I am one week into summer vacation and it is less a summer of love and more a summer of Sam. The boy and I had a lovely month without preschool, without his sister, and we lazed it away in a haze of books, trains, PBS, and play dates. It was not a hard life. In the morning we went to the gym or ran errands. Lunch was followed by quiet time or nap time, his preference, then some playtime until we went to pick up his sister. In the afternoons, things tended to get rowdy between the two, usually one bout of tears, a few quality minutes of sharing and kindness, then dinner, bath, books, and bed. It wasn’t too bad because they weren’t together for that many hours.
And then, summer vacation began.
My kids, like most, prefer structure. Give them an empty day and they try to fill it with murder and destruction. My son’s last question to me at night is to ask what we are going to do the next day. My daughter chooses her wardrobe based on the day’s events so prior knowledge is essential. However, the first week of vacation, I made the rookie mistake of assuming that since the week prior had been a madcap dash of parties and dance commitments, and the week ahead would be spent in a family-themed episode of Say Yes to the Stress, that a week of calm was in order. It’s not like we sat home and stared at each other. We went to the movies, we went to a birthday party, we went to play with friends, we went to the toy store, we went to a picnic, and we even went to a local pool. Do those sound like empty days?
unfortunately, they were not busy enough. They still managed to try to kill each other a dozen times per day. There were screaming matches, WWF-style throw downs, copious amounts of tears, and some actual bloodshed. If one asked for grapes, the other wanted blueberries and then fought over which one wanted which. If one stopped to read quietly, the other would stomp like a T-Rex all across the books. Using the stamp and ink pads resulted in a Smurf for a child, using scissors and paper made it look like an Origami convention gone horribly awry, and anything that required them to actually clean up after themselves ensured a Chernobyl-level explosion. In short, my kids were right bastards.
I did what any parent would do – I complained to my friends. Luckily, one gave me the fantastic suggestion of creating a fun jar. Just take regular every day fun things, like riding a bike or breaking out the Play-Doh, write them down on slips of paper, put them in a jar, and when a kid inevitably whines that he or she is bored, out comes the jar, out comes a slip and they get to do that activity. Enforced fun – what’s not to like? We divided our slips of paper into three categories: inside, outside, and special events. This gave me the ability to keep us indoors on the hottest days and help monitor the amount of money spent on crazy activities. Kids may bowl free this summer, but that’s about all that’s free. Given a choice, my kids would go out to eat every night, which I am sure has nothing to do with my cooking and everything to do with the novelty of getting both M&M’s and ice cream for dessert. So far, we are still working on the choices. I vetoed play dates as an option because I like to set them up in advance. They vetoed nap time because, really, who wants to pull that as an activity? I may keep some blank paper and palm some of the more date-specific rewards such as the dollar movies, open plays at indoor sports centers, and other random activities.
We have a crazy busy week ahead of us with incoming visits from out-of-town guests and outgoing events where we are the incoming guests, so the jar won’t go into effect until next week where I can test its effectiveness. Currently, I’m cautiously optimistic about its success. My only hope is that I don’t have to add a fourth category that includes such choices as Sam Adams, Captain Morgan, and Jack Daniels or worse, Cooper, Virtua, and CHOP.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Friday, June 17, 2011
What I Learned in Kindergarten
Today is the last day of kindergarten. I assume my daughter learned a lot, she is not one to come home and chat about her day. Mostly she just wants a snack. But I believe I have learned quite a bit about how to survive the daily onslaught that is our educational system. Obviously, this will change as my daughter actually adds say, real homework, to her daily routine, or a uniform, or a flow chart for her after-school activities. But for now, just for this one year, this is what I learned.
1. Backpack. Size matters. It has to be big enough to fit in a standard-sized lunchbox, but small enough not to overbalance them in a stiff wind (even though it will almost ever hold any books.) It must be checked daily. Water bottles, hair clips, the occasional small toy, and the never-ending stray crayons must be removed and put into their proper home.
2. Folder. She had a folder that came home every day. It contained every single piece of paper she had colored, cut, and pasted, as well as every note from the teacher, PTA, student council, cafeteria, superintendent, nurse, and room mom. It was also the source of birthday party invitations. This folder was a gaping hole of environmental destruction and had to be sifted very carefully, piece by piece to separate the actual useful information from the random art. Placement in this folder was very important: left side for home, right side for school. I intend to burn it in effigy.
