Not to brag . . .

Me So Corny

2008-08-19T20:54:00.011-05:00

Starting around 1995 or so, midway through my college career, I pretty much stopped eating popcorn, except at the movies.* I stopped eating popcorn not because I stopped liking how it tasted but because I became repelled by how it smelled. Hot, fresh buttered popcorn smells quite delicious. However, burnt microwave popcorn smells horrible. Horrible. Plus, the smell of burnt microwave popcorn lingers and seeps into your hair and clothing (in the same way that the smell inside a Subway restaurant does--how did Jared go all those years with that Subway stank?). There was a microwave in one of the common rooms of my college dorm, and it was frequently used for microwave popcorn. I'm telling you, spend ten minutes in there after a fresh batch had just been popped, burnt or not, and you ought to take a shower if at all possible.

Now I admit I am extremely smell-sensitive. My husband actually gets angry/frustrated with me when I complain about particular scents because they either do not bother him at all, strike him as "not that bad," or are not strong enough for him to detect period. I can't help it though. My smeller is my smeller so I avoid eating at Subway and run like the wind if I smell Bath and Body Works Cherry Blossom lotion.

Loyal NTB readers know I am no purist when it comes to food and no stranger to convenience foods. I am sure if I knew how to pop popcorn the old fashioned way (I do not and fear I would burn my arm with hot oil if I tried and burnt flesh would have to smell worse than burnt microwave popcorn) or owned an air popper, I would have started eating popcorn again a lot sooner. With microwave popcorn as my main option, I had just cut it out of my life. Until recently . . .

For whatever reason, I am now so corny. I am eating popcorn like it is my job. I have learned that if you read the directions on the microwave popcorn package and actually listen for and time the pops toward the end, you can avoid burning it. I have also discovered this whole new world of microwave popcorn. There are, for example, these Orville Redenbacher Naturals. The bags are small (perfect for one, in my opinion) and come in cool flavors like "Buttery Garlic" (more buttery than garlic-y) and "Buttery Salt & Cracked Pepper" (very tasty, lots of pepper). Orville also makes a nice microwavable Kettle Corn that is low in fat.

Speaking of Kettle Corn, how did I never know how stinking fantastic it is? Sweet and salty. Salty and sweet. Just like me. Of late, my corny self is constantly craving Kettle Corn. Instead of popping it, I have been buying it in bags. I started out with the kind in the red bag made in Popcorn, IN (apparently such a place really exists). They sell it as CVS, which means I have an average of five chances per week to re-stock it as the Bub and I don't often go two days without visiting CVS. Then, I bought a bag of Kettle Corn at Trader Joe's, and I think I'm in love. The TJ's brand is a tad saltier and the kernels are much bigger. The greatest thing of all is that while Kettle Corn is not a health food, it is not all that bad for you. Say, for example, you polish off an entire (non single-serving) bag over the course of the day . . . it's nothing to be proud of but it's really only an extra 500 calories or so, which leaves you better off than if you ate a whole bag of chips.

I also really love caramel corn, and I am fortunate to live very, very close to the main location of Nuts on Clark which sells some awesome caramel corn. Kind of like me and Dunkin' Donuts though, I can't really go there. I don't trust myself to enjoy caramel corn or donuts except on special occasions. I could easily develop a daily donut or caramel corn habit, and I have to guard against such food obsessions as I have enough already (see this and this for proof).

And speaking of corny, PITA hooked me up with my own copy of one of my family's favorite films: The Parent Trap starring Hayley Mills and Hayley Mills. I could go on all day about how much I love the original Parent Trap. I found Hayley Mills' hair as Sharon to be beautiful and her hair as Susan to be dreadful (what a crime that Sharon's had to be cut). I never cease to be amused by the scene when Sharon and her camp friends cut the back of Susan's dress at the dance and you see her granny pants. I love when the twins sabotage their father's engagement on the camping trip. Obviously, I love the "Let's get together" musical number. If you haven't seen it, you should. I pray that the Bub, Baby Boy, and whomever else comes along humor me in a few years when I try to get them to enjoy this movie. The best thing about the DVD PITA bought me is that it also includes The Parent Trap II, also starring Hayley Mills and Hayley Mills, which was a Disney Sunday Night Movie when I was growing up. We taped it and watched it quite frequently as well. Good stuff.

So me so corny, but what about you? Any food obsessions to share or corny movies to recommend?

*I love how many theaters now have the butter-your-own popcorn machine. As Sandra Lee says whilst piping store-bought icing out of a ziploc bag, "Be generous."

TMI...Perhaps.

2008-08-14T20:25:00.002-05:00

Pita here, I have also been tagged here on Not to Brag…to share six of my quirks. It seems that many of my sisters’ quirks also relate to me. For example, I would not be able to sleep at night if I knew my alarm clock was set to a time ending in a five or zero. The thought alone provides anxiety for me….I prefer the 1, 9, or 7. My personal favorite and the time I woke up for my first three years of work – 6:11. I do not, however, share an intrigue for baby monkeys or have misshapen toes … sorry LAP, but I will throw a NTB on the toes.

Here‘s what I got…
1. I perspire….a lot. This is not something that I am proud of; it is something I realize is just a part of my life. I sweat at all times, no matter what I am doing, what the temperature is, what fabric I am wearing and so on. I seem to have inherited this special characteristic from my Grandma P. She used to rig up special contraptions just to absorb some of her sweat output. Many a person has tried to give me “tidbits” to help my sweating problem, but to no avail. Additionally, as many of you know, deodorant manufactures have been releasing new “clinical strength” deodorants. I thought, “Those sound promising, I bet they will stop the sweat!” Not so much, took it down a notch – maybe. I have also tried a deodorant from the actual pharmacy, but after application I felt like it was burning my skin off, so I discontinued use. I actually had wash cloths in my armpits until the very moment I walked down the aisle at my wedding – who wants to see a bride that has pitted out?

2. I have a freakish memory. I have an exceptional ability to remember a lot of information. I can recall outfits worn; conversations had, and minute details. My mind has been compared to a steel trap. Not trying to brag here, but I was feeling a little down after putting my perspiration struggles in print.

3. I am not in to condiments so much. I don’t really care for condiments in a general sense. I can tolerate a few in isolation, however. I will dip fries or other items in ketchup, but I like to be in control of the application at all times. I don’t love mustard. I have been trying to like it lately, but I cannot say it is going well. Above all, I hate mayonnaise. You don’t know how many times I hear, “You sure you just want this sandwich dry?” Yes, I do.

4. I have had several skin tags. A skin tag? Yes, a skin tag is simply a small piece of skin that grows on your body. Seems harmless right? Generally speaking, they are pretty harmless. I have had a few on my arm and finger. I would say the crown jewel came when I was in 8th grade. See, I developed a skin tag under my right nostril. Yep, you read that correctly. So, for a month or two, I had a small ball of skin under my nose that resembled a booger. At least once a day, someone would say – “PITA, I think you have booger handing out of your nose.” I would answer , “ I wish, it is skin tag and can’t be wiped off. “

5. I don’t digest cream sauces. I think this is something that plagues many people. The first time I met my hubby’s family, they served fettuccine alfredo. Quite a predicament, do you eat it or do you say,” No, thank you. I don’t digest cream sauces.” Lucky for me it was served buffet style. I was able to apply a miniscule amount and then crossed my fingers.

6. I leave trash around. When asked what my hubby, Scooter, thought my quirks were. He answered with, “you leave trash around.” I was unaware of this. Not gross trash, like food, but small pieces of clutter he eventually has to throw away himself. Whatever.

Sorry about the length…I was sweatin’ this assignment at first, but hey, what else is new? NTB.

Have I Shared Too Much?

2008-08-12T13:27:00.002-05:00

LAP here. OK, so I was tagged in MEP’s last blog to do a meme. From what I gather, this meme involves listing 6 quirks about myself. So, let me reveal my freaky ways…

1. My toes are way out of alignment. Let me attempt to describe this for you. We start out strong with the big toe. It appears normal in size and shape…nothing that would require a second glance. Next we have my second and third toes which I have always referred to as the twin towers. I know it is not unusual for your second toe to be taller than your big toe, but I don’t know the stats on toe number three being taller than the big toe as well, as is the case with my feet. What comes next is really what makes my feet look bizarre. Picture a five story building next to a skyscraper. That’s what my fourth toe is to my third. Ants could parachute off toe number three and get a thrilling fall before landing on my tiny fourth toe. I have to be careful when selecting dress shoes and sandals so as not to have a strap that lays on my foot in a way that gives the illusion that I only have three toes. Finally, my baby toe is extremely shy and hides behind toe number four. I pry it out when painting my toenails but otherwise allow it to remain a recluse.

