You are currently browsing the monthly archive for May, 2008.
There was a window of opportunity to tackle my to-do list, today. The baby took a morning nap, so I got down to business. Dug out the dark brown paint, (Turkish Coffee, I think) found a paint brush whose bristles I could coerce into bending and prepared to paint the gate to the back yard. Except the lid of the paint can could not be removed for any amount of money. A crow bar, a knife, a screwdriver, finally pliers. Many minutes later, the lid – forever ruined – was off.
I started painting. And while I was painting I thought about a couple of things. One, that I’m an idiot and should have left the funky gate – craftily put together by J with random pieces of wood from his ‘Garage Collection 2007′ – alone. Two, that, annoying as it can be sometimes, we are pretty fortunate to have a boy who loves nothing more than to be outside morning, noon and night. Preferably digging in dirt, mulch, or sand.
Right about the time I finished that thought, G made eye contact and said ‘I want to help you paint.’ Uh, okay. I couldn’t really come up with any excuses – we were outside, the damage would be minimal, it might help his gross motor skills….. So I found a brush that was even worse than the one I was using and handed it to him, and he started painting. [Think globs of dark paint dripping everywhere. And whenever he got paint on his hands, he'd wipe them off on my jeans. Thanks!]
To be fair, the brush put him at a considerable disadvantage. I tried to patiently instruct him in the ways of painting – particularly the ‘removing any excess paint from the brush before applying paint’ part. But really, things were going pretty well, even if it was slowing me down and I feared the baby would start crying before we finished.
‘I’m just going to paint over here now,’ he said. ‘Uh huh,’ I replied absentmindedly, without looking to see what he was actually doing.
Painting the paving stones is what he was doing.
Argh.
The time has come for me to don my single parent hat, again, and figure out a way to survive the next nine days.
My survival strategy is three-pronged:
First, reading material. I unabashedly spent a small fortune at Border’s on two home magazines: Vogue Living Australia and Living etc. In fact each magazine cost more than the hardback books I found in the bargain bin. But I refuse to be feel (very) guilty about this extravagant purchase. The mere thought of paging through a beautiful magazine is going to sustain me in the week to come.
I also picked up some fabulous reading, namely a book called ‘The man of my dreams’ by Curtis Sittenfeld. I wasn’t even aware that she’d written another book after ‘Prep’ so it should be particularly good (not). But who cares, I’m sure the pages will turn quite easily with the help of my survival snacks.
After dropping J off at the airport, I defied logic by stopping at Trader Joe’s instead of driving my hungry, sleepy children directly home as-soon-as-is-safely-possible. But I had to. A couple of magazines and a fluffy book couldn’t possibly get me through this week. Something more substantive – like sugar and fat – would be required.
Chocolate peanut butter pretzels. Vanilla marshmallows. Ritter Sport Knusperkeks (I will never tire of you!). And some sort of healthy looking trailmix too. And Peanut Butter Puffins. And Veggie Chips which has to be one of the biggest conspiracies around. [Laden with fat and salt....if they're called 'veggie chips' people will think they are healthy and buy them.] There will be more of me to welcome my darling husband home.
And the third part of the plan, which is the least logical, is an extensive to do list to create the illusion (delusion) of extreme efficiency for the next week. I will paint the porch floor, and the gate and the storm windows and the stair trim. I will make dinner every night. I will rid the baby of his strange napping habits. I will read my next book club book. I will catch up on my photo album project that has been languishing for nine months. And exercise, too. All in the hour and a half window between the time the kids finally fall asleep and when I do. So that gives me roughly thirteen hours to do all of the above. Absolutely!
It’s going to be a great week.
On a whim, I decided to join my mom this morning for a quick manicure. We headed to our ‘regular’ spot – the local Vietnamese nail shop where you can get a manicure for $12.
Call me sexist, but whenever I get a male technician, I tip generously, because in my limited, unprogressive mind, I imagine he is there against his will or out of desperation.
Today’s technician seemed of the slightly desperate variety.
A skinny guy, no more than 19 or 20 years old. He inquired of me: ‘Did you wahwk today?’ I mentally sorted through a list of plausible interpretations of the word in question. I decided he must mean walk.
‘No,’ I responded brightly..proudly. ‘I came with my mom.’
The confused look on his face and silence that ensued indicated I got it wrong.
And then a light bulb went on. He’d meant work – did you work today.
So in an effort to demonstrate to him my ability to have a conversation with a person whose first language is not English, I asked him some questions. I learned he is an engineering student (well, I think that’s what I learned.) That he’s actually studying in Georgia and only in Indiana for the summer….ostensibly staying with a relative, and earning his keep by doing nails.
As I was waiting for my nails to dry, I commented to my mom that, my already short nails had somehow been filed down to within an inch of their lives. And the bright red nailpolish (OPI’s Vodka and Caviar), covering the tiny fingernails, had been affixed a little more sloppily than, say, if I’d handed my four year old the bottle and asked him to paint my nails.
Nevertheles, I gave him a good tip – money – that is.
I didn’t suggest to him that he’d better stick to engineering…or whatever it is he’s studying.
