Three In the Bed

Driving Miss Crazy

Friends I’m turning forty in a couple months and I think I’ve finally come to a place in my life where I feel things are going to be a lot better if I share something. 

I’m crazy.¹ 

¹Here comes the “you’re not crazy” train of friends insisting that it can’t possibly be true. Crazy people don’t develop careers, write white papers, pack super-cute bento lunches for their kids, put up Little Libraries, blog.²

² Okay, lots of crazy people blog.

But here’s the thing. When I finished the draft of my book.³

³ Yes, still talking about this mythical book – what does this tell us? Put a check mark in the "crazy" column.

Anyway, when I finished my draft my editor was excited, she was confident it was going to get picked up by a publisher. And it did generate a lot of interest.⁴

⁴ I know I’ve said that before but let’s just pretend I’m like a former high school football player who can’t let go of what could have been.

It’s taken a while to work through the book stuff  but last week my BFF made a startling revelation. 

“The problem is the reader doesn’t know.”

“Doesn’t know what?”

“That you’re not normal. They don’t know you have all these issues.”

"They don’t know I’m crazy?"

“Exactly. They start reading  thinking you are normal. You need to find a way to help the reader understand your issues.”

Perhaps "issues" is the best word.

My BFF has spent years helping me with my issues. In fact, anyone in my inner life circle has probably helped me out with an issue.⁵

⁵ They are perhaps the donor figures in the hero’s  crazy's journey.

Out of all my issues driving is perhaps the biggest one. Driving  disagrees with me.⁶

⁶ I know a lot of people don't like to drive. But I didn't say that. I said, it disagrees with me. As in, it causes within me an  allergic reaction. It disrupts my nervous system. On almost any occasion I would rather not be driving.⁷

⁷Except when it's to take myself to the Dairy Queen drive-thru.

Allow me to share a recent issue I had related to driving. Typically I manage my driving concerns by following the same route and using the same parking spaces to provide myself a sense of calm predictability.⁸

⁸I understand that many animals use this same "trail" system to go to and from their burrows.

The other day I arrived at my kids' school and found that the parking lot was full.⁹

⁹It was not actually full, it was full according to my standards. My ideal parking lot looks like this.

 

I circled around looking for a spot that would suit my needs for turning radius and proximity to other vehicles. By my third lap my seven year old was getting restless. "Just park Mom!" she moaned from the back.¹⁰

¹⁰ I've done my best to try to hide as many of my issues from my kids as possible but my daugther is on to my driving. I know that if she could reach the gas, she would gladly hop in the driver's seat.

I reluctantly pulled into a spot and got them into school. When I returned a new vehicle had parked beside me and totally blocked me in.¹¹

¹¹ This is not the photo of the actual incident but this is what it looked like to me.

I squeezed my fat butt into my car, got my phone and called my husband.¹²

¹² This is not the first time I've had to call him regarding a parking issue.

My husband was in a meeting and couldn't come assist. He told me to find the maintenance man for the school.

You see, part of being crazy is that sometimes you have to speak on behalf of your crazy. You have to advocate for your crazy and get it the help that it needs so you can carry on with your day.¹⁴

¹⁴ Getting help from men is generally a good thing as most are already operating under the assumption that women are crazy.

The secretary told me the maintenance man wasn't in yet. 

I was about to full on panic when I turned and saw a delightful surprise. My daughter's friend's father, who, for bonus points, is also a commercial airline pilot.

I shared my crazy with him and he laughed and walked with me the half mile journey to my blocked car.

I'm assuming that to a person who flies 747's full of passengers, the situation probably looked like this.

In seconds he backed my car out.

After a thousand thank-you's I was on my way.

I'm not entirely sure how to get these issues across when it comes to my writing but perhaps part of the problem is that I try to hide them like I do my parking.

I guess I'm going to have to learn how to parallel park them up front. 