3. Paperwork. In this day and age of e-mail, paper was still king in her elementary school. Nothing was sent electronically. Everything had to be signed, initialed, notarized, and practically fingerprinted. I learned the hard way to fill everything out and send it back immediately lest it get lost. (Putting it in a “safe place” just meant finding it two weeks past deadline.)
4. Money. There is no such thing as spare change once your child is in school. Quarters are a hot commodity. They buy pretzels. Small bills are also essential. No mother carries a twenty. What would we do with it? Fives and singles are the currency of the school yard.
5. Art. There is no craft as precious as the one you put in the trash yesterday. Random scraps are treasured gifts from friends. Everyone has a different way to deal with crafts. Find your own and stick to it. I employed a three prong method: fridge, playroom wall, or (after a suitable waiting period) trash.
6. Gossip. All the best gossip occurred at drop-off and pick-up. I made sure to figure out who had the best gossip and immediately befriended her. She had all the good stuff, not the water-down PTA version of events. I shall miss her. Luckily, I already know who has the goods at our new school.
7. Play Dates. Just say no.
8. Teachers. Nothing says “thoughtful parent” like the occasional gift of tissues, wipes, and sanitizer. I bought in bulk and deliver new supplies at the first outbreak of cold, flu, or stomach bug. A hand-pump of Purell a day could keep the doctor away.
9. Lunch. The school lunch is still a frightening thing. What are chicken fries? When did nachos become healthy? I let buy once a week on a pre-approved day. The rest of the time, she got water or milk, a sandwich, and fruit. No snacks, no cookies, no chips. Trust me, she got enough extra junk food during her school day, I didn’t need to add to it.
10. Volunteer. By doing what I could to get into my kid’s classroom as often as possible, I was able to get a much better idea of which kid to avoid, which teacher did what, and how well (or not) her classroom was handled. Of course, the downside was that once you go in once, you wind up going in for everything. The upside, lovely end-of-year gifts for being a good parent.
Next year, we are going parochial. God help us all.
1. Backpack. Size matters. It has to be big enough to fit in a standard-sized lunchbox, but small enough not to overbalance them in a stiff wind (even though it will almost ever hold any books.) It must be checked daily. Water bottles, hair clips, the occasional small toy, and the never-ending stray crayons must be removed and put into their proper home.
2. Folder. She had a folder that came home every day. It contained every single piece of paper she had colored, cut, and pasted, as well as every note from the teacher, PTA, student council, cafeteria, superintendent, nurse, and room mom. It was also the source of birthday party invitations. This folder was a gaping hole of environmental destruction and had to be sifted very carefully, piece by piece to separate the actual useful information from the random art. Placement in this folder was very important: left side for home, right side for school. I intend to burn it in effigy.
3. Paperwork. In this day and age of e-mail, paper was still king in her elementary school. Nothing was sent electronically. Everything had to be signed, initialed, notarized, and practically fingerprinted. I learned the hard way to fill everything out and send it back immediately lest it get lost. (Putting it in a “safe place” just meant finding it two weeks past deadline.)
4. Money. There is no such thing as spare change once your child is in school. Quarters are a hot commodity. They buy pretzels. Small bills are also essential. No mother carries a twenty. What would we do with it? Fives and singles are the currency of the school yard.
5. Art. There is no craft as precious as the one you put in the trash yesterday. Random scraps are treasured gifts from friends. Everyone has a different way to deal with crafts. Find your own and stick to it. I employed a three prong method: fridge, playroom wall, or (after a suitable waiting period) trash.
6. Gossip. All the best gossip occurred at drop-off and pick-up. I made sure to figure out who had the best gossip and immediately befriended her. She had all the good stuff, not the water-down PTA version of events. I shall miss her. Luckily, I already know who has the goods at our new school.
7. Play Dates. Just say no.
8. Teachers. Nothing says “thoughtful parent” like the occasional gift of tissues, wipes, and sanitizer. I bought in bulk and deliver new supplies at the first outbreak of cold, flu, or stomach bug. A hand-pump of Purell a day could keep the doctor away.
9. Lunch. The school lunch is still a frightening thing. What are chicken fries? When did nachos become healthy? I let buy once a week on a pre-approved day. The rest of the time, she got water or milk, a sandwich, and fruit. No snacks, no cookies, no chips. Trust me, she got enough extra junk food during her school day, I didn’t need to add to it.
10. Volunteer. By doing what I could to get into my kid’s classroom as often as possible, I was able to get a much better idea of which kid to avoid, which teacher did what, and how well (or not) her classroom was handled. Of course, the downside was that once you go in once, you wind up going in for everything. The upside, lovely end-of-year gifts for being a good parent.