I was talking to a friend the other day who mentioned that some mutual acquaintances had just moved back to town temporarily until they determine their next move. ‘They feel like this is their home,’ the friend said.
‘Yeah,’ I agreed. ‘Muncie is just like ‘Cheers’.’
And this strange town is, to me, in many ways, like the bar in that popular television show.
It’s not as if someone yells out my name and passes me a beer wherever I go. But not a day goes by that I don’t run into a familiar face. Driving down the street, I always pass by someone I know – whether from the University or church or my son’s preschool. At the grocery store I’m equally likely to see someone I went to high school or college with, or even someone my sister went to high school with. Walking in our neighborhood, which, admittedly is on the University’s doorstep, I inevitably pass houses of former professors, or colleagues. And it’s not as if the town is all that small. It’s just the result of having a history with a place: a connection.
Though I’ve only realized it recently, this town is the place I have lived the longest, when you add up the lengths of my various stays here. Even though I am quick to disparage the place, I am strangely comforted here. And while I really don’t see myself living here forever, I find it difficult to abandon altogether…..
The credit union where I’ve had an account for fifteen years, that allowed my mom to do my banking while we were living overseas, that gives my son stickers whenever we ’drive-through.’ (Which he tends to plaster on the windows to his father’s dismay.)
The donut shop where I’ve been buying chocolate cream-filled long johns or cupcakes on and off for eighteen years. I’m pretty sure I’d stop in a heartbeat if they posted the calories and fat grams, but so far they haven’t.
The University where I studied as an undergraduate and worked afterwards, where I FEEL like I know someone in practically every department.
Even the post office, which I visit less than once a month. But the woman with the big hair knows me and comments on how big my son is getting and offers him a dum dum sucker.
But who knows, maybe spectacular snow-capped mountains and an abundance of ethnic restaurants will help ease the pain of separation. That, and the absence of a road called McGalliard. To quote the video: “I don’t need no Google map, what the hell’s a Thomas guide. I’ve been rolling down McGalliard since I was four or five.”
I didn’t say it was unconditional love I had for this place.
Well, it’s official. There’s a generic for sale by owner sign in our yard. In reference to the house, of course.
Six years ago…can it be….we sold our house in Minneapolis in exactly one day. The day that it was listed, two separate people came to look at it. One offered asking price and, since we were hoping to move within a month, we jumped on the offer and closed less than 30 days later.
So it will be interesting to see how this unfolds….six years later…a much more sluggish housing market….a slightly longer timeframe. [And trying to keep a house tidy with two small boys who seem to delight in creating havoc.]
Not to be the boring person who writes about how much stuff costs. But, it’s a teensy bit scary how quickly prices have increased in the last several weeks alone. Much less compared to, say, a year ago.
Gas: $3.99/gallon.
Yes, I know we’re still paying far less than our European friends, but it costs $68 to fill up our car. It used to cost about $30, give or take. If you’re living paycheck to paycheck, like a lot of Americans are, that’s a sharp increase to try and absorb.
Food:
Obviously the increase in gas prices will affect food prices, but I was still a little shocked today when we went to the grocery store and I saw that peaches cost $2.49/lb. They were $1.69/lb just last week. I used to be able to buy Barilla pasta for about $0.99 a box and it’s gone up in the last couple of weeks to $1.36 a box.
No, I don’t have all prices memorized. And yes, I’m a little weird.
And the price of stamps just went up too.
Sheesh, I sound like I grew up in the Depression-era or something.
It’s been an ‘eat-an-entire-bag of Pepperidge-Farm-cookies’ kind of evening.
It started innocently enough. J said he was going to Lowe’s to get a few things and suggested we all go together. I agreed. My first mistake.
We arrived at Lowe’s and G got mad about something so he and I stayed behind in the car to have a discussion. While I was working things out with the little man, J apparently said something to the effect of ‘I’m leaving the keys in the ignition.’
I didn’t hear him.
So, G and I resolve our issue and get out of the car to join the others. Now ordinarily, I leave the car unlocked. In our driveway, at the grocery store, anywhere. I figure who wants to steal a fourteen year old car? But, for some reason, today I decide to lock it. Someone might want to steal the carseats, you know. So, I leave G’s door open, close mine and push down the power lock. My second mistake.
We walk through Lowe’s to find the other two, purchase the necessary items and walk back to the car. J turns to me and says ‘can I have the key?’ I say ‘I don’t have the key.’ And, from the look on his face, I can tell that the key is inside the locked car. Our only key is inside the locked car.
At this point, G, declares he has to go potty right now. And I just have to chuckle at the ridiculousness of the situation. The two of us speedwalk through Lowe’s to the restroom. Mission accomplished, we head back to the gardening section so he can check out the fountains; so mommy and daddy can contemplate the next move.
We decide to take the bus….at the same moment it speeds past the entrance. Excellent. So we walk to adjoining Wal-Mart, to the actual bus stop. My sad little family of four – what a sight we must have been. Baby wearing a squash-stained shirt and a onesie – apparently unsnapped – because his belly is hanging out like Britney Spears. And bare (very cold) feet. Preschooler wearing camouflaged boots and a sleeveless shirt, despite the chilly weather, because the long-sleeved shirt he wore this morning got wet.