 

Unresolved - What I Won't Be Doing In The New Year

I’m not big on resolutions, they tend to consist of something grand and vague and I honestly don’t know how people succeed with them. I’m pretty sure they don’t because if they did I feel like Facebook would be filled with “look at how many resolutions I achieved" posts rather than a fresh set of new ones which are really just the same dang ones year after year. I mean, if you are going to do them, why not make them really interesting? For example, “I’m going to explore post modern art in Germany” or “I’m not going to the grocery store this year, we are only going to eat what I can grow or scavenge or get at the drive thru.” I really wish someone was bold enough to say, “I’m not shaving any part of my body this year.”

Either way, I’m not getting involved with resolutions. I will however, make some statements about what I will not be doing this year.

I will not be a human napkin this year. I simply can no longer go out in public with something crusty, sticky, gooey or chewy on clothing or in my hair. I am open to hugs, kisses, and snuggles but not to mysterious boogie deposits or ketchup stains on my jacket.

I will not subscribe to any eating program. I will not be eating Paleo, Organic Vegan or using a new supplement because Dr. Oz promises it’s great for pooping. 

I will not be the household GPS. This year I will turn off the detection device provided to moms which allows us to know the exact location of every item in the home. Shoes, jackets, lunch bags, soccer jerseys, the remote, your most-favorite-doll-ever, can all be conveniently located wherever you left them. 

I will not obsess over turning 40. It was hard for me to write that. It was hard to type the number four and a zero and then assign that number as belonging to me in a few months. The truth of it is, I’m not really the sort of person to fixate on age.  Elizabeth Gilbert wrote a great piece about how your fear is the most boring thing about you. I’m going to turn that around and say, your age is the most boring thing about you. Well, unless you are 12 and an astronaut. But otherwise, who cares what age you are, what’s interesting is what you are doing.

I will not be afraid to channel my inner bitch. That sounds harsh doesn’t it? But here’s the thing and really Tina Fey and Amy Poehler said it best, “bitches get stuff done.” My dearest friend whom I’ve worked with for over a decade prefers to say, “bitches get shit done.” Because they do. It doesn’t mean being awful or rude, it  just means sometimes you really have to draw the line and stick to it regardless of the fact it may put a few people off. It may literally mean putting people off if you are trying to get something done.  Being a bitch can absolve you from feeling the need to  offer a long dissertation on why you need an hour to yourself at yoga or to chat with a friend on the phone or to go for a walk or rescue a dog. It means that for some things you are only accountable to yourself because if you are waiting for someone to hand it to you – to hand you the gift of time or health or your sanity – spoiler alert – it isn’t coming. You are going to have to take it and guess what? Some folks aren’t going to like it. Maybe your spouse isn’t keen on fixing themselves dinner or your kids find it unfathomable that you are going out for a few hours without them and you are going to have to channel your inner bitch to firmly say that this is what you need to do, I love you, see you soon. I for one, am not going to be afraid to give it a try.

So there you have it. What I won’t be doing in 2015. You know, there’s a comment section below, so tell me, what won’t you be doing this year? Or perhaps you won’t be commenting on blog posts? Or perhaps you will be doing an art tour of Germany. Either way, I’d love to know.

 

 

 

Home Invasion

Home Invasion

I’m going to preface this post by saying it’s part of what I am calling “Writer’s Road to Recovery.” It’s my term for allowing myself to share to something even though it fits outside the “rules” of typical blogging. So for example, a typical blog post is 500 words. This is a lot more. But I’m posting it anyway. Because I’m always finding excuses not to do anything with my writing. So here goes.

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You know how you can recognize every sound in your home? Like if you are in bed drifting off to sleep and you hear a creak but you know that’s just the floorboards settling when the heat kicks on. Or how you can somehow discern the sound of the neighbor’s dog in the yard versus something more ominous? Well the other night my husband and I were in bed when we heard something that mentally we could not place. I know this because when I sat up he had already gotten out of bed.¹

¹Let me pause here to say, thank God he was home, you can’t imagine what a chicken shit I am.

We looked at each other and then we heard it again. It was coming from the kitchen and it sounded like someone was on a mission to destroy it.  We knew it wasn’t the kids, they were in bed and they would never venture downstairs at night without first waking mom up.²

²They’ve inherited my courage.

