dressed before leaving our house, I had asked him about the missing shirt. He smiled a half smile that told me he was up to something. Then he laughed and changed the subject, which confirmed he was up to something. But in my wildest dreams – and maybe that should tell me something about my ambitions to be a writer – I couldn’t figure out what he was up to, and decided he’d tell me when he was ready and I dropped it.)

My husband doesn’t believe in holidays, works most of them, and is too busy to celebrate or shop for anything, even if he were so inclined. He stated that he had effectively lowered the bar for years, so now he can make a simple gesture and it is well received. I suppose that’s true, but I certainly won’t let that diminish how great I feel. Of course, now I have nothing to look forward to on my actual birthday, but really, it’s just a day.

Conquering My Inner Demons

I am sixteen and a half weeks pregnant. I say this because inevitably, I will forget exactly how far along I am and this way I don’t have to calculate as far. So anyhow, here I am, pregnant for the third time, in my second trimester, and I have to say, I’m a little freaked.

For one thing, we’re going to be outnumbered. We’re going to have to go from man-to-man to zone defense. Now, I realize that I have been managing two boys on my own quite a bit (putting both kids to bed whenever my husband works an evening shift), but three? C’mon, even LeBron doesn’t get triple-teamed that often. But so far, I have implemented a rule with my boys that seems to hold and seems to work well: only one fussy fellow at a time. This means that if the little one is having a fit, the older one needs to suck it up and not throw a tantrum. Oddly, the reverse also works. When my elder son is upset, his little brother will actually just focus on cheering him up. Yes, I realize this isn’t something I can really enforce, but I guess as long as the statement holds true (and I reinforce it by thanking the well-behaved one for not giving me any trouble), I can hang onto my sanity. But how will it work with three? Most likely, if one is demanding my attention, the other two will be off somewhere else brewing trouble.

But the management logistics are only part of my concern. A friend told me early in my pregnancy that it’s harder being pregnant with the third than having the third. I’ve also been told that the jump from one kid to two is harder than the jump from two to three. And right now, I believe it all. I have to. Personally, I fear that all these reassurances are less for me, and more for themselves. Perhaps parents of three kids have completely lost it and are trying to pull themselves back to some semblance of sanity by reciting these mantras over and over until they actually believe them to be true.

Another friend once claimed that with each child, she lost half her mental capacity. Now, the mother of three is functioning with a quarter of her original brainpower. That sounds about right. I mean, what else would possess me to think that letting a two year old help me cook is a good idea? Or that I am any more than a maid, cook, and chauffer. This article on salary.com determined that a stay-at-home mom should earn a salary of $90,000 based on job responsibilities, and hours worked. There’s also a survey you can fill out to determine your “net worth” as an unpaid caregiver. Interesting stuff, and also a nice way to spend some time when you’re procrastinating.

My other concern with my pregnancy has been my fear of having something go wrong. I pick my two-year old up too much, I over-exert myself, I don’t eat well enough. I know I’ve had all these same concerns before, but this time around, it seems I’m seriously freaking myself out worse than before. I’ve been feeling like this invalid, hating being treated like I have a disability but still not being willing to take any undue risk (and my risk level is now ridiculously low, beyond reasonable). Can I carry the laundry basket up two flights of stairs? Should I stand on this chair to change the light bulb? It seems that all the hyper paranoid comments my mother kept making during my last two pregnancies have ingrained themselves into me so that I’ve internalized it. Was she right? Is that why I delivered so early the first time and was on bed rest the second? Was my mother right? Blast it!

This past weekend, while we were visiting my sister in Virginia, my husband hurt his back. He just twisted it funny and it went totally stiff, rendering him in immense pain for the rest of the weekend. He was uncharacteristically inactive, forced to sit leaning against a heating pad and taking meds to remain functional. But still, on Saturday night, we decided to go out to dinner. We parked the car, walked across the lot to the restaurant, and discovered the wait would be 1½ hours. We decided to go elsewhere, and finally, after weeks of paranoia and self-doubt, I had an epiphany. I, the able-bodied one, would go pull the car around. And I have to say, it felt good.