We loiter in front of Wal-Mart waiting for Calgon to take us away. Or the bus. I ask J what we should do, but he indicates that this is my problem to solve. I frantically call my mom but she’s not picking up her cell phone or home phone. To make matters worse, we only have J’s cell phone because I left mine at home – so I don’t even know any numbers to call.
I do remember my friend Amber’s number and call her, hoping she’d be home and able to rescue us. Luckily she is and she sends her husband to get us. After a few minutes, another bus appears, and G insists on taking the bus since, after all, I’d told him we would. So the men get on the bus and leave me and my dirty barefoot baby stranded in front of Wal-Mart. Finally, my friendly taxi appears and we go home.
Which is nice, but still doesn’t solve the problem of the black car in the Lowe’s parking lot. I decide to call a locksmith. He informs me that he’ll assist me within twenty minutes for the handsome sum of $40. But now I’m home and my car is at Lowe’s. So I speedwalk to my mom’s house, borrow her car – because she has people over for dinner – drive to Wal-Mart to get $40 in cash, and walk over to Lowe’s to wait for the locksmith person.
Finally my knight in white tow truck appears and whips out his sneaky tools for breaking into cars. Within seconds he’s pried the passenger door open and inserted a wire with a loop to lift up the door lock/knob/thing. Ah, but if the story could end here. No, after several minutes of switching tools to find the right one, he BREAKS off the door lock/knob/thing. Then he spends several minutes more trying to stick a wire in through the rubber seal by the window, with no luck.
Then he moves to the driver’s side where he tries the same thing. Finally, after about twenty minutes, he manages to unlock the car. He promises to get me a new door lock/knob/thing. I give him $40. And I drive off.
Except now I have two cars and only one driver, since J had to stay behind with the kids. So I wait until my mom’s dinner guests leave, pick her up at her house and drive back to Wal-Mart so she can drive her car home.
In case you’re wondering why we don’t have a second key to our car (much less a second car)…..we used to, have a second key, that is. But my better half mysteriously lost it while doing student reviews one day (seven months ago).
The same better half who just walked in, announcing: ‘Those Pepperidge Farm cookies were really good.’ Surprised by this unsolicited enthusiasm, I say ‘really?’
And he replies: ‘No, I didn’t actually get to eat any.’
I told you, it was an ‘eat-a-whole-bag-of-cookies’ kind of evening.
Am I the only one who vividly remembers a voiceover for a bubble bath ad from [many] years ago?
No matter, I want Calgon to take me away. Now. We’re entering our third week of doing absolutely nothing but work on the house whenever we have a moment and we’re kind of tired of it. A lot tired of it, actually. We’re down to the last of it, but I’ve hit a wall and I want to be done. And maybe read my new Vogue magazine. Or a book.
I have to give props to J who has had to do a lot more work than I, including suffering considerable mental anguish at having to part with some trusted treasures he has been hoarding for the bulk of our marriage. He has tried to educate me about the psychology of this problem of his, but I haven’t been able to park my car in the garage for about two years, so I’m not inclined to sympathize.
When we got married and pooled all of our earthly belongings, I noticed these two flat pacakges of Ilford photo paper. Unopened. Naively, I asked about them and their intended use and was essentially told they were being saved for later. I had no idea that I’d been snowed.
These packages of photo paper have travelled with us to Nashville and Minneapolis and sat in storage for nearly three years while we lived overseas.
We were cleaning out the upstairs a few nights ago, and after some ‘gentle’ persuasion, J agreed to toss the packages of woefully un-usable photo paper that had cost a lot of money at some point.
It only took twelve years for this to occur.
Brings a tear to my eye, really.
I pride myself on my ability to communicate with people whose first language is not English, but apparently I’m pretty bad at understanding Americans with any kind of drawl – southern, midwestern, whatever.
I was registering G at the pediatrician’s office a few months after we arrived in town. The receptionist asked for the pertinent details – name, date of birth, and then she asked me: ‘Is he a mel?’ Utterly confused, I asked for clarification: ‘I’m sorry, what?’ ‘A mel,’ the receptionist reiterated. Completely clueless as to the meaning of this word, I resorted to ‘what do you mean?’
Exasperated, the woman tried again: ‘Is he a mel or a fe-mel?’
‘Oh! A male!’ I replied, slightly embarassed.
We were at a local restaurant and the hostess pointed to the preschooler and asked ‘is he old enough for crowns?’
Confused, but not wanting to hesitate too long or ask for clarification, I said yes. When she handed him a packet of crayons and a coloring sheet, I understood.
Recently, I was dropping my semi-reluctant preschooler off at his sunday school class. His teacher tried to generate some excitement by announcing: ‘Today we’re going to make crayons and put them on our heads!’
I visualized the class making wax crayons and placing them on top of their heads but I didn’t bother asking for an explanation. When I picked him up an hour later, he had a paper crown in his hand.
Ah.
Dear Jesus,
Please help me not to spit out the food. Thanks for the smashed potatoes, green beans and blueberries.
Amen.
[I swear the food's not that bad........]