I grabbed my phone and for the first time ever I got ready to dial 911. My husband was already heading over to get something I also never thought we would use.³

³ I know this is a highly contentious issue. My husband lobbied me for years to own a weapon. He works in a dangerous industry with folks who let’s just say are often “transitional” and on top of that, we live in a State where owning firearms is as common as owning a toothbrush. Neither of these things made his case any more compelling to me.

So we reached a compromised, he could have a firearm provided we also had a safe and also, no ammunition. He agreed.⁴

⁴ I know, I know but every so often we hit these arguments that result in compromise or divorce and perhaps on that day my husband didn’t feel like filling out a lot of paperwork.⁵

⁵Due to reasons of masculinity and safety my husband would want you to know that the ammunition situation has been resolved following this incident. We are ready for the zombie apocalypse.

So I watched as my husband headed downstairs with his impotent weapon towards the undiscernible noise while I held the phone ready to dial.⁶

⁶You may wonder why I didn’t dial. I’m Canadian. You can’t imagine the embarrassment of disturbing emergency personnel without justified cause, so in Canadian terms it’s best to wait until someone shoots you before calling, if not you’ll just end up apologizing to the police for hours .

So my husband is downstairs and I’m mentally planning to make the call while thinking about which closet for the kids and I to hide in.

“T!” my husband calls, “come here, you aren’t going to believe this.”

I pause. I head down.

He was right. I can’t believe it.

I would have believed a meth head in our pantry binging on goldfish crackers and cheerios.

I would have believed it was the ghost of my future self to give me shit about not finishing my manuscript.

I would have believed my husband had a mistress and she was at our stove with a guinea pig.

I could not believe what I saw.

Rodents. Rodents of Unusual Size destroying our pantry.

My husband closed the pantry door thereby locking them inside and further increasing my stress level to know that I would also be required to go to the grocery store yet again.

I turned to him, “So, now what?”

He jumped all over me.⁷

⁷ Not in a good sexy time way. Jumped all over me in the way mommy goes crazy when driving the minivan and is being asked one too many questions related to “why can’t…”

“How the hell should I know now what? I just thought I was going to have to club someone with a shotgun in my underwear and you want to know what I’m going to do about this?”⁸

⁸This was probably a fair point. However, underwear is one more item of clothing than usual so I felt this ws a positive rather than a negative.

We sat in the kitchen listening to our invaders go to town on the endless pantry buffet.

Home Depot was closed so getting traps and poison was out of the question.

Stress levels were too high to speak with one another so my husband called his mother.⁹

⁹ That may seem odd. Let me qualify that by saying his Trinidadian mother who grew up hunting and fishing. Her home is presently certified as a Wildlife Habitat.¹⁰

¹⁰ I feel like at this point, she needs to just move that sign over to my place.

I could hear her through the phone.

“Boy, just get a bu-tu¹¹ and bang those tings on da head one time.”

¹¹ A bu-tu is a Trinidadian word for club.

They chatted some more and he hung up.

“She’s coming over.”

This was actually a good thing. I don’t think husbands and wives should work together on pest elimination. You don’t see Reality Shows where that happens for a reason. Bounty Hunt? Sure. Remodel homes? You betcha. Wrangle rodents into a box? Nope. Even Crocodile Hunter’s wife hung at the zoo.¹²

¹² RIP Steve.

She arrived with her husband shortly after carrying a cardboard box, leather gloves, work boots and a trap they had at home.¹³

¹³Rodents of Unusual Size are not uncommon in Arizona.

I offer coffee. Even though it’s 10pm, I feel they might like to get pumped up before beginning. No takers.

I hover around offering emotional support hoping that the kids don’t wake up.¹⁴

¹⁴ Of course they didn’t.  That’s the rule of kid sleep. Want to sneak downstairs with your husband and watch a movie? Guess who’s up and “can’t sleep.” Have all the lights on, people over and a pantry full of rodents? Sound asleep.