2. I enjoy eating in the car. We’re not talking road trips here. Let me set the scene to present an example. At my last job, there were some periods of time where my lunch partner options were shaky at best. So, rather than subject myself to a lunch of discussing the Iraq war (again), listening to my needy cubemate tell about his unaffectionate wife (who I firmly believe was a lesbian), or eat in the dingy breakroom with my dieting friends (depressing), I often opted to eat in my car. There was a strip center about a half a mile from work that was not busy due to its main anchor moving out. So, I parked my car on the side of the building, facing the highway so I could watch cars if I so desired and ate my lunch in peace (sometimes with a magazine I’d packed or with the radio on). This could be done spring through fall, as long as there was some sunlight steaming through my windshield. Sounds pathetic perhaps, but those are some good memories. The best days of course being when I went through the McDonalds drive-thru for a post-meal McFlurry and savored that in the front seat of my car. One day, a fairly new, potentially cool coworker pulled up next to me, about to eat his lunch. He tried to tell me this was the first time he had ever done that, but I wasn’t buying it. He never did return to that spot though so he was either scared of me that I admitted to coming here regularly or else found himself a new spot.

3. I can burp the alphabet. Don’t know what else to say about that. I am not necessarily proud of that talent, but I like that people are surprised that I would even attempt such a thing. I try not to give performances very often as my body sometimes likes to keep going even after I get to “z.” Pleasant, ey?

4. I heart Frisch’s. The local Big Boy restaurant for those of you who might be unfamiliar. Sure, lots of people might like it, but I believe I am a tier above the “like” stage. The hamburger is the perfect size and is the only circumstance in which I consume tarter sauce. The fries are admittedly only average, but the vegetable soup makes for a nice substitute. Of course, the grand item for me is the Diet Vanilla Coke over perfectly crushed ice. I love it. I consume a couple cups while there and then like to get a to go cup when I leave. For the forty-five days following Halloween and Valentines Day, you can use kids coupons (purchased 8 for $1) to get free kids meals. We’ve been known to go weekly during that time. It especially works out well around Halloween when my husband can order some pumpkin pie, sometimes splitting a whole pie with wall builder M. Myself, I prefer the hot fudge cake if I am going to go with dessert. Yum. There are suckers for kids on the way out which can serve well as incentives for eating and staying seated through the meal.

5. I have a thing for cash registers. As if points 1-4 don’t make me sound odd enough, I will reveal that I love playing with cash registers. Perhaps that’s why I chose accounting as it’s one of the few professional jobs that allows me to display my speed on the numeric keypad…a skill honed in my cash register hayday. It started with the Buddy L toy cash register as a child. I made PITA purchase items before bed, threatening that we couldn’t have the night light on in our room unless she did. I graduated to a push button old school register no longer being used at the AmeriStop gas station my dad’s friend owned. Finally, when I showed no signs of giving up my cash register playing habits, my parents broke down and bought me one of the electronic ones I used to play with on trips to Sam’s Club. I had a system for entering UPC codes and prices, making receipts, running through my pretend charge cards, and accepting returns. I once told a partner at my public accounting firm that if someday years from now he sees me working at a checkout lane, not to feel sorry for me. I asked him to instead think to himself that I’m finally living my dream. Of course, truth be told, the dream as I knew it is dead thanks to scanners. There’s no fun in scanning. Cashiers don’t even get to ask cash, check or charge anymore. Still, I have my electronic register in storage in our basement and will only bring it out when I feel like Fancy and Swiper are old enough to treat it with the care it deserves.

6. I never set my alarm to a rounded number. I mention this only because it never ceases to amaze my husband. I am orderly about so many other things in life that it seems out of character. My alarm will never say 6:30, 7:00, or 7:45. Instead, some common wake-up times through the years have been 6:21, 7:01, or 7:44.

Sorry for the long length of this one. Perhaps you didn’t need so many details about my quirks but sometimes I don’t know when to stop.

"Meme"bers Only, but what club are we talking about?

2008-08-08T21:28:00.006-05:00

First off, quick update. Life with an infant and toddler is tough, but I can honestly say our little family had a really good week. There was a low point or two (like when the Bub kicked Baby Boy--also, the licking continues), but I feel like I am gaining confidence and that patterns are starting to emerge that help me to keep things organized. Of course, our house is still a mess, the birth announcements I started addressing three weeks ago are still not sent, and my dissertation is still not finished (surprising, given the 75 minutes per day I have to myself and the fact that I need to eat and straighten up my piles of clutter during that time). However, I feel good about myself and my life. NTB.

A few weeks ago, I was tagged for a meme by Bailey of I'm not saying, I'm just saying. What's a meme? I'm not exactly sure, and I was going to research it but I don't have the energy. Read below and draw your own conclusions.

First the rules:
1. Link the person who tagged you
2. Mention the rules on your blog
3. Tell about 6 unspectacular quirks of yours
4. Tag 6 following bloggers by linking them
5. Leave a comment on each of the tagged blogger’s blogs letting them know they’ve been tagged.

6 Unspectacular Quirks of Mine:

1. I am intrigued/repelled by baby monkeys. The smaller the baby monkey, the more I want to cringe and yet the more I want to look. My college roommate had a book that included a photo of a monkey so tiny that it was wrapped around a human finger. I think it's the idea of something tiny, human-like, and yet also furry that gets to me. When I was a high school teacher, my students used to bring me pictures of monkeys and I had a sort of wall of fame of creepy monkeys. I forgot that until right now. I perpetuated a false rumor amongst my co-workers that I had a tattoo of a baby monkey on my butt cheek. At a happy hour (I was not intoxicated), a guidance counselor (who happened to be the superintendent's wife) even made a show of going into a bathroom stall with me to verify the existence of the tattoo. For the record, there is no tattoo. NTB.

2. I am annoying about my pop. By pop, I mean soda. Diet Coke is my pop of choice, and I love it dearly. I am one of those people who cringes and makes a mini fuss when the server says those dreaded three words, "Diet Pepsi okay?" Diet Pepsi is only okay if I'm really hard up. Indeed, for most restaurants I frequent, I already know in advance whether they serve Coke or Pepsi products. If I am in the mood for California Pizza Kitchen, for example, I have to decide if the deliciousness of the Barbecue Chicken Chopped Salad makes up for the fact that they only have Pepsi. Subway used to be on my permanent "do not enter" list, but now that they have Coke products, I would at least consider entering a Subway.

3. I make mean faces but I don't mean to do it. When I was a sophomore in high school, my English teacher stopped class and all of sudden says to me, "I was grocery shopping last night, and I saw a poster for Goody hairbrushes. The girl in the poster had beautiful hair. She looked a lot like you except she was smiling, and you never smile." I never smile? It's not that I don't smile. I actually have a great smile, NTB. However, this incident has remained with me for years. I didn't realize it at the time, but I now know that when I am concentrating (as in a classroom setting), I have an odd expression that others might think is mean. Now, when when I'm at a meeting, in a class, or in conversation, I remind myself to relax my face and make it clear that I am an active, receptive, encouraging listener. If you ever see or talk to me and I look pissed off, I am probably not pissed off.

4. Dick Clark kissed me on my 21st birthday. NTB? I'll just let you imagine why and how that happened.

5. I repeat myself. Because I have spent the last seven years as a graduate student in the Humanities and more recent years taking care of a toddler, I fear I have lost valuable social and conversational skills. I think I'm an interesting, witty, intelligent person, but when I am actually out with other adults in a social setting, I no longer know what to do with myself. I have trouble generating topics of conversation that don't have to do with reality television, which troubles me because I actually read books and have thoughts and such. When I do join in a conversation, I have noticed that I now repeat myself. It's not so much that I tell the same stories over and over. It's that I will make a statement and then immediately repeat that same exact thought (maybe changing a couple of words for emphasis). I am my own echo. Why? Do I want to make sure I'm heard? Am I so in love with my words I wantto repeat them? Am I so socially awkward now that I need to re-test my sentences to double check they are okay? I don't know. I'm working on it though.

6. My urine and sweat smell like maple syrup. This situation is not permanent, but it is annoying. As advised by a lactation consultant, I take an herb called Fenugreek to help keep my milk supply up. The herb works for me, but by the end a summer day, you might mistake me for a pancake. Actually, I could have written my meme all about my breastfeeding quirks. I'll save them for later.