Next year, we are going parochial. God help us all.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Rated R for Ridiculous
One of fellow bloggers recently found a web site that will determine how your blog would be rated if it were a movie. (Not only am I ripping off her idea, I am totally ripping off her latest blog post. Remember She Who Must Not Be Named, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.) Of course, I had to try this. Hers was rated NC-17, which impressed me to no end. Sadly, I only earned an R. Is it wrong that I am disappointed?
As with the MPAA, the site listed the specific examples of what made my blog rated R. I used the word porn four times, death three times, sex twice, and dead once. That’s it. Ugh. I feel like there are Curious George episodes that are dirtier. Plus, I am sure I used the word fuck at least three times, which should surely bump me up into NC-17 territory. When did I become so friendly? I don’t want to be friendly. I want to be snarky and rude and funny and intelligent and witty and odd and occasionally morbid. To steal yet another joke from the other blog, I feel like there should be far more necrophilia posts based on my rating. In this day and age, just going pantless is enough to earn you a PG-13. Maybe I need to start going braless too?
Plus, who decides if talking about death is only for mature audiences? True, I try not to discuss porn with my kids and sex jokes tend to go right over their heads, but kids understand death. Hell, last year in pre-k, the children in my daughter’s class were asked to draw a picture of their favorite pet and the resulting gallery was like a modern art wailing wall of the recently deceased. It would have been disturbing if it wasn’t so funny.
I don’t necessarily aspire to raunchy, but I’ll take naughty if I can get it. I should actually be glad I at least earned a red-band R. If there were a Blockbuster for the blog world, at least I’d still be available to rent. The big box retailers would still carry my words. I may even wind up in the dollar stores of the world, deeply discounted, but still available to own. My NC-17 rated friend cannot say the same.
So at least I’ve got that going for me.
Friday, June 3, 2011
Inter-Marriage E-mail
My husband and I have both had pretty rough week. The first heat wave of summer always knocks me on my ass and pretty much locks me indoors. This week, it kept me in with a potty training child who is working through the big boy/little boy issue. Lots of tears, lots of having to leave places (such as parks on beautiful mornings) due to tears, lots of me day dreaming about getting drunk in the afternoon, etc. My husband has also been suffering through his own hell week and has spent almost every night working late and then coming home to turn on the computer until the wee hours. In short, this week sucked.
When I couldn’t get basic errands run yesterday, I sent my husband an e-mail asking for him to run them for me. This is a pretty common occurrence as it is basically a get out of jail free card. He works late, but blames in on the errand. I get a necessary task done, so ignore how long it takes him to do it. It’s one of the little ways we stay happily married. However, sending my dearly beloved an e-mail can be a tricky thing. He has a habit of ignoring them or reading and deleting. My most common messages are sent via text and read either, ETA? or Milk, please. There are no cutesy messages about missing him or looking forward to the weekend. Those would immediately put me on the Do Not Open list, never to be read again.
However, I figured both he and I needed a little bit of humor to get through our days. Luckily, he felt the same. So, my few readers, here is the e-mail chain between the two of us about running errands. Enjoy.
Dear Husband,
I am having problems motivating my employees. They refuse to dress appropriately and that is causing a breakdown in my ability to handle my daily responsibilities. Also, they seem to want me to micromanage every aspect of their performance which is leaving me very little to no time to actually manage any of my own. One employee seems to have an undiagnosed hearing loss, temporary memory loss, as well as separation anxiety from his partner, Lightning McQueen. The older, more experienced employee seems willing to take control, however, I fear her ideas of appropriate behavior and mine are vastly different.
As such, I have been entirely prevented from achieving my three goals for the day: the acquisition of rolls from the purveyor of choice, the acquisition of beef gravy from the grocery store, and a quick stop at a local pharmacy for such much needed medicines.
I would have used a more immediate form of communication to confer this information to you, but unfortunately, our employees are also now using company communication equipment for personal use.
Sincerely,
Your Wife, SAHM
Unfortunately, due to our current corporate culture, any deadline given will undoubtedly be changed abruptly and without warning, so I may have to call in a third-party vendor to provide sustenance.
Also, will happily fill out all forms, in triplicate, if only I can then file them appropriately.