It did not take long for the team to capture the critters and remove them.

They didn’t tell me what they did with them outside and I didn’t ask. I’ve read Charlotte’s Web so I mean, I know sometimes things have to be done.

A plan was made for pest control to be called in the morning to deal with this.

I went to back to bed sleeping poorly and dreaming of moving to a mythical land free of scorpions, rodents and firearms.¹⁵

¹⁵Canada. I dreamt of Canada.

The next morning my husband woke me.

“Don’t freak out.”

He took me down to the kitchen where he had locked and barricaded the pantry.

“There’s another one. And I don’t have time to deal with it because I have to get to work.”

And now dear reader, I’m going to provide the reader’s digest version of the past 48 hours.

Pest control owner comes to the house personally because after our scorpion in the bed incident he knows my stress levels at times like this.¹⁶

¹⁶ He also knows I will throw money around like professional athlete in Vegas to remedy these situations.

He tells me the entire neighborhood is having a major problem with these things. They are called, “Norwegian ground rats.” He tells me “they are actually quite sweet.”¹⁷

¹⁷I do not slap him because I need him. But I really want to slap him. I just sip my coffee instead.

Pest control guy tries and fails to catch the rodent in the pantry. He leaves the door barricaded. He places around our property approximately one million poisoned bait traps. He charges me just under one million dollars.

At the end of the day my husband returns to try again the pantry. But the rodent is gone.  I tell myself he must have escaped during the attempted capture and I also tell myself he must have ran outside and is now gone.

I tell the same to the kids because the more people that believe a lie, the more true it becomes.

Fast forward to this morning.

My husband wakes me up.¹⁸

¹⁸It sounds like there is a lot of sleeping. We go to bed early and wake up at dawn and apparently a lot happens in between.

“T, it’s back, it’s hiding in the TV cabinet. I gotta go.”

And here I am.

 I’m home alone with Ratatouille somewhere in my house. He’s evaded capture three times and get this – he’s unbaited the traps twice, eating the cheese but not setting them off.¹⁹

¹⁹ I refused to let pest control use poison in the house because I have just the sort of kid where it would go like this. “Do not touch or eat that cheese - it has poison on it.” “Okay.” Ten minutes later – “what are you eating??”

Clearly these are not just rodents of unusual size but unusual smarts because they picked the right house, a house  incapable of removing a four legged threat without causing endless amounts of chaos and confusion.

So far, rodent 1, me 0.

Stay tuned for further updates. I’ve talked to the rodent throughout the day, encouraging it to just climb in with the guinea pigs because really, what is one more creature for me to clean up after. But I’ve made it clear, if I wanted some creature that slips around the house making noise and incapable of giving affection I would have gotten a cat.

 

 

You Have a BFF? That's Nice. I Have a BGF.

Do you have a best friend? Maybe it's a childhood friend, or your sister or brother or maybe it's your mom. I will pause and acknowledge that for some, it may be your husband. I'm not really a fan of husband as best friend but that's another post for another day. Back to your best friend - whomever they may be.

When you think about your BFF lots of nice thoughts probably come to mind. The two of you chatting, drinking coffee or wine or on a great night, starting with wine and ending with coffee. Maybe you get each other little cards or notes to say how much you mean to each other. If I asked you to say the first word that came to mind when you thought of her (or him) it might be "fun" or "kind" or "considerate" maybe even "beautiful" or "radiant."

The first image that comes to my mind when I think of my BFF is a gadfly. So really, she's my BGF, Best Gad Fly.

I majored in public policy so a rather unfortunate amount of my academic time was spent reading Plato's Republic.¹

¹It seemed unfortunate at the time. My roomate's art history books seemed fun.²

²My roommate did not consider her art history books fun at the time.

Back to the gadfly, I realize that my BFF does not fit the true symbolism of the gadfly as I am not the status quo and she is not trying to evoke political unrest. But she is wholly committed to causing unrest in me and she continues to sting me no matter how many times I try to swat her away.