Okay, that's all I got. Were these all "quirks"? Maybe not, but I did what I could.

Now, I tag the following bloggers:

LAP from Not to brag . . .
PITA from Not to brag . . .
E . . . from It's A Small World After All
Actchy from Beyond Pickles
Cake from Whistling Leaf Blower
Steph from Steph's Cup of Tea

Smell you later and, given number six, smell me later for sure.

What do you do?

2008-08-01T08:19:00.003-05:00

LAP here. As a CPA, I can’t say that there are many “fun facts” about my realm of employment, particularly with the 5-10 hours a week I work these days. Of course, there are plenty of stories about my former coworkers that make The Office seem more plausible than some might think. Perhaps I will devote a future post to outlining quirky folks such as my colleague in public accounting who organized his undershirt and sock drawers using a “FIFO” method (first-in, first-out…accounting lingo for those of you bored already). He explained that by doing so, all his clothing staples experienced equal wear and tear. Not only did this make me chuckle, but it also resulted in making me feel like the most easygoing and laid back person ever (by contrast of course) which was refreshing.

Let me return to my original point in writing this: I am fascinated by what other people do for a living. This is particularly true when a person deals with tangible products directed at the consumer. I find myself asking people the same types of questions, all which feed my craving of useless, yet easily digestible tidbits of information. A few examples:

1. My neighbor fills vending machines for a living. I’m not sure how all the logistics work. I know he has a conversion van filled with coolers for his delivery runs. I know he refreezes his ice packs each night to prep for the next day’s run. It’s not uncommon to see him tinkering with a coke vending machine in his garage, though I don’t believe he owns all the machines he services.
My hard-hitting question for him: What are your best sellers?
His responses:
1. Snickers (said without hesitation)
2. Peanut M&M’s (my husband and I suspect people are looking for that salty/sweet combo)
3. Tie between the classic Reese Cup and 3 Musketeer. He noted that the latter has made a surge of late. He believes the dieting ladies in some of the offices he services have embraced it as a low-cal candy bar choice

Coke outsells Pepsi by a ratio of 3:1. Diet Coke is his best seller overall, passing Coke in recent years.

2. Wall-building neighbor M is a pharmacist who works at a mail-in center. I asked him the most popular drugs he refills and he responded (in the translated layman’s terms) that medication for high blood pressure and medication for depression seem to be the most common.

3. A friend of my father’s owns several “drive-thrus” here in Ohio. I’ve found that this is sometimes a difficult concept for outsiders to comprehend, as such businesses are illegal in some states. However, it’s simply a convenience store that you can drive your car through. You can purchase items such as milk, eggs, etc. but these aren’t the most popular go-to items in such a store. To be gentle, let me say that 75% of the drive-thrus owned by this particular man are not located in family friendly parts of town. I never worked at them but some family members have through the years. Can you guess what two buttons worn to the core on the register? Marlboros and Mountain Dew. Classy. This is the kind of data I find interesting.

4. Finally, my friend’s family owns a Dairy Queen in a small town in Indiana. She spent her teen years working there. I asked the most popular item on the menu and she promptly responded with “Blizzards.” When pressed for a most popular flavor, she settled on Oreo. However, she mentioned that the power of suggestion is alive and well. She found it humorous that whatever item was advertised on the DQ sign out front (“Come in for a Brownie Blizzard!” “Have you had a Banana Split lately?” “Try our Dipped Cones!”) was a top seller for that time period. Keep in mind that said item was never on sale, it was simply recommended. I also enjoyed that during her time as a trainee of new employees, she had to teach the technique of getting the signature DQ curly tip on the ice cream just right. She noted that time and again, the girls picked up this skill much faster than the boys.

So, do you do anything that would provide me with equally earth shattering consumer information? I’d love to know all about it.
.

Gold Star Husband

2008-07-26T21:48:00.008-05:00

When my husband and I were first married, he used to report in with me each time he did a household task. "I loaded the dishwasher," he'd say, beaming with pride. "I preheated the oven and put the Tombstone in." "I took the trash out." “I changed the toilet paper roll.” (Yeah right on that last one). One day, I think I said something like, "What do you want? A gold star?" Since then, we've used the phrase "gold star?" any time one of us wants a little appreciation. "I finished all the thank you notes for the baby gifts," I might say. And then, if I don't get much of a reaction (imagine that), I'll follow up with, "Gold star?" You get the picture.

Gold stars aside, I fear I don't tell my husband how much I appreciate him as often as I should and wish. Our lives have gotten busier and more hectic since we've been parents. Now that I'm trying to figure out how to care for a toddler and a newborn on a day-to-day basis, I admit that I've been a bit more focused on the appreciation I think I deserve. I'm not proud of it, but sleep deprivation and toddler frustration can make one want to throw a pity party. Usually though, I have enough perspective to remember that my life is really good, exactly as it is.

The best part of my life is, of course, the person with whom I’ve chosen to share it. Today marks five years of marriage for me and my husband. I still love him for all the reasons I did back then and now for many more. I always knew that he would be a great father, but to see how much he loves our boys and how involved he is in their hands-on care has been a joy.

So, for the record, here are a few of the things I especially appreciate my husband for these days:

I appreciate that for almost every night (except when traveling for work or working late) since we knew I was pregnant with Baby Boy, my husband has put the Bub to bed. Believe me, the past couple of months, this has been no easy job.

I appreciate the fact that though he does not lactate, my husband did and continues to do his part with the night-time feedings for both boys. Once we hear the cry, he gets up and changes the diaper, hand the baby off to me for feeding, and then takes over if he doesn’t fall back to asleep afterwards. It makes me feel less alone and keeps me from playing the martyr in the middle of the night.

I appreciate the fact that my husband continues to be supportive of my dissertation and rarely draws attention to the fact that I have not held a “real job” since 2001.

I appreciate the fact that just tonight, we arrived home from our anniversary dinner to find the Bub still awake (we’re at my parents’ this week and Bub and his cousin are sharing a bedroom). The hubby invested almost two hours helping get Bub and his cousin to sleep. He fixed the baby gate after Bub busted it out of the door frame in an attempt to liberate himself and his cousin. He changed an enormous poopy (“Did Bub sit in tar?” my mom asked) an hour into the bedtime process. He was up and down the stairs no less than twenty times. He kept his sense of humor the whole time.

This post can’t do justice to how thankful I am to be married to the person I am. He is truly a gold star husband. NTB.

Special gold star for the hubby, who gave me an anniversary card and present on Thursday. Early no less, NTB.

The earrings are actually a combined five years and two boys present. I think he did a great job, NTB.

"Stop licking your brother."

2008-07-22T21:52:00.003-05:00

"No kicking. No kicking. What did we talk about? No kicking."

"Gentle. Gentle."

"Careful. Please be careful. Careful."

"No."

"What did mommy say about throwing sand? No throwing sand."

"Can I change your diaper? Please. I'm going to count to five."

"Do you want a time out?"

"Should I call Daddy?"

"Not right now. We'll play chalk outside as soon as I feed Baby Boy."

"I'm going to count to five."

"Use the towel. Please use the towel. Please, we don't dry our hands with toilet paper. It's messy. Messy."

"Where are your 'slippers' (Bub's word for his crocs)?"

"You can't take the boppy while Mommy is feeding Baby Boy."

"Let's get dressed. Please Bub. Let's get dressed and then we can __________________ [insert anything I think he might be tempted by, that I can still manage to pull off with Baby Boy in tow, such as "go to CVS" or "go eat bagel/muffy" or "ride in special stroller with Baby Boy"]. . ."

"Stop licking your brother."

I am using variations of the above phrases pretty much constantly throughout the day, but I might as well be speaking sign language or French* for all the good they are doing me with the Bub. Now that the post partum helper tour of duty is pretty much over and it's just me and my boys during the day, the Bub is suffering. Basically, he is not listening to me at all, and frankly, given what comes out of my mouth all day, I don't blame him. I'm a drag. I might have more success if I could sit him down and try to get some eye contact, if I could enforce time outs regularly for the most egregious behavior, if I could find more blocks of time during the day when Bub can receive my undivided attention. It's tough to enforce a time out or "get down on the child's level" (say the previous in the voice of Supernanny) if you are holding a baby or have one attached to your breast. I know things will get easier, that Baby Boy will not need to eat so frequently forever, that I will become braver about taking the boys on more outings, that the arrival of his new baby brother will not scar my Bub for life and make him feel permanently displaced and unloved. I know these things, but it still breaks my heart to see the Bub--my beautiful, bright-eyed boy with the great enthusiasm for life, the awesome energy, the amazing smile--acting out and to feel so darn frustrated with him and myself for large portions of the day. For two and a half years it was all about Bub and now it's not because it can't be. It's tough on everyone. I want Bub to know how much he is loved, but obviously I also want to attend to all of Baby Boy's needs. I know, I know, millions of moms have more than one child and they figure it out. I'm sure I will too, but in the meantime, it's just tough. Baby steps.