When I couldn’t get basic errands run yesterday, I sent my husband an e-mail asking for him to run them for me. This is a pretty common occurrence as it is basically a get out of jail free card. He works late, but blames in on the errand. I get a necessary task done, so ignore how long it takes him to do it. It’s one of the little ways we stay happily married. However, sending my dearly beloved an e-mail can be a tricky thing. He has a habit of ignoring them or reading and deleting. My most common messages are sent via text and read either, ETA? or Milk, please. There are no cutesy messages about missing him or looking forward to the weekend. Those would immediately put me on the Do Not Open list, never to be read again.
However, I figured both he and I needed a little bit of humor to get through our days. Luckily, he felt the same. So, my few readers, here is the e-mail chain between the two of us about running errands. Enjoy.
Dear Husband,
I am having problems motivating my employees. They refuse to dress appropriately and that is causing a breakdown in my ability to handle my daily responsibilities. Also, they seem to want me to micromanage every aspect of their performance which is leaving me very little to no time to actually manage any of my own. One employee seems to have an undiagnosed hearing loss, temporary memory loss, as well as separation anxiety from his partner, Lightning McQueen. The older, more experienced employee seems willing to take control, however, I fear her ideas of appropriate behavior and mine are vastly different.
As such, I have been entirely prevented from achieving my three goals for the day: the acquisition of rolls from the purveyor of choice, the acquisition of beef gravy from the grocery store, and a quick stop at a local pharmacy for such much needed medicines.
I would have used a more immediate form of communication to confer this information to you, but unfortunately, our employees are also now using company communication equipment for personal use.
Sincerely,
Your Wife, SAHM
Thank you for bringing this to my attention.I appreciate your help in attaining the perfectly medicated state necessary for me to do my job properly. This will avoid my heart exploding and the extra hours that would cause maintenance. While I realize that managing my charges falls squarely under my job description, the attainment of our vertically-challenged staff was actually a dual venture and dual responsibility must be accepted. As to the tasks that are not deemed mission critical, no alternatives can be discussed until there is a set deadline placed on when they will be presented to management.
I do hope that you realize that your employee’s behavior is your responsibility, and your inability to lead them reflects poorly on your managerial skills.
Your unsuccessful completion of your tasks will result in disciplinary action, please be on the lookout for the form that I will require you to sign and return, in duplicate.
As it is a mission critical task, I will handle task 3, and pick up your medications this evening.
The other two tasks will have to be delayed until you can complete them tomorrow, and alternative plans will have to be made. I am open to suggestions at this point in time.
Unfortunately, due to our current corporate culture, any deadline given will undoubtedly be changed abruptly and without warning, so I may have to call in a third-party vendor to provide sustenance.
Also, will happily fill out all forms, in triplicate, if only I can then file them appropriately.
Your appreciation of my completing your tasks is noted, and the maintenance department is thankful for the OT avoided, as they have been under some resource strain lately.And that, dear readers, is how we wound up having take-out Chinese for dinner last night (at 8:30) after he stopped at CVS.
While some responsibility for the recruitment of the vertically-challenged staff is mine, and the responsibility for leading and training these staffers is also a shared responsibility, in this instance, I cannot accept responsibility for their current behavior.
Using a third-party to fulfill the gaps left by the non-completion of tasks 1 and 2 shows good “out of the box” thinking, and you are to be commended for that. This allows the team to complete the assigned mission, without adversely affecting the overall timeline. Please follow the established procedures for purchasing from a third-party vendor, with the expectation that the purchasing dept should be able to complete their tasks by 7pm ET.
Due to the current economic environment, and the ongoing green initiative, the filing of forms in triplicate is prohibited; please consult your handbook for the proper completion steps of those forms.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Death by Lingerie
Last weekend, as a belated Mother’s Day present, my husband took me shopping. We all know how much I hate to shop. However, I was down to my last pair of jeans, almost none of my summer clothes are flattering or fit properly, and even I had to admit that I had reached the point of no return in terms of men’s t-shirts.
The Rapture wasn't until nightfall, the children were visiting the grandparents, and the sun was shining – it was a perfect day to hit the outlets. Now, let me give a little background on shopping with the husband. He will not leave a store until all sizes and types of clothing have been rooted out of hiding and put on my body – the brighter the color, the better. No blacks, dark blues, or grays are tolerated unless absolutely necessary. His philosophy is thus, if he’s going to be stuck at the stores, then by God, he’s going to make it worthwhile. I, on the other hand, have a habit of walking into a store, heaving a deep sigh, then walking right back out. This is not acceptable to the husband. If it looks worthy, it will be tried, and if it fits, it will be bought. Due to him, I had a kick-ass maternity wardrobe. And thanks to him, I now have something of a summer wardrobe. But let’s be clear, he only enjoys it because it only happens every decade or so. If he had to do it regularly, I assure you, it would be a different story. But when the choice is listen to me bitch about how nothing fits every single day or take one entire day to buy clothes, he’ll go the shortest distance every time.