My BFF and I started writing our first books on the same day. Over the course of several months we both produced pretty good shitty first drafts. We were delighted. Dream mode was activated. My BFF had an agent from California call her and she had to literally lock herself in the bathroom away from her three kids so she could better describe her marketing plan. I got a lot of interest too. Requests for full manuscripts from top NY agents and some eager young fella was even shopping it around as a movie. Gasp!

Then the initial love fest from others was over and we were both left with shitty first drafts that needed clean up. My BFF kept at it. And I just kinda quit. I let my blog wither and die on the vine. I stopped tweeting. I put all my writing in the bottom desk drawer in a file folder under the utility bills.

I had lots of good reasons for stopping. For example, my sister died and I stumbled around in a grief induced haze pretending everything was okay. Shortly afterwards I developed an ucler. The following summer my mom had open heart surgery. My own kids wanted a mom and all I was offering was a string of babysitters and nannies. I was struggling through a super shitty job which we nicknamed "dragoning."³ 

 

³ I ended up working for a guy who kept a dragon on his desk, like on purpose, for everyone to see. And he was a total jerk. Not a nice collector of dragons and reader of Lord of The Rings. More like hoarder of souls dragon. Working for dragon sucked any remaining hopes and dreams out of me. When friends called me at work they would say, "are you done for the day or are you still dragoning?" It actually became so widely used that one day dragon's girlfriend was introduced to another coworker who blurted out, "oh, you're dragon's girlfriend!"

Back to my BGF and her book. I cheered her on at night through the second round of edits, I cheered her on over morning coffee on her third round and I half listened through the fourth round hoping she would just publish it already. And she did.

But the gadfly in her wouldn't leave me alone. "Don't make me read your novel as your eulogy," she pleaded. But I just couldn't budge, no matter how many times she stung me.

What I couldn't see so clearly at the time was that I was slowly sliding my way down into a hole.⁴

⁴ Holes are not entirely bad. For example, the first line of The Hobbit is, "In a hole in the ground lived a hobbit."

But my hole wasn't really a cozy hobbit hole, it was a hide out. With encouragement from my gadfly and husband and parents, it was decided the best thing I could do to get out of my hole and back into the sunshine was to quit work for a while and try to take care of myself. So I quit.

I can't tell you that I grew wings and flew out of my hole or that I even built a ladder. It's a slow climb out of a sandy pit but there's someone at the bottom of it stinging my ass every day. Every. Day.

"What is your one goal for today?" will be a text on my phone at 6am from my gadfly.

You see, my gadfly won't let me give up on myself or my  book dream or my own branded website with 1 million followers.⁵

⁵ Moms Who Need Coffee is presently hovering at 82 Likes, so you can see, I'm practically there.

My gadfly tells me it won't grow until I start to share, not just photos of coffee but real, authentic thoughts. So one thought is that sometimes, things fall apart and it takes some time to put them back together.⁶

⁶This is also the title of a great book by Achebe, Things Fall Apart. 

Another thought is that my best friend is a gadfly. And I love her.⁷

⁷You'll love her too. She's at A Slice of Happy

 

 

 

 

Halloween How To

That's Sun-Bun on her first Halloween. See how happy she is I dressed her up?

 

It’s timely that this is a Halloween post because I had to sweep all the cobwebs out of this blog before posting. ::cough, cough:: Wow, this place has really been let go.

Moms, we are just three sleeps, nine meals and fourteen snacks away from All Hallows Eve – are you ready? I thought I was ready and then I read about Walmart accidently labeling certain costumes as “fat girl” and noted that my choice of a witch this year made the “fat girl” cut – I felt bad until I realized it gave me the affirmation I needed to dip back into the bag of Halloween candy.

I’ve put together some tips to navigate Halloween based on your child’s age. Of course, some of you have more than one child, to which I say, the youngest sets the agenda. So, if you have a baby and a three year old, do not sling your baby to your body and try desperately to get your toddler to hold your hand while you cross the street so your elderly neighbor can see the Thomas the Tank costume you tack welded on your lunch break. You are excused. Buy a bag of candy and give it to Thomas the Tank to eat in front of It’s a Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown.