And on Sunday, I drove most of the way back home (all but the last hour, during which I couldn’t even manage to keep my eyes open). Part of the reason I drove was so my husband could relax his back. But part of me felt like I had to meet the challenge. Back in 1998, I once drove all the way from St. Louis to Cincinnati, an eight-hour drive, despite having four other drivers in the car. Maybe I wanted to prove that I could do it again.

The nice thing about being older is having the maturity to realize and accept that I don’t have to prove anything. I could probably have driven all the way home myself. I could have gotten a can of Sprite, put on some Black Eyed Peas on the iPod, and kept myself awake the whole time (we got home after midnight). But why? Was it worth putting my family at risk in case I was wrong? Would I win some sort of award if I was right? In the end, it doesn’t matter whether I drive all the way or not, so there was no reason to try. And you know what? Even if I couldn’t do it, that’s all right by me. I don’t have to know. I am very happy having someone to share the driving responsibility.

And I look forward to many other road trips with my copilot at my side. Together we shall show our three kids the world, or at least the United States east of the Mississippi. Besides, I’ve been told that the driver’s seat, as a captain’s chair, in the Honda Odyssey, is quite comfortable and quite fun to drive.

The Way I See It

People are a complaining lot. Good things are taken for granted, while little setbacks are magnified and dwelled upon. A run in stockings is a bad omen, while everything else going well is overlooked. I know I’m guilty of this as well. It seems that once I determine that I’m having a bad day, I will notice only the bad things that happen that day.

Well, here’s my attempt at reversing that negativity. Back in 2002, I had Lasik surgery done on both eyes. I had been wearing glasses since fourth grade. I wore contacts for years, and eventually could only wear gas permeable (hard) lenses, which were rather painful if the tiniest speck of dust got into my eye. So when I had the chance, I got Lasik. And I have to say, despite the fact that my vision reverted a little bit and I had to get the procedure done a second time, it was well worth it.

When my second child was a baby, and I would have to get up in the middle of the night, I no longer had to fumble around the nightstand to find my glasses, or feel too tired to put in my contacts the next day and resign myself to a day of scrunching my nose to readjust my glasses again and again. I could see what time it was (to figure out if the baby really needed to be fed again or if we should just let him go back to sleep) without having to squint so much that half the time I’d just keep going and close my eyes, dozing off until he cried again.

These days, I can swim and see at the same time. I can enter a warm building on a cold day without worrying about my glasses fogging up. I can fall asleep watching television without waking up with super dry eyes from leaving in my contacts, or a sore face from the glasses pressing into my skin.

After the surgery, I apparently expected Super Vision. My husband got Lasik done shortly after me, and so for a long time, we’d be driving somewhere and I’d keep asking if he could see this sign or that. I suddenly expected to be able to see the smallest print on the further billboard, or to read street signs from the time I first spotted the sign. It took me a while to settle into normal expectations, but finally, after the dry eyes and soreness went away, and the nighttime halos faded, I got used to my 20/20 eyesight.

But now, nearly four years later, I find I take this gift for granted (I know it’s technically not a gift since you have to pay for the surgery). When I wake up in the morning and see my son’s little head at the foot of the bed, about to climb up and crawl under the covers with his Mommy and Daddy, I don’t think about how nice it is not to have to reach for my glasses. When a gust of steam rushes up as I cook, I don’t smile at the realization that I don’t have to take off my glasses and wipe them on my shirt. Every night, as I finish brushing my teeth, I don’t look in the medicine cabinet and think about how I no longer have saline solution or contact cases in the house.

But every once in a while, as I watch television, a commercial will come on. EyeMasters is having a sale on glasses, or Bausch and Lomb is advertising their colored contacts, or something of the sort. And it all comes back to me. I watch the commercial and smile a cocky smile.

When I was younger, I used to close my eyes and walk upstairs and complete my bedtime routine with my eyes closed. I reasoned that my worst sense was sight, and that if I ever had to live without it, I should at least be able to make it around my own house without fail. And I have to admit, I was pretty good at it. I didn’t count the steps, but rather felt around and grew very aware of slight differences that told me exactly where I was. I’ve tried it on occasion here, although I would not advise conducting this experiment in a house with toddlers, unless said toddlers either 1) are meticulous about putting away their toys, or 2) don’t own any toys. Basically, when I head upstairs at night, I sometimes don’t bother to turn on any lights and try to make my way up. I happened to break a glass doing that last week (I misjudged where the counter was), so I have to remember to do that only when I am not holding anything breakable. But I still think it’s an important exercise.