The day started well. One pink summer dress, one purple summer dress, one dark blue summer dress (allowable only because the alternative was white and that wouldn’t hold up on the playground), a handful of shirts, and a standard issue denim skirt provided an excellent start. I agreed on a hot-pink skirt, but turned down all efforts at lime green, lemon yellow, and Lysol blue. Who wears those colors besides the Queen? Nothing would draw more attention to my ass than bedecking it in violently violet-colored skorts. I avoided any attire that looked like I was about to play tennis, croquet, or golf. Clearly, I don’t do sports, so why pretend?
I hit the mother lode when I found a LBD for a Long Island wedding. It looked a bit Real Housewife on the rack, but on my rack, it looked great. Hugged all the right places and hit exactly the right price point. A few stores for him, a few more stores for me and we were almost done for the day.
But then, like a cloud on the horizon loomed the bra store. See, the little black dress needed a little black strapless bra, which I did not own. Normally, I shop for unmentionables with my SILs. The oldest usually takes before and after pictures of me in new bras, the middle one likes to find the loudest, most obnoxious colors and textures, and the youngest likes to wear them on her head. When they sort through the stacks for size, it’s like a circus act of underpants flying through the air. Left to their devices, I have wound up with some truly hideous undies. I once found myself in a pair of high-waisted granny panties with martinis printed all over them. Another time, I put on a cute little red pair only to realize they butt instructed the viewer to “unwrap me.” As the viewer at the time was my six-year old, this started quite a conversation. But without my darling SILs for guidance, I was left only with my husband and the ever helpful sales clerk who pointed me in the direction of a bra that would, she promised, make me look like a porn star.
Jesus, Mary, and the oft-forgotten Joseph.
Do I look like porn star material? I’m a fat housewife from Jersey. I’m pretty sure I am as far away from porn star material as you can get without actually going the fetish route. If it was physically possible for a Muggle to Apparate, my husband would have done so at that very moment. This sales woman was not for the timid. Once she found my size and directed me to the fitting room, she even went so far as to fetch my husband so that he could make appreciative noises at her handiwork. The poor man was then forced to find the balance between appropriate and leering about my bound boobage. I honestly thought he was going to die. However, all was not lost. After buying the necessary equipment needed to haul, hoist, hike, and hold my lovely ladies in place for the duration of an evening (at twice the cost of the dress covering them), we did manage to leave the store with an ever so small amount of our dignity intact.
This leaves us with two important questions:
1. Did I buy the porn star bra? Yes, oh yes I did – with the undies to match.
2. Do I have enough clothes to stop dressing like an overgrown teenage boy? Sort of.
But with the Rapture on hold until October, at least I’ll get good use out of them.
The Rapture wasn't until nightfall, the children were visiting the grandparents, and the sun was shining – it was a perfect day to hit the outlets. Now, let me give a little background on shopping with the husband. He will not leave a store until all sizes and types of clothing have been rooted out of hiding and put on my body – the brighter the color, the better. No blacks, dark blues, or grays are tolerated unless absolutely necessary. His philosophy is thus, if he’s going to be stuck at the stores, then by God, he’s going to make it worthwhile. I, on the other hand, have a habit of walking into a store, heaving a deep sigh, then walking right back out. This is not acceptable to the husband. If it looks worthy, it will be tried, and if it fits, it will be bought. Due to him, I had a kick-ass maternity wardrobe. And thanks to him, I now have something of a summer wardrobe. But let’s be clear, he only enjoys it because it only happens every decade or so. If he had to do it regularly, I assure you, it would be a different story. But when the choice is listen to me bitch about how nothing fits every single day or take one entire day to buy clothes, he’ll go the shortest distance every time.
The day started well. One pink summer dress, one purple summer dress, one dark blue summer dress (allowable only because the alternative was white and that wouldn’t hold up on the playground), a handful of shirts, and a standard issue denim skirt provided an excellent start. I agreed on a hot-pink skirt, but turned down all efforts at lime green, lemon yellow, and Lysol blue. Who wears those colors besides the Queen? Nothing would draw more attention to my ass than bedecking it in violently violet-colored skorts. I avoided any attire that looked like I was about to play tennis, croquet, or golf. Clearly, I don’t do sports, so why pretend?