Speaking of baby steps, we made it to a small, contained park this afternoon and after driving one young boy and his mother away (see "No throwing." "No kicking" above. For the record, he was kicking the wood chips on the playground floor not the boy), the Bub cleaned up his act when a pair of sisters and their very kind mother arrived and proceeded to play nicely for a good hour. Baby Boy did his part and slept as I held him. I walked home thinking "Okay, I can do this." When we arrived home, I placed Baby Boy in his pack and play so I could start Bub's dinner. Next words uttered: "Stop licking your brother."

*French is the language spoken by the mother whose son was the victim of Bub's wood chip throwing and kicking. I tried to translate/imagine what she was telling her son when he cried after Bub stole his stick: "Do not cry. That boy's mother is very negligent and he does not listen as he should. Also, look at that baby. He seems to have dried saliva on his cheek. Mon Dieu!" The woman was actually very kind, but the point is that she felt her son was unsafe around the Bub. Makes me feel pretty bad.

The Wall That Neighbors Built

2008-07-17T18:44:00.001-05:00

LAP here. For the new readers, I am MEP’s younger and less literary-focused sister. It’s been a while since my last guest post, as MEP’s hubby likes to remind me. Since they are still busy with Baby Boy as well as Bub, the world’s most active and freakishly strong two year old*, I will try to fill in the gaps in her postings until her maternity leave is declared over.

So, over the weekend, it was operation neighborly bonding. We live in a nice little suburban neighborhood with roughly 50 houses. My husband and I moved into the house six years ago, before we had children. I’ll never forget the first day I drove by the bus stop on my way to work and saw a sea of blue and white, comprised of about 50 young grade school children (Catholic schooling is big in this neck of the woods). We assumed that with such a large child population, the neighborhood would be bustling with activity. That hasn’t exactly been the case. There is the occasional kickball game in the cul-de-sac, the annual pre-trick-or-treat gathering, and periodic bonfires on the neighbor’s driveway, but the reality is that families are busy with sporting events, two parents working, etc. so we haven’t really become BF’s with many of our neighbors.

However, we are very good friends with the family two doors down. They have two small children as well so our social lives run pretty parallel. The great news for us is that these friends of ours are putting in a pool. Part of this process involved putting up a retaining wall in their backyard. So, on Saturday my husband set his alarm for 5:55am to allow himself time to dress, grab two Gatorades and head two doors down to begin the wall building process before it got too hot. Trusty future pool owner M was there ready to start as well, which reflects the sort of reliable folks they are.

About 10am, I went out on our deck to survey the work in their backyard and saw a somewhat glorious sight. Not only were my husband (BB) and M working hard, but several other neighbors had stopped by and were helping as well. A sampling of the demographic included a guy who came over after his 72-mile cycle that morning and his 12 year old son who I estimate at about 80 pounds. The girls and I walked down to survey the situation, and my husband’s eyes lit up as he told me that the eighteen year old kid across the street was going to come help scoop gravel after lunch and the lad’s father was going to man the level to make sure everything stayed even. The teamwork persisted until about 3:30pm, with only one short lunch break. It looks great, and we were told that BB’s sweat equity earned us a lifetime membership to the pool, NTB.

I feel the need to also point out that M’s wife called and also stopped by our house during the day to thank me for the use of my husband. This may make him sound like property, but she gets what many people don’t. NTB, but BB is a helpful sort of guy. However, what people seem to forget is that every time he is helping to shovel snow, fix siding on a house, get his company truck to move yet another relative, or pick up mulch for a truckless neighbor, I am at home with our two darling but sometimes emotional girls. Selfish as it may sound, I grow weary of hearing how nice and helpful my husband is with no acknowledgement that I have given up a Saturday of having him around to help me in return. Of course, in this case it was absolutely worth it, with or without M’s wife thanking me. They would help us with anything we ever needed and have on many occasions.

So, the countdown to the grand opening of the pool is on. M has declared himself the “unofficial fastest swimmer in the neighborhood” though he has no formal swimming experience. My husband has told him that he believes that title should belong to me. I’m less concerned about the title (though I do secretly covet it) and more focused on my future of sitting around the pool with a nice cold beverage. Who knows, maybe some other neighbors will join as well and the bonding will continue…

* Being the mother of a two year old and being surrounded by others that age on a regular basis, I feel secure in making such a claim.

I want something better, like a pop si pooko pooko!

2008-07-13T13:18:00.004-05:00

Some of Bub’s favorite phrases of late:

1. “Pop si pooko pooko” Translation: Popsicle. Also, “pop si pooko pooko” is the password for entering the fort he makes with the couch cushions.

2. “Get it out.” Said when Baby Boy is clamoring to be fed and while pointing to my chest. A related popular phrase is "Baby Boy eat mommy boobies." How's that for calling it as he sees it?

3. “I lofve it.” There was a stick of butter on the table for corn on the cob. The Bub picked up the butter, took a bite, and asked “What’s dis?” “Butter,” Grammy replies. “I lofve it,” Bub declares.

4. “No, thank you.” Common response to the question “What would you like for dinner/lunch?”

5. “I want something better.” Phrase used most commonly in negotiating his snacks. We might start with some raisins or goldfish crackers, but then he’ll come back at us, requesting “something better” (see “pop si pooko pooko” above). The other day, we were at Dairy Queen, truly the pinnacle of the “something better” food chain, and the hubby lifted Bub up to place his order. Instead of saying “twist with ‘spinkles,’” Bub simply said, “I want something better.” Don’t we all, kid?

Want to switch things up?

2008-07-06T14:51:00.007-05:00

Just so you know, I think of things every day that I would like to blog about. But, although Baby Boy is a really good baby, we are still somewhat in survival mode around here. Any significant chunks of free time afforded me are being spent napping. My mom leaves on Tuesday so I am trying to rest up while I have the chance.

Today, however, I have skipped my nap and chosen instead to paint my toenails (was planning a pre-birth pedicure, but Baby Boy's early arrival made that impossible). My newly-painted toenails inspired me to show off an item that I purchased about a month ago: the Switchflop.

My friend B sent me a link to the Switchflops website weeks ago, and I was intrigued. I am real sucker for patterns and prints, for having my shoes match my outfit, and for grosgrain ribbon (I admit that if I lived in the likes of Nashville or Atlanta, I would add a ribbon to my ponytail, even though I am 33 years old . . . oh, and that ribbon would coordinate with my outfit and shoes). When I realized that a store about five minutes (by foot) from my house sold Switchflops, it seemed like fate.

So here's the deal. You pay $30 for a pair of black and white polka-dotted flip flops. Admittedly, this does not sound like a great deal. But then, the black and white ribbon is attached to the flop by velcro. You can remove the ribbon top and add others that cost $10. Again, not a great bargain, but a fun feature. Thus far, I have only purchased one additional top for my Switchflops, but I am enjoying the shoes quite a bit. Besides the novelty and versatility, the Switchflop is quite comfortable (I am not one who typically "lives in flip flops") and, unlike the flip flops I have previously purchased from J. Crew, the Switchflop does not leave my foot black. Sure, your feet can still get dirty in the Switchflops, but the shoe itself does not rub blackness on your feet, forcing you to feel like a Coalminer's Daughter. All in all, I am pleased with the purchase. My only regret is that, as with all sandals (or, at least, all sandals that I wear), the Switchflops do make my feet stink. But, at least they are cute and stinky feet, NTB.

The original Switchflops. These are available in brown and in black. After much deliberation, I chose the black base over the brown. Also, I should warn you that each Switchflop is enhanced with a piece of "bling" in the middle, and some of the bling is lame. These came with a large fake pearl on each shoe, but I easily removed the pearls.

The new top. The multi-colored stripe makes for many opportunities to coordinate with my clothes. NTB.

I am thinking the polish color is definitely a mistake, but oh well.

Oh brother!