All our senses are important, but I really believe we depend too much on sight, at the expense of the other senses. In order to concentrate, we plug ear buds in and play music so we can’t hear anything else. We don’t learn to tune out sounds, or to hear multiple levels of sounds, but rather concentrate on how to restrict our hearing. “Shh. No talking. I’m trying to listen to this story on NPR.” I find myself saying this more often than I’d care to admit. I think with vision, you can take in more because the things around you are basically stationary (at least, much of the scenery is), but with hearing, you’d have to hear and process multiple streams of sounds at once, which is rather difficult. But a mother, I’ve learned, can be completely engrossed in a conversation, and still know when to step into the other room to take a look at what the kids are up to, either because of a sudden burst of noise, or a disturbing amount of silence. I know all my kids’ toys, and what sounds they make, so if I hear a sound, I usually know what my children are doing.

I used to enjoy asking probing questions, those strange questions whose answers may mean something to a psychologist, but just mean interesting conversation to me. You know, like, if you could have a minor super power, what would it be? (My husband’s would be bowel control; threaten to take over the world, and he’ll give you a case of the runs that’ll have you sitting on a toilet for a week). Mine, which I actually possess, is the ability to send an employer to bankruptcy, to make companies I work for cease to exist.

Well, if you had to choose to live without one of your senses, which would it be? See, I don’t think touch can even be considered, because that would be too dangerous. I remember learning in psych class in high school that some people actually are touch sensory deprived and burn themselves or seriously injure themselves because they don’t feel themselves getting hurt. That is too scary a prospect for me. As for smell and taste, well, I can enjoy food. Usually, eating is a bit of a chore for me (because I have to prepare all the food and do all that thinking that comes with meals, as well as often having to clean everything up), and I can’t imagine making the whole experience of mealtime – 3 a day plus snacks – that much more painful by not being able to taste.

I remember once when I was dating my now husband, he was back at school, and I was sitting at a table at Thwing Center when a friend walked up and we started talking. I had the strange sense that my boyfriend was nearby, and I looked around, obviously not seeing him. That was when I realized that this friend of mine had been wearing the same cologne my boyfriend always wore, a scent I had never even noticed on my boyfriend but had nonetheless associated with him.

As for hearing, well, I couldn’t bear to give that up. My elder son’s endless stories, my younger son’s wonderful mispronunciations (Chubob is SpongeBob), the new Coldplay album, my dog’s whimpering bark as he dreams, my husband’s car pulling into the driveway past the kitchen window as I finish up dinner. All these sounds are so integrated into my life, and I’d hate to give them up.

I guess that leaves sight. But how could I give up sight? How could I not see my children grow up, look at my husband, read a book (well, I guess I can always listen to books on tape), or watch television? How could I not drive, put on makeup (oh, wait, scratch that), read the comics, or see my children’s artistic creations? Then again, I’d have an excuse for clashing (since my husband definitely has more fashion sense than I do), I don’t believe I could cook (because I’m just not THAT good), and I do believe that putting away laundry would be a bit beyond my capabilities (though folding it would not). Also, I don’t believe I could safely and effectively change any more diapers. Yeah, I think I’m going to have to stick with sight.

But in the end, I am glad I’m healthy. And I’m glad there are commercials out there that remind me of just how lucky I am.

Global Warming

So on the first day of Spring, I took my dog for a walk. It was a pleasant stroll through the streets of my neighborhood, and at 7 in the evening, the sun had not yet set. Now, normally this should conjure pictures of flowers in gardens and a warm spring evening. However, on the first day of Spring, it was frickin’ 25 degrees out and I had to wear my snow pants and winter coat to keep from freezing.

Now, normally, you don’t hear anyone complaining about global warming on a day like this. But actually, this is my little tirade against global warming. Using a purely yin/yang, black/white, up/down, preserving the cosmic balance of the universe argument (as well as Newton’s Third Law of Motion, which states that “For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction”), I contend that these colder, longer-lasting winters are the effect of global warming.