I hit the mother lode when I found a LBD for a Long Island wedding. It looked a bit Real Housewife on the rack, but on my rack, it looked great. Hugged all the right places and hit exactly the right price point. A few stores for him, a few more stores for me and we were almost done for the day.
But then, like a cloud on the horizon loomed the bra store. See, the little black dress needed a little black strapless bra, which I did not own. Normally, I shop for unmentionables with my SILs. The oldest usually takes before and after pictures of me in new bras, the middle one likes to find the loudest, most obnoxious colors and textures, and the youngest likes to wear them on her head. When they sort through the stacks for size, it’s like a circus act of underpants flying through the air. Left to their devices, I have wound up with some truly hideous undies. I once found myself in a pair of high-waisted granny panties with martinis printed all over them. Another time, I put on a cute little red pair only to realize they butt instructed the viewer to “unwrap me.” As the viewer at the time was my six-year old, this started quite a conversation. But without my darling SILs for guidance, I was left only with my husband and the ever helpful sales clerk who pointed me in the direction of a bra that would, she promised, make me look like a porn star.
Jesus, Mary, and the oft-forgotten Joseph.
Do I look like porn star material? I’m a fat housewife from Jersey. I’m pretty sure I am as far away from porn star material as you can get without actually going the fetish route. If it was physically possible for a Muggle to Apparate, my husband would have done so at that very moment. This sales woman was not for the timid. Once she found my size and directed me to the fitting room, she even went so far as to fetch my husband so that he could make appreciative noises at her handiwork. The poor man was then forced to find the balance between appropriate and leering about my bound boobage. I honestly thought he was going to die. However, all was not lost. After buying the necessary equipment needed to haul, hoist, hike, and hold my lovely ladies in place for the duration of an evening (at twice the cost of the dress covering them), we did manage to leave the store with an ever so small amount of our dignity intact.
This leaves us with two important questions:
1. Did I buy the porn star bra? Yes, oh yes I did – with the undies to match.
2. Do I have enough clothes to stop dressing like an overgrown teenage boy? Sort of.
But with the Rapture on hold until October, at least I’ll get good use out of them.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Limbo
When I was little, my mom spent a lot of time talking about limbo. Not the limbo, which requires feats of dexterity I shudder to think about in connection to my flesh and blood, but the Catholic version of it. Specifically, she always wanted to know what happened to all the babies floating around in it. Why this was such an obsession of hers, I do not know since all the people in my family died after getting christened (and in most cases, thankfully, managed to receive most of their sacraments short of taking holy orders). When limbo was cancelled, or disbanded, or blown up, or whatever you do to an imaginary world you no longer believe exists, she still talked about it.
Now, years and years later, I can understand why. Limbo is just an awful point of existence. It is neither here nor there. It's in-between. It’s the gap between one step and the next. It’s the feeling of falling that wakes you out of a deep sleep in terror. And currently, it is my way of life. I live in the space between house and home. All I want to do is move forward and all I can do is tread water.
It’s nothing dramatic (writes the woman who just compared it to death without respite), I just want to sell my house and move to another town and I can’t. This is a plight million of people around the country are facing in much dire circumstances than my own. I don’t need to get out before the bank moves in. I just want to give my kids a better quality of life.
Unfortunately, this isn’t the housing market for casual moves. This housing market smells like desperation and fear. You sell low to buy low. No one really wins except new buyers, those lucky, lucky few who can actually manage the Olympian feat of getting a mortgage. I know this is not true around the country, but in a blue-collar neighborhood like mine, with a For Sale sign on every block, and one buyer for every five sellers, trying to sell a house is like trying to get that damn rock up the mountain. You get the call for a showing, you clean the house, you vacate the house, and then you get the call back saying they weren’t interested. Rock comes out of the gulley, up, up, up the hill, and then rolls all the way back down. The only difference between me and Sisyphus right now is that I can’t even control how often I can roll the rock. It’s all in someone else’s hands.
In this frame of mind, I find it hard to write. Ideas flitter in and out of my head, half-formed and half-deranged. Do I write a blog about how Samoa plans to time travel into the future in order to better trade with New Zealand? How trying to potty train my son might actually kill me? How much I learned about parenting by sending my child to kindergarten? How much I want my books back on their shelves instead of in storage? I think all of my ideas are in limbo with those babies. Can’t go to heaven, can’t go to hell. Just stuck. That’s me. Stuck.