2008-06-27T12:10:00.016-05:00

So far, life as the mom of two boys is going well! Baby Boy is sweet as anything, though his nights and days are still mixed up. At least this time around, I know that won't last forever (even if I don't believe it in the middle of the night). But all in all, life is good. I feel much more relaxed and confident this time and, to be honest, Baby Boy has a calmer disposition than the Bub did. How it will be around here once my hubby is back to work and my mom back at her house . . . that, I can't predict, but I am just going to enjoy all the help while I have it and trust that I will find my way eventually.

One of the joys of the past few days has been seeing Bubby enjoy his new role as big brother. I'm not kidding myself that it won't or can't happen, but so far there has not been any jealous or angry behavior. He proudly announced to Grandma and Grandpa when they got to town that brother was here: "He out. He out." He loves to turn on the aquarium noises for Baby Boy. He is very curious about baby's diaper changes and sponge baths. He is very concerned when Baby Boy cries. I tend to visit the bathroom right before I settle in to nurse Baby Boy--often when the baby is already starting to squawk. Three times now, the Bub has knocked on the bathroom door to hurry me along to take care of brother. Bub also is very helpful about offering his baby brother a passy, though we have stressed that when brother is sound asleep, he does not need it.

And now, more photos . . .

We arrived home to find blue balloon, streamers, and a birthday cake for Baby Boy. Bubby greeted us with big smiles and repeatedly said "Surprise, surprise."

Bubby prepares to sing happy birthday to brother and enjoy some cake.

Bubby likes this big brother gig.

"Gentle. Gentle." New refrain around here.

All mommy's boys.

Enthusiasm or regression?

That's all for now. Thanks so much for the sweet comments and emails!

He's here and he's perfect, NTB.

2008-06-25T16:20:00.017-05:00

My posts will be heavy on pictures in the coming days . . .

Baby Boy (blog handle still to be determined) arrived nine days early on Sunday, June 22 at 2:05 p.m. 8 pounds, 14 ounces. 21 inches long.

Proud Papa

Grammy witnessed the birth and was excited to welcome grandchild #6. Pop had to work, but he'll meet the new one very soon.

Happy Mama

Sweet, sweet baby.

Grandma more than approves.

Ditto for Grandpa.

Bubby is handling his new role as big brother really well.

Yes, he has eyes.

Party of four.

Pulling out all the stops to welcome the new arrival -- stunning view of Lake Michigan, complete with rainbow, from our hospital room. NTB.

Stay tuned if you can tolerate all the (not) bragging!

Dear Abby, I just found out my husband is a polygamist or possibly just someone else's babydaddy . . .

2008-06-19T21:25:00.010-05:00

The first call came two weeks ago. I answered the phone and an "unknown caller" (per caller id) with the voice of a child in the 8-10 year-old range asked to speak to my husband (whom I will refer to as "Tony Jones" for the purposes of this post--as ever, I will refer to myself as "MEP"): "Is Tony Jones there?" I ask who's calling and feel genuinely concerned that I have a child on the line who is somehow in danger and somehow thinks my husband, perhaps mistaking him for another Tony Jones, can help him/her (gender of child is still unclear). I hand the phone to my husband, and "Tony" attempts to get to the bottom of it, patiently confirming that he is "Tony Jones," asking the child why he/she is calling, asking if there is anything he/she needs, and etc. It is very difficult to understand that the caller is saying and he/she eventually hangs up. We are a bit unsettled, still worried that we have maybe failed to help someone who needs it, but with no callback number, name, or information, we are forced to shrug our shoulders and move on. The child called back one more time that evening, but hung up when I answered the phone.

After hearing nothing for two weeks, we receive, last night, two more calls from "unknown caller" and then "private caller" for Tony Jones. My hubby is in the basement playing with his Wii (not his wee wee, that's something the other Tony Jones would do) and I am way too lazy to go get him. So again, I attempt to get some answers from the child on the line. "Tony Jones is unavailable right now. This is his wife. Is there anything I can help you with?" The answer, though garbled, went something like this: "His wife? Well, you ain't his only wife." Wow, this is news to me. Satisfied that he/she (I still can honestly not determine the caller's gender) has succeeded in telling me what's what, he/she hangs up. The next call comes four minutes later. Unruffled by the recent revelation that my husband is a polygamist, I suggest to my caller that perhaps he/she is looking to speak with a different Tony Jones. I helpfully ask, "What does the Tony Jones you are calling for look like?" I hear another and slightly older child in the background whisper, "Say 'white.'" "White," my caller proffers. "Well, my husband is white," I say, "but I'm still thinking you have the wrong guy. Is there anything else I can help you with?" Another hang up.

This afternoon, my caller upped her efforts to make contact with Tony Jones. I say "her" because the content of the conversation soon makes the caller's gender more evident (I now believe that there are at least two youngsters involved in these calls and suspect that the elder of the two is a female around 12, who took over today, possibly displeased with her younger, male companion's prior efforts). This girl called our house at 1:36, 1:37, 1:56, 1:58, 2:07, 2:11, 4:00, 4:01, and 4:02. I picked up almost every time, though a couple of times they got through to voice mail, by redialing before I had hung up. You may be thinking, "MEP, this is ridiculous, why did you pick up? Why didn't you take the phone off the hook?" I picked up, first and foremost, because my Bubby was napping and I was not about to let an endlessly ringing phone wake him. Plus, today is a writing day for me, which means our babysitter was downstairs. If I hadn't picked up, she would have, and the whole situation would have gotten even more complicated. I didn't take the phone off the hook because it would have meant I'd have to leave my bed/work center, haul my nine month pregnant self downstairs to disconnect the main phone (the upstairs phone is only a satellite). Plus, let's face it, if some random kids called to tell you that you weren't your husband's only wife, wouldn't you be curious to get more information?

I will give you only the highlights of this afternoon's conversations. Needless to say, I started off being patient and semi-concerned but moved from patient to annoyed to threatening to simply picking up the phone but not saying anything. Here are some of the tidbits that the caller shared . . .

She and Tony Jones had a date . . . at a hotel.

She is having Tony's baby in three months and she has proof that it's his. (This revelation is preceded with a simulation of the kind of childbirth sounds heard on television sitcoms).

She is glad that Tony did not wear a condom. (I am not making any of this up.)

Tony has shown her MEP's picture and damn, MEP is ugly. MEP looks old, like maybe 72.
(By the way, I am initially freaked out that she knows my name, but my hubby points out that both our names are listed in the phone book and also that both names are on our voicemail message--I was going to transcribe the messages our caller managed to leave, but frankly, I don't have the energy.)

Actually, she believes that MEP is Tony's mother. That's how old MEP looks.

Since the Bubby was awake and I had given our babysitter a heads up, I let the final call go to voice mail. I waited until my husband, the polygamist and babydaddy, arrived home so we could listen together. And, if you can believe it, the caller identifies herself by first and last name, admits that she has been prank calling us, explains that the operator has let her know she has the wrong Tony Jones, apologizes in a surprisingly genuine manner, and leaves her phone number in case we want to call her back. A unexpectedly happy, tidy ending to a bizarre situation. I can only hope that, whatever bone my caller has to pick with another Tony Jones, she has not actually gone on a hotel date with him and is not carrying his child. Because, as I said, she sounds about 12. I am confident that I am my husband's only wife, NTB, and that the only children he has fathered are in this house as I speak (one upstairs in bed, one in my belly), NTB. If I ever have my doubts though, the apology message with phone number is saved. Forget it Abby, I've got this one covered. NTB.

Read it, toss it, eat it, record it . . .

2008-06-17T21:07:00.008-05:00

Read it: I Was Told There'd Be Cake by Sloane Crosley
The title itself is enough to make you want to buy and love this book, and the title is just, pardon the pun, the icing on the cake. Crosley's wit is sharp, and this collection of personal essays hits the spot. I think part of me did not want to like it because looking at her picture on the back cover, she looks about 26 and already has this smoking career as a published writer. I think I expected to read the ramblings of a young, sarcastic hipster who sometimes tries too hard. But no, I read the genuinely humorous, well-written, honest, thoughtful, and engaging work of a smart woman with whom I would totally want to hang out (though I would try to be on my best behavior as she does not hesitate to skewer those friends and acquaintances who deserve it). The essays include--just to whet your appetite--an account of a crazy boss, a bridesmaid gig for a high school "friend," and an investigation into who might have pooped on her bathroom rug . . . start reading.