We all know that global warming is causing temperatures to be higher in the summer time, raising them at an unusually rapid rate (please don’t ask me for facts or numbers to back up any of my arguments; you’re already on the web). This leads to melting of polar ice caps. This, in turn, leads to more precipitation and less protection of the world’s water supply, thus lowering the overall oceanic temperature (or something like that).

Here’s how I understand it. Please correct me or clarify if I am wrong. According to the Ocean and Climate Change Institute, there’s an entity called the Ocean Conveyor of which the Gulf Stream is a part, and it’s the general flow of oceanic water. The heat from the sun at the equator warms the ocean surface and leads to evaporation in the tropics, so that the ocean there is saltier. The Conveyor carries this dense, salty water up the East Coast of the US and east to Europe. This warms the water, and thus the atmosphere, up north, by about 5 degrees Celsius. Occasionally, though, this Conveyor slows or stops for whatever reason, leading to cooler temperatures. Now, cold water is denser than warm water, and salty water is denser than fresh water. When warm, salty water releases heat into the atmosphere, the colder, salty water sinks to the ocean floor. That sinking then draws more warm, salty water from the tropics (think osmosis, where a dense concentration of salt will travel to a sparsely concentrated section of water to equalize and “spread out”), and the conveyor continues. But if the cold, salty waters didn’t sink, the conveyor would stop (as it apparently has in the past, leading to cold winters and widespread droughts).

So what would cause the cold, salty waters in the North Atlantic to stop sinking? Apparently, melting glaciers, providing a top layer of cold, fresh water, would essentially redirect the salty, tropical waters, bypassing the Northern Atlantic altogether, because the waters would stop sinking. There are a couple of animations on the site that actually help illustrate this point.

The slowing down or stopping of the Ocean Conveyor could lead to drastic climate changes in a matter of decades. It could lead to droughts, famine, and mass migration, not to mention an incredible increase in the value of The North Face stock (assuming they’re publicly traded). Basically, life, as we know it, would be over. To those who like cold weather, and for those into snow carving, this could be seen as a good thing. But for those of us who are tired of our sweaters and are ready to wear short sleeves and heck, just a lighter jacket for a change, I’m not too keen on stopping this Ocean Conveyor.

So let’s put down those aerosol cans, let’s start using public transportation, and by golly, let’s stop eating all those bean burritos (eliminate emissions, get it? Sorry. Just checking to see if you were still reading.) Let’s get politically involved. Let’s encourage our leaders to make environmentally responsible decisions (as soon as we figure out what those are). And for that matter, let’s figure out what those are.

So who’s with me? What’s it going to take to get our butts off the couch and turn off the television and get involved? What’s going to turn our apathy into a path to salvation? Where are all those optimistic, go-getting, recent college graduates who still believe they can change the world? We need you now. We’re too, well, apathetic and lazy to do anything to save our world. It’s up to you. We believe in you. While you still have student loans and the belief that you will go far, push yourself the extra mile and create those online petitions that you can email to us and we’ll sign. Before you have kids to feed and change and get to bed, spend your free time stuffing envelopes that we promise we’ll look at before tossing them into the recycle bin.

Yeah, that’s the sad truth. I am moved by this knowledge. And gosh, I wished I were moved enough to actually be physically moved into doing something. Sure, I’ll try to make better decisions to better help the environment and prevent global warming. I’ll look for a car with better gas mileage. I’ll consider carpooling (but doesn’t the fact that we only drive a mile to school and three miles to work count for something?). We don’t have central air conditioning. I recycle. I turn out the lights when I’m not in a room, and we have been switching to compact fluorescent bulbs.

I do the little things, but I’m still quite dependent on energy. Heck, just because of rising costs I’m trying to conserve. And that’s just it. It has to hit the wallets for people to make changes. And despite my youthful optimism and gung-ho attitudes about the way life “ought” to be, the reality of life and my decisions have tempered me. I dare say I’m growing soft, but perhaps I’m just growing apathetic. I vote my conscience, but I don’t get more involved than that. I have not rallied behind a candidate or gotten involved with a particular issue. My moral outrage at the state of the world today has led me to bitch to my friends a little, but that’s it. I need to believe in something, but my singularity of focus seems as far gone as my twenties (not that far, but well, gone nonetheless).