Now, years and years later, I can understand why. Limbo is just an awful point of existence. It is neither here nor there. It's in-between. It’s the gap between one step and the next. It’s the feeling of falling that wakes you out of a deep sleep in terror. And currently, it is my way of life. I live in the space between house and home. All I want to do is move forward and all I can do is tread water.
It’s nothing dramatic (writes the woman who just compared it to death without respite), I just want to sell my house and move to another town and I can’t. This is a plight million of people around the country are facing in much dire circumstances than my own. I don’t need to get out before the bank moves in. I just want to give my kids a better quality of life.
Unfortunately, this isn’t the housing market for casual moves. This housing market smells like desperation and fear. You sell low to buy low. No one really wins except new buyers, those lucky, lucky few who can actually manage the Olympian feat of getting a mortgage. I know this is not true around the country, but in a blue-collar neighborhood like mine, with a For Sale sign on every block, and one buyer for every five sellers, trying to sell a house is like trying to get that damn rock up the mountain. You get the call for a showing, you clean the house, you vacate the house, and then you get the call back saying they weren’t interested. Rock comes out of the gulley, up, up, up the hill, and then rolls all the way back down. The only difference between me and Sisyphus right now is that I can’t even control how often I can roll the rock. It’s all in someone else’s hands.
In this frame of mind, I find it hard to write. Ideas flitter in and out of my head, half-formed and half-deranged. Do I write a blog about how Samoa plans to time travel into the future in order to better trade with New Zealand? How trying to potty train my son might actually kill me? How much I learned about parenting by sending my child to kindergarten? How much I want my books back on their shelves instead of in storage? I think all of my ideas are in limbo with those babies. Can’t go to heaven, can’t go to hell. Just stuck. That’s me. Stuck.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
What's in a Name?
Bear Blu is not the name of a child. It is the name of a dog or a beloved doll. But no boy-child can grow to manhood saddled with that name and not have some severe psychological problems.
Obviously, a celebrity gave birth to this monstrosity of a baby name. I’m sure the kid is cute and all, but just because you once, long ago and far away, starred in a movie called Clueless doesn’t mean you have to act that way the rest of your natural born life. Yes, people, Alicia Silverstone just announced that she named her son Bear Blu. No E. While I do not believe every child must be given a Supreme Court worthy name, I do believe that creativity and originality only go so far in real life.
Of course, most celebrities seem to live in their own little world where “real” life has very little impact.
For example, the habit of naming children after the place where they were conceived seems like such a pretentious way to announce to the world where you had sex. Only in Hollywood would you wind up with names like Brooklyn, the lesser borough of the Bronx, Paris, Ireland, and Moroccan. Though, in the latter case, the celeb in question is not referring to the country but to the room in her home decorated like the country so it’s both tacky and affected. In the real world, you would get a lot of boys named Ford or Dodge and girls named Volvo. Following this trend to the likeliest conclusion and the sheer number of people who sleep on Swedish furnishings, the world may soon be overrun with children named Ikea.
I realize that celebrities by their nature crave attention. It’s the reason they saddle their offspring with such awful names as Moxie Crimefighter, Audio Science, Pilot Inspektor (double points for being misspelled], and my favorite, Kal-El. Your child’s name shouldn’t be an inside joke that only the fans at Comic-Con can understand. Trust me, I know from whence I speak. Let’s all remember that while my daughter’s name is both lovely and Germanic, it is also the name of a character from my favorite sci-fi show that just happened to be a vengeance demon.
Twee is also really big in celebrity baby-naming. As the lovely Emma Thompson recently defined it, twee is whimsy without wit. For example, naming the children in your family Buddy Bear Maurice, Poppy Honey Rosie, Daisy Boo Pamela, and Petal Blossom Rainbow is twee. It’s also moronic, although I do appreciate that most of them have a decent middle name they can use if they choose not to become strippers or pot dealers. Bluebell and Apple also fall into this category. The only witty celebrity baby name I ever heard is Tu Morrow. Hee. That’s just awesome. The worst? Jermajesty. That’s just wrong.
A famous last name as a first name also seems to be a trend that manages to overthrow both gender bias and common sense. Being named Monroe or Harlow is a lot to live up to, especially if you want to live past 40. Hopper is a terrible name for either sex, as is Chaplin. All of these actors/actresses have first names. What is wrong with Dennis or Charlie, Marilyn or Jean? And as a throwback to Nicolas Cage (who chose his own stage name based on a comic), couldn’t you have just named the kid Luke instead of Kal-El? Clark is less common than the equivalent Jor-El but at least your kid won’t be beat up in kindergarten.