Toss it: Organic Quinoa
Although I cannot consistently spell or pronounce quinoa (keen-wah) correctly, I have been intrigued with these little grains for a while now. Tonight, I made a batch in my rice cooker as the side of the Trader Joe's package indicated I could do. It looked to be cooked perfectly, but glancing on the box, I realized I had neglected to "Always rinse and drain thoroughly in cold water before cooking." What the hell I would drain it in without losing it all is a mystery (no, of course I don't have a sieve). Anyway, with being pregnant and all, I didn't want to risk harming myself and the child by eating dirty quinoa. I also did not want the hubby to close his mind to quinoa forever after eating one (potentially) bad batch.

Eat it: Trader Joe's Multigrain Pilaf
I purchased this plastic package at TJ's a few weeks back, drawn in by the promise on the front that it is microwavable and ready in 2 minutes. The description promises "A new twist on a classic American dish, with whole grains, soybeans, tomatoes, onions and flavorful herbs and spices." I popped the sucker in the microwave to replace the dirty quinoa, and I was delighted with the results. Great texture, great flavor, and ridiculously easy to prepare. Also, very filling -- 4g fiber per serving and 9g protein. I can't wait to get back to TJ's to get more and to see if there are any other microwavable grains befriending the pilaf on the shelf.

Record it: Well, you tell me . . .
Due to a power outage on Thursday evening, my DVR did not capture all of Bravo's A-List Awards (that, or the hubby messed with my timers and isn't fessing up). I only discovered the mishap yesterday and was sorely disappointed. Sadly, Bravo is apparently not replaying these awards again and again as they do with all other programming. Ah well. I don't have too many television commitments for the summer, and with Bub 2.0 coming, I won't have much free time in the evenings, but I do want to have some good stuff saved up for the rare occasions when I will be nursing the baby, sans Bubby and thus sans the accompaniment of Caillou or Super Why. To try to fill the void left by Top Chef (Hooray for Stephanie, by the way, and Richard, I still love you too), I am recording The Next Food Network Star. I am also all set with the new season of Kathy Griffin: My Life on the D List. On a whim this evening, I set a new timer for Tori and Dean: Home Sweet Hollywood, but I feel ashamed and may delete it. For the record, I never watched Tori and Dean: Inn Love.

Comment challenge: Give me your own read it, toss it, eat it, record it list!

Child's Play the Prequel: Here's "Bucky" . . .

2008-06-13T21:55:00.010-05:00

My son Bubby is curious, lively, energetic, and "problem-solving." He can't be left alone for long. He gets into everything. Everything. Yes, he is a busy boy, but his high level of activity is generally matched with a sweet, good-natured disposition. Sure, he doesn't always listen to what mommy and daddy say, but for the most part, he aims to please.

My son "Bucky" looks a lot like Bubby and started showing up sometime last week, just popping in and out throughout the day, especially at bedtime. "Bucky" likes to scream phrases like "I want it. I WANT it. I want it." Or, when he is feeling a little less demanding, "I NEED it. I need it. I NEED it." "Bucky" opens up the freezer and grabs a popsicle at 7:30 a.m. and then throws a fit when mommy or daddy won't open it for him. "Bucky" wants to eat dinner in front of Caillou and not at the table. "Bucky" has to be talked into taking a bath (Bubby goes willingly) and then pours water out of the tub. If "Bucky" wants to hear Barney's Easter Basket read to him for a second time, he does not say "again pease" as Bubby might, but "AGAIN. AGAIN. AGAIN."

Sure, Bubby likes poop, but "Bucky" takes the poop fetish to a new level. Tonight, I had the pleasure of disinfecting the tub after a particularly disgusting code brown. Bubby seemed confused by what "Bucky" had done, leaning over to inspect the poop smeared on the floor of the tub and asking, quite innocently, "What happened?" What happened indeed? Since "Bucky" started showing up last week, the hubby and I have thrice been tasked with cleaning poop off of the white carpet in the room where Bubby usually sleeps. Indeed, it seems that "Bucky" has regularly started pooping and removing his diaper at nap and bed times. Plus, whereas Bubby was falling asleep by 8:00 p.m., "Bucky" is not throwing in the towel until 9:00 p.m. and only after both daddy and mommy have taken a shift upstairs.

Why and how is this happening? How have we come to see less Bubby and more "Bucky" of late? I thought that there was a chance that "Bucky" had been visiting because Bubby was sick, but one doctor's visit (and the Thomas the Train sticker our $20 co-pay got us) has confirmed that he has no fever, no ear infection, and no other signs of illness. I thought it was teething because Bubby is getting some molars, but as we are generous with the Children's Motrin, I don't think Bubby's molars have too much to do with "Bucky's" frequent appearances. I thought it might be the heat, as the real summer weather has prompted some crankiness in mommy for sure (who is sleeping without covers each night and still waking up with a sweaty shirt each morning), but Bubby is not nine months pregnant and his normally heat-sensitive daddy does not seem that uncomfortable around the house.

So, what is the problem? Why has "Bucky" been showing up so often? I suspect it has something to do with a reminder that Bubby has been giving me and daddy lately: "I baby," he says, "I baby." It may also be related to his recent interest in having me rock him before he sleeps (he has not wanted to be rocked in almost a year). It may have something to do with the fact that after he removed his diaper before nap today and after he stalled by then trying to pee on the potty, he then went to the changing table that has been moved next to Bub 2.0's cradle, opened the drawer, and pulled out a Size 1 Swaddler diaper. "I want Cookie Monster diaper," he tells me. As Bubby usually wears a Size 6, it was not going to happen . . . but the request seemed a bit of a clue as to why "Bucky" has been making his presence known.

The question is what will happen when Bub 2.0 is out of the womb and into those Swaddlers. I am praying that my sweet Bubby--the one who kisses my belly and reads books to "brother"--will return and that if we do a good enough job of making sure Bubby knows he's still and always our baby (and, if we take the advice we've been given about making sure the baby comes home with presents for Bub), then "Bucky's" appearances will not become the norm.

Those of you have more than one child, dare I hope that "Bucky" is not here to stay? Any advice on how to make the transition easier and to deal with all this Child's Play in the interim?

Book Beat: Authors You Might Like To Meet

2008-06-10T20:49:00.012-05:00

It's been forever since my last book beat post, and I have been reading and listening up a storm, as per usual. A few of my recent reads fall into the category of "authors I've known and enjoyed for a while now" and "good summer reading." [Please note that I did not use the term "beach book" because I find it kind of rude and dismissive. I understand the concept of a "beach book," but I am uncomfortable with the way people think they need to defend or excuse their reading choices by saying things like "It's just a beach book" or "I just needed some mindless reading." Just read what you please!]

1. Certain Girls by Jennifer Weiner
Some years ago, I read Good in Bed by Jennifer Weiner. I had avoided the book for some time because of its title (kind of yucky), but I loved it. The novel features a plus-size heroine and has more meat to it than other books that get categorized, as Weiner's do (deservedly or not), as "chick lit." I reread the novel a couple of months ago in anticipation of its sequel and loved it all over again, this time really noticing how well Weiner negotiates humor and humanity (though I'm not trying to suggest humor and humanity are opposing forces). Certain Girls, though a bit heavier than its predecessor, was also quite satisfying. I think I've read all of Weiner's offerings thus far and would most heartily recommend Good in Bed, Certain Girls, Little Earthquakes, and her short story collection The Guy Not Taken. I enjoyed In Her Shoes and Goodnight Nobody, but I don't think either of those titles would be the best introduction to Jennifer Weiner. She also has a blog you might be interested in http://www.myspace.com/uncanniegirl

2. Plan B: A Novel by Jonathan Tropper
My friend (and NTB reader/comment-leaver) MSH introduced me to Jonathan Tropper, and I will be forever grateful. The first book I read (and probably my favorite) was The Book of Joe. I also enjoyed How to Talk to a Widower, Everything Changes, and most recently (but actually his first novel), Plan B. Tropper's novels all feature men in the twenties or thirties who are struggling with their careers, their pasts, their friends, and/or their love lives. Like Weiner's novels, Tropper's offer a nice blend of humor and real issues. His pop culture references are right on and very helpful in terms of characterization; he offers the kind of details where you might nod your head and say to yourself, "Yes, this guy is the kind who would watch Baywatch reruns." Plan B was probably my least favorite, but I don't think most readers would be disappointed with any of Tropper's titles.