So while Spring may be taking its own sweet time reaching Cleveland, I hope you’re warm where you are. And if it’s not warm yet, don’t crank up the heat; wear that sweater while you can and use a blanket.

An Apple By Any Other Name

I went to see Coldplay last night (which was awesome, by the way, although I must question Chris Martin’s fashion decision of wearing white tennis shoes with black shirt and pants). It was fun, and it seems the baby either loved or hated the music, because there was some definite jumping going on.

Am I degenerating as a parent? When I was pregnant with my first kid, I went to see a couple of plays. With my second and third kids, I’ve gone to concerts. Hmm. Let’s see what the long-term effects are of those decisions (with my firstborn as the test subject, of course).

Anyhow, as the stage was being set up for Coldplay, these three guys climbed up rope ladders to seats from which they controlled cameras for the duration of the concert. We watched them climb up and settle in, and then we waited for the show to start. Half an hour later, Coldplay began performing.

So a few questions came to mind about these three cameramen. First of all, why then? Why did they need to get up to their stations so much before the show began? I mean, they probably could have set up their cameras then waited on the ground until right before the show started. It’s not like someone from the audience would be able to climb up inconspicuously and mess anything up.

Now, the reason I ask the first question is because my next question is, what would they do if they had to go to the bathroom? I mean, sure, I suppose they could have a cup handy in case of an emergency, but I have to say, that concept makes front row seats at a concert much less appealing. But seriously, what would they do? I suppose they’d only be up there for maybe two hours, and that’s not too long for most normal people to go without using the facilities (I, on the other hand, had to go 3 times during the show – but I had foolishly drank 1½ glasses of Sprite with dinner right before the concert). Perhaps they’re restricted to drinking no coffee or colas for at least 2 hours before the show. Maybe bladder capacity questions are included on the job application. Maybe a woman would have to take pregnancy leave if she held that job (and, ironically, be able to return to work once she delivered). And maybe, when they’re not working cameras at concerts, these guys are truckers.

As we listened to the radio while waiting to leave the parking garage after the concert, the DJ asked if anyone had seen Gwyneth Paltrow at the concert. And I have to confess, that almost ruined the memory of the concert for me. I mean, sure, I think Apple is an idiotic name, and I honestly think less of Gwyneth Paltrow for subjecting her child with that name (perhaps that may make her worse than Tom Cruise, whose stupidity really mostly only affects himself). I guess it could have been worse; she could have spelled the name differently on purpose (Hi, this is my daughter Appil). I’m all about creative names, and have nothing against made-up names. But, to quote the Spiderman movies, “with great power comes great responsibility.” It’s one thing to be creative, quite another to subject your child to a lifetime of humiliation and questions that build a wall to protect from the insensitivity of the world.

Seriously, yes, my last name really is Engineer. No, I’m not an Engineer. No my children are not named Mechanical and Chemical. And any joke you make, this is not the first time I’ve heard it. As for my dog, I suppose “Every day is Friday” and “Thank God it’s Friday” when he’s around. Yes, we did happen to get him on a Friday, but had we gotten him on a Monday, that would not have been his name. We will not name our next dog Saturday or any other day of the week. While I’m at it, the “a” at the end of the names of Indian gods is silent. Shiva is pronounced “shiv.”

Sorry, personal pet peeve. But getting back to the name thing, I realized that Chris Martin is not free of guilt in the child-naming category. And I certainly cannot forgive him because he’s just a musician and thus a creative free spirit (because, technically, I would have to give the same allowance to Gwyneth). Naming a child is a big responsibility. It behooves the parents to think of every possible way the name could be made fun of, and to consider what this might do to the child’s psyche. We all wish the best for our children, and the name we give our child, the first parenting decision we make, is one that a child has to live with forever, or at least until old enough to get the name legally changed.

Seriously, if Apple wants to grow up to be a rocket scientist, she will have a hard time being taken seriously. Her celebrity will not help her then. In the entertainment world, she’s fine. But do her parents really want to restrict her future career choices.

But now, I must confess, Apple is not the worst celebrity child name out there. The Washington Post website has an article on the subject, and you can actually vote for your “favorite”. I’m really not sure anymore.