Then there are of course, the “cool” names. Rocket, Rebel, Racer, Rogue, and Rhiannon all belong to one family – a family, I imagine that has a hell of a time finding a babysitter. There are “historical” names like Homer, Ptolomy, and Hermés. Sean “P. Diddy” Combs deserves a double smack in the head for naming his African-American daughter after the Confederate outlaw Jessie (sic) James. Musicians are not exempt from dumb baby names, but I figure they are on so many drugs that their kids will never be normal, so an abnormal name works just fine for them.
There are a world of names out there beyond John and Jane. Go to any bookstore and you will find baby name books for every country, race, creed, and religion. But just think about this – if, when you call out your child’s name – a dog comes running or an adult bursts out laughing, then perhaps you should start from scratch.
Obviously, a celebrity gave birth to this monstrosity of a baby name. I’m sure the kid is cute and all, but just because you once, long ago and far away, starred in a movie called Clueless doesn’t mean you have to act that way the rest of your natural born life. Yes, people, Alicia Silverstone just announced that she named her son Bear Blu. No E. While I do not believe every child must be given a Supreme Court worthy name, I do believe that creativity and originality only go so far in real life.
Of course, most celebrities seem to live in their own little world where “real” life has very little impact.
For example, the habit of naming children after the place where they were conceived seems like such a pretentious way to announce to the world where you had sex. Only in Hollywood would you wind up with names like Brooklyn, the lesser borough of the Bronx, Paris, Ireland, and Moroccan. Though, in the latter case, the celeb in question is not referring to the country but to the room in her home decorated like the country so it’s both tacky and affected. In the real world, you would get a lot of boys named Ford or Dodge and girls named Volvo. Following this trend to the likeliest conclusion and the sheer number of people who sleep on Swedish furnishings, the world may soon be overrun with children named Ikea.
I realize that celebrities by their nature crave attention. It’s the reason they saddle their offspring with such awful names as Moxie Crimefighter, Audio Science, Pilot Inspektor (double points for being misspelled], and my favorite, Kal-El. Your child’s name shouldn’t be an inside joke that only the fans at Comic-Con can understand. Trust me, I know from whence I speak. Let’s all remember that while my daughter’s name is both lovely and Germanic, it is also the name of a character from my favorite sci-fi show that just happened to be a vengeance demon.
Twee is also really big in celebrity baby-naming. As the lovely Emma Thompson recently defined it, twee is whimsy without wit. For example, naming the children in your family Buddy Bear Maurice, Poppy Honey Rosie, Daisy Boo Pamela, and Petal Blossom Rainbow is twee. It’s also moronic, although I do appreciate that most of them have a decent middle name they can use if they choose not to become strippers or pot dealers. Bluebell and Apple also fall into this category. The only witty celebrity baby name I ever heard is Tu Morrow. Hee. That’s just awesome. The worst? Jermajesty. That’s just wrong.
A famous last name as a first name also seems to be a trend that manages to overthrow both gender bias and common sense. Being named Monroe or Harlow is a lot to live up to, especially if you want to live past 40. Hopper is a terrible name for either sex, as is Chaplin. All of these actors/actresses have first names. What is wrong with Dennis or Charlie, Marilyn or Jean? And as a throwback to Nicolas Cage (who chose his own stage name based on a comic), couldn’t you have just named the kid Luke instead of Kal-El? Clark is less common than the equivalent Jor-El but at least your kid won’t be beat up in kindergarten.
Then there are of course, the “cool” names. Rocket, Rebel, Racer, Rogue, and Rhiannon all belong to one family – a family, I imagine that has a hell of a time finding a babysitter. There are “historical” names like Homer, Ptolomy, and Hermés. Sean “P. Diddy” Combs deserves a double smack in the head for naming his African-American daughter after the Confederate outlaw Jessie (sic) James. Musicians are not exempt from dumb baby names, but I figure they are on so many drugs that their kids will never be normal, so an abnormal name works just fine for them.
There are a world of names out there beyond John and Jane. Go to any bookstore and you will find baby name books for every country, race, creed, and religion. But just think about this – if, when you call out your child’s name – a dog comes running or an adult bursts out laughing, then perhaps you should start from scratch.
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