3. Such A Pretty Fat by Jen Lancaster
EFagel, NTB reader and friend of PITA, introduced me to Jen Lancaster. Lancaster is a Chicago author who has now published three memoirs. In the first, Bitter is the New Black : Confessions of a Condescending, Egomaniacal, Self-Centered Smartass,Or, Why You Should Never Carry A Prada Bag to the Unemployment Office, Lancaster takes her readers through the journey of losing her high-paying job and being forced to change her consumer habits and move out of her trendy neighborhood. In her second, Bright Lights, Big Ass: A Self-Indulgent, Surly, Ex-Sorority Girl's Guide to Why it Often Sucks in the City, or Who are These Idiots and Why Do They All Live Next Door to Me?, Lancaster tries to de-romanticize city living. You know, it's not all cosmos and brunch with Carrie Bradshaw. Her latest offering, Such a Pretty Fat: One Narcissist's Quest To Discover if Her Life Makes Her Ass LookBig, Or Why Pie is Not The Answer, probably my favorite, traces Lancaster's quest to become more physically fit after being confident in her plus-size appearance for years. Her experiences with Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig, and a personal trainer named Barbie (for real) make for entertaining reading and her story is both humorous and inspiring. It sounds like a cliche to say it, but her goal is health and fitness more than weight loss, and I really liked the ending. I will warn you that Lancaster's style is "in-your-face," and it can be uncomfortable at moments, but I find myself respecting her willingness to call it as she sees it, even if I wouldn't always do it in quite the same way. Also, Jen Lancaster has a blog: http://www.jennsylvania.com

So, there you have it. Some other books I have read (or re-read) and enjoyed of late
you can look up for yourself: The Great Indoors by Sabine Durrant; Pride and Prejudice (for the fifteenth time maybe?)and Sense and Sensibility (damn that Willoughby) by Jane Austen; The Observations by Jane Harris; and The Ten-Year Nap by Meg Wolitzer (damn, this one really deserves its own post I'll have to get back to you).

I'm currently reading I Was Told There'd Be Cake by Sloane Crosley and next in line is Of Men and Their Mothers by Mameve Medwed (an author you should meet for sure). I'll keep you posted.

Okay, what are you reading? Any authors you'd like to introduce?

My backyard is a mullet . . .

2008-06-07T07:12:00.021-05:00

What you need to know is that the title of this post is not meant to be read but sung, specifically to the tune of John Mayer's "Your Body Is a Wonderland." You also need to know that this is one of those titles that likely only makes sense to me, but that, once conceived, could not be discarded.

Mullets themselves are not actually the topic of this post, but I do think I should pause to give you some interesting mullet facts. I remember, maybe eight years ago, checking out a website entitled Mullets Galore and thought you'd like to know that it still exists and is still amusing. Maybe three or so years ago, one of my brother's friends-who works in the flooring business--told him of a flooring company down South called Mullet Flooring and claimed that everyone who works there grows a mullet. I was able to confirm that Mullet Flooring is a legitimate business, but could not find any evidence that its employees all grow mullets. If they do, however, I truly applaud the creativity of the business model. Final fact: if my Bub does not get a haircut in a the next couple of weeks, he will start to have a mullet-esque look in back.

In my mind, the mullet has come to represent disconnect -- disconnect between front and back, disconnect between personal style/preference and more mainstream men's hair styles. Several years ago, a family friend of ours specifically grew a mullet before having his driver's license picture re-taken when he turned 21. I believe he kept using the phrase "all business in front, all party in the back" or something along those lines. Thus, I guess the mullet might also represent multi-dimensionality of some sort. If you have a mullet, you can be the business guy and the party guy, the guy who specially tames and coifs his mane but can change a tire or lay a floor with ease.

My backyard is a mullet because it is a place of disconnect and because it is a good symbol for the dimensions of our life around here. Let me try to show you in pictures.

This is our back deck. It's not really a deck one is justified in bragging about, but it is nice enough. Note the lattice work, the flower boxes of begonias, and the healthy-ish green plants bordering it on the bottom. Not bad.

See this table. Do you imagine that it would be nice to sit around it on a summer evening and enjoy some grilled chicken and vegetables and a cold beer or glass of wine? It is pleasant, and we do enjoy eating outdoors when the heat is not too oppressive. Of course, the past two years, the soundtrack for these meals has been the crackling and static of our baby monitor plugged into the outdoor plug. Or, when the Cubs are in town, we listen to the loud cheering and the singing of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame," which despite all my bitching and moaning about the Cubs, is a pleasant kind of experience. The whole deck is sorely in need of a power wash, but again, it's a nice deck and we like it and what it represents: a haven of quiet in the city where we can relax and enjoy the outdoors.

When we purchased our home, it was billed as having a "huge backyard," a laughable notion by suburban standards (I would estimate that it is maybe 15 feet by 15 feet, maybe a bit bigger--it takes my husband longer to start the lawnmower than it does to cut the grass) but a fairly accurate one by the standards of our neighborhood. NTB. Check out the following photos of our yard. If our deck represents the adult, relaxed, peaceful, fairly organized dimensions of our lives, the backyard represents the childlike and chaotic dimensions.

Perhaps a yard full of plastic toys and other debris speaks for itself? If you cannot identify the items, they include: Cozy Coupe car, upturned plastic shopping cart, toppled basketball hoop, slide/bird poop magnet, vacuum cleaner Bub brought from inside, child's pretend lawn mower (fueled by the alternative energy source of play-doh, which is what the Bub has shoved under its gas cap), a roller coaster, a sandbox, a digger, a tailgating chair, and fallen branches from our tree. I should also note that I was able to capture our yard from this vantage point because a portion of the fence dividing our yard from our neighbors' blew over in a windstorm a few weeks (months?) ago, and our yards have been open to each other ever since (we are getting a new fence this summer, but until then, we have found that "bad fences make good neighbors" as Bub and the kids next door love playing in both yards). The missing fence does add to the sense of chaos, clutter, and overall mullet-ness though.

Close up of the hose, typically strewn and twisted about the yard.

Another classy view.

I think the Bubby (Hillbubby?) looked around the yard yesterday afternoon and sensed that it was not a collared shirt-type environment.

None of these photos was staged and, for the record, I did tidy up the yard before we came inside yesterday. I guarantee that by the end of today, the yard will look as chaotic and cluttered as it did at the end of yesterday. Those mullets, they tend to grow back if you don't stay on top of them. But that's okay, I'm fine with all the dimensions of our life, even if I sometimes wish it wore more deck and less yard . . . a little less mullet-esque, if you will.

Talk about customer service . . .

2008-06-04T21:02:00.003-05:00

We had Chipotle for dinner this evening, and it was delicious and satisfying as always. I have recently started ordering online and then just picking it up. It's an easy process. Create an account, log in, and then use the mouse to craft your burrito using a virtual version of the behind-the-counter bar. If you are ordering for multiple eaters, they also ask you to give a different name for each burrito. Then, you avoid the whole scene of opening up a burrito and figuring whose has extra sour cream (MEP's), whose is light on cheese (my mom's, and by the way, there is also a box for special instructions like this), and whose has been rendered toxic by the hot salsa (the hubby's). Each burrito has a sticker with its owner's name on it.

They send an email immediately after you order, asking you to call and confirm that they received the order. I would like to share the final portion of my confirmation email:

"Please do not reply to this confirmation email. If there is a problem
with your order or a further question, please call your restaurant.

Love,
Joe"

Wow. "Love, Joe." Not "Thanks, Joe" or "Joe, Store Manager" or "Sincerely, Joe" but "Love, Joe." Now that's customer service . . . if only I knew who Joe was.

Lemonems and Other Mini-Miracles: A Bubdate

2008-06-01T20:42:00.009-05:00

"See poop. See poop." Some version of "see poop" has been the favorite phrase around here of late. I am of the camp that once your toddler begins expressing a passionate interest in investigating and admiring his own excrement, he is perhaps ready to start depositing said excrement in a potty. For the past month or so, the Bub has been so excited to see his poop that when I change his diaper I can barely get him wiped before he starts grabbing for the diaper to get a peek. He usually does not want to touch the poop, but he really marvels at his product. Last night when he was supposed to be asleep, I heard him on the monitor bidding me to "See poop. See poop." I arrived upstairs to find he had removed his diaper and was kneeling beside it. He gestured with enthusiasm, "Mommy, see poop." I'm not sure how I am supposed to respond. I don't want him to feel ashamed of his poop, but I don't want checking it out to become one of the great passions of his life. I made a lame attempt at a "teachable moment" by reminding him that if he poops in the potty, it will be a lot easier to see his poop.