Jermaine Jackson named his kid Jermajesty.
Bob Geldof has a daughter named Fifi Trixabelle.
Shannyn Sossaman (who?) named her kid Audio Science.
Jason Lee’s kid is Pilot Inspektor.

I suppose compared to those, Apple is not so rotten.

I Need A Support Group

From sometime Wednesday until Friday afternoon, our phones were not working. We don’t get inundated with phone calls, so I didn’t notice on Wednesday. Thursday morning, I enjoyed the silence, though I found it odd that my mother hadn’t called (she had, and getting a busy signal, assumed I was on the phone). And generally, the phonelessness hasn’t bothered me very much. Until I realized I couldn’t get online. Then it hit me. I couldn’t handle it.

Who won during day 1 of the tournament? Sure, I could open up the paper sitting right next to me, but my online picks are different from my paper picks, so I didn’t know how I was doing (since I don’t actually ever remember my picks).

I got an ad in the mail Thursday from the local Honda-Toyota dealership. Along with advertising Corollas for only $79.50 a payment (which, the fine print points out, are bi-weekly), it included three scratch-off ovals. I scratched off the ovals and found three matching numbers, which meant that I had won either a $1000 shopping spree on goshoppingmall.com, $1500 cash, or a 42” plasma screen TV. I’d have to go into the dealership to redeem my prize. Well, I figured that in the worst case, I would get on their mailing list. But since I’m planning on getting either a Honda Odyssey or a Toyota Sienna this August, that’s a reasonable risk. However, I would have liked to have checked out goshoppingmall.com to see if I really wanted the shopping spree (which is, as it turns out, what I got). But, without the Internet available, I couldn’t check.

So I went in, and I got my prize, and I got my 2006 Honda Odyssey brochure, and I left. And later that evening, when my friend was returned to me, when he had recovered from his coma, I asked him about this site and he gave me the answer I was afraid of. I needn’t have bothered. Sure, I didn’t know which prize I would have received, and the 42” TV would have made a nice wedding gift (because we certainly don’t need another TV in our house, already having 2). But the shopping spree, yeah, that’s pretty much a scam.

You see, the prize has a catch. Of course. They all do. The recipient is in charge of shipping and handling. That sounds fair, right? Well, my issue is that the shipping prices are ½ to 2/3 the cost of the item. Seriously. I found a $20 retractable dog leash with a flashlight, with shipping and handling costing $11. So I searched online, and found on another site, a similar product costing $5, plus $3 shipping. So I would pay more just to ship this leash than I could buying it from another site. A $30 rice cooker costs $18 to ship. $18. I can’t even choose to have it take longer to ship, thus decreasing the shipping cost. Because I suppose that’s the “handling” side of things.

The following text is from their Terms and Conditions:

The shipping and processing charge is designed to compensate GSM for the services we provide that enable our members to enjoy the convenience of home shopping and delivery of our products, as well as overhead costs associated with those services.

Okay, I suppose that’s reasonable. GoShoppingMall.com has to make money somehow. But then, why give out gift certificates? How much would I have to spend to use up my $1000 gift certificate? Right now, my cart has 2 items (the leash and the rice cooker). To use up $49.98 of my $1000 gift certificate, I would have to spend $28.98. Or, proportionately, I would have to spend almost $600 in shipping to “get” $1000 of free stuff. The way I decided to look at it was that if there’s stuff I was planning to buy anyhow, then I could buy it cheaper (well, a little bit, anyhow, considering the markups and absurd shipping costs). But that’s not exactly a shopping “spree,” is it? Or, maybe it is. But the sad thing about this is that many people who can’t necessarily afford that $550 - $600 shipping cost will still go out and buy $1000 worth of goods they don’t need.

But the point is, I could have known ahead of time that the shopping spree was a scam, and perhaps skipped that trip out to the auto dealership (I don’t think they realize how poor a gift it is; the salesman commented that I could go out and buy a new car seat on there, obviously not realizing the limited scope of the selection on the site), had my Internet been working.

So, I am addicted to the Internet. There, I’ve said it. Last week, I learned about potatoes. Maybe that should have been a sign. But no, I had to lose it – at a time when the library is under construction so I can’t go there to get my email fix – to finally see it. I went to a friend/neighbor’s house for lunch on Friday – so our kids could play and we could chat. It took so much restraint on my part not to ask her if I could borrow her computer and get online. But I did resist, which tells me that I still have hope. But perhaps I should find an Internet Addicts Support Group just in case things get worse. Perhaps there’s a chatroom. Let me go check…

A Lesson In Open-Mindedness

Have you ever eaten Sun Chips with ketchup? My younger son swears by them. If he sees the bag of Sun Chips out, he gets himself a plate and asks for “chip” and “chepup.” I confess, I finally broke down and tried it. Yeah, I wouldn’t recommend it. But, if my son gets multi-grains AND lycopene, who am I to complain?

My elder son is held to the Green Eggs and Ham rule. He has to try whatever I ask him to try. If he doesn’t like it, he doesn’t have to eat more (unless it’s the only thing I made for the meal). But I will act like Sam-I-Am and bug him until he tries it (the logic is that he may like it – like the narrator from the book learned – but if he won’t try it, he’ll never know).

We went to a Vietnamese restaurant a month ago (Tay Do, at the corner of Stumph and Snow – if you’re ever in the Cleveland area; not too far from the airport if you have a layover. Great food, and cheap). While we were there, he tried a tofu dish that he loved (we even ordered a second plate for him, and he happily ate the leftovers of that at home). So last weekend, at a Thai restaurant, he happily ate the tofu triangles because he had learned that he likes tofu (or, tow-food, as he calls it).

Anyhow, while that’s been a useful rule we have instituted to expose our sons to new foods, we have discovered a definite downside. My elder son was once eating some strange concoction, like apple slices and mustard. I indulged him, letting him eat it – since he was eating. But when he asked me to try it, I had to say no (curling my nose – gee, I wonder where he gets it).

But then he used the line.
“Try it. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to eat more.”
Live by example, huh? Well, I tasted it. To my surprise, it wasn’t as horrible as I had expected. I actually had a second piece (to be sure my son hadn’t just hit on some great culinary discovery – the first time I ate apple slices with Brie I had been skeptical, but I’m sure glad I tried that). Turns out, it wasn’t THAT good.

But it did teach me that I’m not as open-minded as I’d like to believe. It’s not just up to kids to learn new things. And I’d hate to think of all the experiences I’d miss out on if I didn’t follow the Green Eggs and Ham rule myself.

The Inner Me

I’m on vacation. I took a week off from work (my official job title is “Stay-At-Home Mom,” though I like to refer to myself as a Write-At-Home Mom (thank you, Sunil Waikar, for introducing me to that phrase)). My husband is going to be a speaker at a conference that has lectures from 7-9am, at which time the slopes open and everyone skis until they close at 4, when lectures resume until 6pm.

This is our third year here, and starting last year, we’ve stayed at a condo with four other families, and each family is in charge of cooking one meal (so we don’t get tired of eating out every meal). This year, since I’m pregnant, I am not skiing (technically, my doctor said it would be okay to ski as long as I didn’t fall. And that, unfortunately, is not something I can guarantee). Instead, I am taking this week’s vacation to write. This condo can’t exactly be considered a rustic cabin in the woods where I can escape the modern world as Thoreau did; we have cable, a wireless internet connection, three televisions in public rooms (in addition to the televisions and dvd players in each bedroom), a recreation room with a pool table and workout machine, a hot tub (which I cannot enjoy – unless it’s by tossing things at the people inside it from an upstairs window, I suppose), and a gourmet kitchen. Nonetheless, this solitary time when everyone else is away skiing is a wonderful time for me to reconnect with me, the real me, and the inner writer.

Well, here’s what I’ve learned about me:
The inner me is sleepy. I sat typing earlier, before lunch (so I can’t blame a food coma), doing a little ten-minute writing exercise. I closed my eyes to picture myself in my garden (as the topic was “You are in a garden”) and I dozed off. I did wake up at 7 this morning, my pregnancy bladder ready to burst (it must be psychosomatic, since my uterus at 12 weeks is still too small to be causing any real pressure on any body parts, or so my husband keeps telling me. Well, since I have no intention of investing in any Depends at this time, I’ll just make sure there’s a bathroom nearby for the next six months, thank you very much). But since back home it would be 9am, it would really be more like I slept in. But I suppose going to bed at midnight (a.k.a. 2am Cleveland time) should be factored in. Oh well, the few minutes I slept seemed to refresh me.