All of this leads me to the first of the mini-miracles that are the subject of this bubdate. With an "lemonem" reward system, we started upping our potty training efforts two weeks ago. The Bub is kind of hot and cold on the whole thing, but we had a major breakthrough on Friday. He told me he wanted to poop on the potty and then did so. He has also peed on the potty several times. We are nowhere near ready to stop with the diapers, but progress is progress. On Saturday morning, he did wear a pair of Thomas the Train big boy pants for two hours before wetting them (this despite my asking every 3-5 minutes if he needed to use the potty). When the Bub does use the potty, he savors his "lemonems" as if they were indeed miraculous.

The next mini-miracles come in the culinary arena. The Bub is a good eater insofar as he eats plenty and does not need a lot of cajoling to do so. I am proud to report that he eats a ton of fruit and still drinks milk quite willingly. I am semi-ashamed that, except for grape tomatoes (technically a fruit but a vegetable in my mind), the Bub still will only eat vegetables in baby food form. So, basically, my almost-40 pound, 29 month-old child is still rocking Gerber Stage 2 peas and sweet potatoes on a daily basis. My goal is to change that situation by the time Bub 2.0 is ready for baby food (kidding, hopefully way before then). I also feel ashamed that his regular rotation of "entrees" all require dipping sauces. The first culinary miracle is that the Bub finally ate and seemingly enjoyed macaroni and cheese this past week. Not that mac and cheese is so healthy and great, but I was starting to wonder why my toddler would not even swallow a bite of the stuff (especially considering that, NTB, it is one of my few culinary specialties). The second culinary miracle is that the Bub also ate a sandwich. It may not sound like much, but I was practically crying tears of joy as he ate his ham sandwich the other day and told me it was "so good." Sure, I put mustard on it, but other than the condiment on the bread, there was not a dipping sauce in sight.

The last of the mini-miracles is the absolute joy the Bub takes in bubbles. We blow them outside and in the bath tub. It is one of the things he has learned to "do self," though he still asks me to take turns too. The best part of it is the way he smiles as he watches the bubbles and says, "Amazing. Amazing bubbles mommy." Truly warms the heart. NTB.

Finally, the last of the mini-miracles is this. I am sitting at the table writing this post. My husband is lounging on the couch watching Pretty Woman.

Any mini-miracles in your life these days?

Calling all Top Chefanatics . . .

2008-05-30T13:34:00.003-05:00

My love for the reality programs of Bravo remains strong, and I have delighted in this season of Top Chef, especially since it took place practically in my backyard (well, my yard is not really that big, but the cheftestants shopped at a Whole Foods I can walk to and lived in a McMansion behind a Jewel where I actually grocery shop). I have had one reader request for a post on Top Chef, and while I'm not quite ready to deliver, I do want to direct all Top Chefanatics to my friend E's recent post on Top Chef and the cruel tricks the Bravo editors play on their viewers. I highly recommend checking the post out. I left a long and largely incoherent comment in which I share some of my own Top Chef Chicago insights. Until my next post, please heed these pieces of wisdom I have gleaned from Top Chef: vegetarian sushi made with fake rice is not a filling lunch for a Chicago cop; avoid frozen scallops at all costs; peanut butter mashed potatoes may not taste as wretched as they sound.

Retail Beat: Italian and on a Whim

2008-05-27T20:57:00.015-05:00

Back again with another Retail Beat so soon? Well, what can I say, I've always been passionate about food and my intensifying nesting instincts (post on this phenomenon to come) have propelled me toward Target several times lately . . .

Here are some things I have purchased and enjoyed lately that might be of interest to you:

Item: California Pizza Kitchen For One
Source: The Jewel or your own regular grocery store
Price: on sale 4/$10

I have always loved dining in at CPK, despite the fact that they have Diet Pepsi rather than my preferred Diet Coke on tap. I often crave the Barbecue Chicken Chopped Salad and have never sampled a pizza there that I did not enjoy. From time to time, I have purchased the CPK frozen pizzas. Each time, I follow the directions for those who prefer a "crispier crust," forgetting that these directions result in a burnt pizza in my oven. Ah well. I've made no secret of my love for single serving pizzas utilizing special microwave crisping technology. Thus, you can imagine how delighted I was to see that CPK now makes "For One" microwave pizzas. Since I'm in the midst of another Lean Cuisine dry spell, I was even more delighted to see that the pizzas were on sale 4/$10. I purchased several Margherita ones and several Barbecue Chicken ones. Although they have more calories than Lean Cuisine pizzas, these CPK minis are tasty and convenient. I'm not sure I would pay $3.99 or $4.29 for one, but I will continue to stock up when I see them on sale. There is also a Sicilian variety, but I did not buy any of those.

Item: Wyler's Authentic Italian Ices
Source: CVS (Bub's favorite store)
Price: $1.88 for 16

These Italian Ices look like Flavor-Ice popsicles (you know, in the plastic tube) but have the wonderful texture of Italian Ice. The package includes four each of raspberry, orange cream, lemon, and kiwi watermelon. Each flavor is delicious, though raspberry is my favorite (and the Bub's). They are only 50 calories each, and they are quite refreshing. My CVS displays them with the seasonal summer stuff like picnic plates and beach toys and such.

Item: Trader Giotto's Tabula Rasa Whole Grain Pizza Crust
Source: Trader Joe's (my new favorite store)*
Price: $2.99

I've taken to buying these crusts and topping my own pizzas of late, in part to satisfy my incessant cravings for basil. TJ's also sells pizza dough you can roll out and bake, but that is frankly too much work for me. I prefer just to cover the blank slate and pop it in the oven. The crust has a nice texture and is rather filling. There is a white crust also available, but I prefer to feel virtuous and slightly superior while topping the whole grain crust. Even the hubby seemed satisfied with tonight's effort: whole grain pizza crust with pizza sauce (also from TJ's), mushrooms, caramelized onions, sweet basil (told you) sausage, mozzarella, and fresh basil (told you) from my own garden, NTB. The hubby's praise is significant because the last time I made him a pizza (around 1999-2000), he was not as appreciative as he should have been, citing my use of a Boboli crust as "cheating." Cheating whom or what, I don't know.

Item: Bare Minerals Makeup
Source: Siren (the hair salon where I jeopardize Bub's college tuition every 7 weeks in a "vain" attempt to keep my gray hair covered--and it's really gray not just like five strands, just a warning for anyone who ever tries to tell me a "I found my first gray hair" sob story. I found my first gray hair in high school).
Price: around $75 for a starter kit that includes all the basics plus brushes

The hubby bought me this makeup for my birthday (along with that paper shredder I bragged about a couple of months ago) though I was the one who conducted the entire transaction. I have to say I was suspicious of mineral makeup when I used to see it on infomercials in years past, but I have been won over. It is really easy to use. I really appreciate not having to wash my hands during the process as I did when I applied more traditional foundation each day. I would say the $75 is worth it. I'm estimating that this starter kit is going to last me at least six months. NTB, but I have gotten some compliments on my "good skin" lately. Now, these kind remarks may just come from people who don't know what else to say when faced with my low and every-growing baby bulge, but I'll take any compliments I can. A lot of malls now have Bare Minerals make-up stores in them, and I would recommend checking them out. They can make you up and give you lessons if you're interested.

Item: Whim by Cynthia Rowley tableware
Source: Target
Price: ranges depending on the item, but not prohibitive

I saw these items in a Target ad a few weeks ago and, despite having plenty of dishes already, purchased a few pieces. I have to say that the purchase was worth it. These little plates and cups (and the matching tablecloth) have brought a nice touch of spring into my breakfast nook. I feel happy when I look at them. I have been using the plates for almost every meal, and since they are smaller, salad-size plates, I am likely losing weight in the effort (not really, but you know how all the magazine articles tell you that will happen if you use smaller plates). The lighting is poor in the picture beneath, but here's a glimpse:

Item: Thomas the Train helmet
Source: Toys 'R Us
Price: I don't know, the hubby and bubby went to get it.

Actually, I'm not about to extol the virtues of this helmet. As far as I can tell, it is no better or worse than any other toddler helmet. Listing this item is just an excuse to include the following picture of the bub on his tricycle. NTB, but his little legs are now long enough to pedal (though dad still has to steer and push from time to time).

Okay, that's all I have to report. Please believe that my life is not as fueled by consumerism as recent posts suggest.

*I love Trader Joe's and the Bub loves it as well, especially the sample station where there is usually a juice dispenser all set up and the free balloon on the way out. Tough luck this morning though--the juice on offer was "unsweetened iced tea" and he let his red balloon go in the backyard on accident. He was devastated (wailing and wailing and wailing), only to be consoled by half of a Wyler's Authentic Italian Ice.