The other thing I learned is that the real me is one heck of a procrastinator. I’m not really particularly a neat freak. And I have been told that housekeeping comes here daily. And yet, after lunch, during which I finished off half a bag of flaming hot limon Cheetos (quite addictive, evidently, and yes, flaming hot), I cleaned. I emptied the dishwasher, rinsed my dishes (I also had a pb&j and a glass of milk, not just half a bag of Cheetos), put them in the dishwasher, put the other dishes lying around in too, then wiped down the counters and the dining table. I went through the TV guide channel (well, the digital cable equivalent) for about ten minutes looking for CBS so I can watch my soap before realizing that it’s Sunday. (Okay, maybe that should be in another paragraph that starts with the subject “The inner me is stupid”). Seriously, I procrastinated today like I haven’t since I was in college. (But honestly, if I went into more details about what I did to procrastinate, I’d just be procrastinating again; for that matter, are these parenthetical comments I keep making just my way of procrastinating to avoid continuing to write, or is it just a sign that my mind can’t stay on topic and parentheses are the only way to let readers know I’m going off on a tangent again?)

But now, here I am with just over an hour before the others come back from a full day of skiing. A whole day has whittled away into just an hour. And that too the last hour before I have to start cooking (since we’re in charge of tonight’s dinner). I suppose that leaves the rest of the week free to write and not enter the kitchen.

I hear the rustling of plastic bags coupled with the clunking of boots on wood stairs. Someone has returned. Nope, it’s maid service. As she went into the kitchen, I had to tell her that the dishes weren’t getting cleaned in the dishwasher, even after running it twice. Her solution: let’s run it again. Well, of course. Why didn’t I think of that?

Ah, the inner me is sarcastic. I guess I have to know what I am to know what I’m not. For example, I am not a koala bear. I could not climb trees and chew on eucalyptus leaves all my life. Then again, if I did that and then wrote, I suppose I could write some pretty interesting stuff. At a zoo in Australia, I learned that koalas are actually kind of violent, and that eucalyptus leaves sedate them, so they’re so cute and cuddly because they’re high. Hmmm.
The inner (and outer) me is anti-drugs. Never tried them, never will, never want my kids to. But perhaps if I can discover my inner koala – yes, I just said I’m not a koala, but maybe I can pretend – I could be a better mother. Some days, I get stressed and worked up to the point that I am yelling at my kids for no reason (I’m sure I’ve written about that before). If I could meditate on the koala (isn’t that what they teach you in Lamaze classes, to focus on something to settle your breathing and calm you down? I never managed to take any of those classes, and since I’m on number three, I figure what’s the point; I know what I’m doing: breathe, push, repeat) and imagine how it would feel to be so calm, so mellow, perhaps I could stop myself from carrying on with my own tantrum. Perhaps this is the real “terrible twos” – how motherhood goes wrong when you’ve got two toddlers.

The inner me babbles. Well, I suppose I’ve known that, as have you, but really, is all this self-discovery really meaningful if I’m not learning anything new?

The outer me doesn’t like cold. I just realized that my recipes are on the computer and maintaining a charge on my computer would be good, so I had to scoot to the end of the sofa so I can plug in my laptop. Well, scooting over on a leather couch when I’ve already warmed up a spot kind of sucks. Oh, the hard life of a writer. And I know that when everyone gets back, after a long day exercising in warm, 51 degree weather wearing what will turn out to be too much clothing (and what the heck am I doing inside if it’s that nice out?! Oh yeah, trying to be a writer), they’re going to open up the windows and doors and try to cool down this place. Well, I suppose that’s when I’ll be going into the kitchen to start cooking, anyhow. It’s all good.

And finally, the inner me is happy to hear the voices and the footsteps of the skiers returning from their day. I’m not quite the solitary creature I sometimes believe a writer needs to be. But then again, if I were locked away in a room writing all the time, I wouldn’t have anything to write about. Or maybe the inner me is just good at coming up with justifications for not writing.