But if you are heading out, here's my Tricks and Treats for making it work.

If your kid is a baby.

The treat – You win all the cute points. Nothing like an Anne Geddes photoshoot  in the pumpkin patch to rack up the facebook likes.

The trick –  It’s a one and done deal. Take photo, share photo, pat yourself on the back. I know, you want to take the baby out. You want people to try to pet your baby lion. This is not a good idea, don’t fly too close to the praise-sun Icarus. Your baby will poop up the back of that beautifully hand felted toucan costume.

If your kid is a toddler.

The treat – This is a short night, in fact it’s not a night, it’s an evening. It's a short walk down the street after dinner and then find the map Dora because this Explorer is heading back to her casa.

The trick – You break the rule of keeping it short and hit the toddler melt down factor. They tear off the super sweet Anna cape your mother sewed, they refuse to wear their ninja turle mask and now just look like a kid in mismatched green pants and shirt. "Are you a frog?" asks one unsuspecting granny. NO I’M A NINJA AND I WANT CANDY screams your three year old. Don’t say, I didn’t try to warn you.

If your kid is a kid.

The treat – They can walk without you holding their hand and it's unlikely they will poop in their costume, although it's highly advised your remind everyone to take a pee break before heading out. At this age, your significant other can stay home handing out the candy without you glaring at them as you head off down the street trying to navigate a jogging stroller with one hand and a uncooperative toddler with the other.

The trick – You need a game plan and to share that plan with your kids – several times. We are going to do our block and that’s it. Or we are going out for one hour – and you provide the count down because, well, I don't know about your kids but mine say things like, "It's 47:30."  

If your kid is a teen or a pre-teen or that age where they text and drink Starbucks.

The treat – I’m guessing there is no interest in heading out trick or treating.

The trick – There probably is interest in heading out for the night. But to do what?And that sums up all teenage problems, basically, every night is your Halloween and I don’t know how you do it. Fortunately I never will have to deal with it because I’ve asked my kids to never grow up and they said okay as long as they don’t have to ever eat broccoli and I said, deal.

Most importantly, regardless of your kids' ages, whether you bought or made their costume, if you are a fat-witch or a skinny latte, if your kids eat 100 pieces of candy or eat organic apricots - have fun. Really. Smile. Hug your little Ninja and your Princess Butterfly and hand out candy like they're beads on Mardi Gras, it's just one night, so make it a good one.

Yes, That's My Baby At The Bar

I have been asked on several occasions why I do not share more of my personal life on my blog, stories about my family, my life and my friends. I suppose this is partly because I find it difficult to write about myself but more so because you may find it hard to believe some of the events and activities in my life could possibly be true.

 Reason should have it though that a dear friend is moving to another state and she also happens to be the main character in one of the more charming and ridiculous chapters from the story of my life.

 If I were a scrapbooking kind of mother, I suppose this would be called “while mommy was at the INS office” and then I would paste this picture.

 Years from now I imagine us flipping through the pages and having a conversation something like this…

Daughter: “Where am I mommy?”  Me: “That’s you at a pub dear”

Daughter:  “Where are you mommy”? Me:” Oh, I am at the INS office with your father. “

Daughter: “What am I doing there?”  Me: “You would rather be at the INS office?”

Daughter: “Who took me there? Me: “A  neighbor, she was very nice and offered to watch you, but you see, there was this very important soccer match at the exact same time as our interview, so I said okay, she could take you with her.”

Daughter: “You let her take me to a bar?” Me:  “A pub, there’s a difference.”

Daughter: “So, you had me go to a bar with a stranger while you went to the INS office?”

Me:  “A pub! See that pint of Guinness there – a pub. Also, it was a much better option than the INS office; did you want to get deported back to Canada? You don’t even like maple syrup. Plus look how cute you look in the uniform? And for the record, she was not a total stranger, and now she is a dear friend. In fact, she is your brother’s Godmother.”

Daughter: “Oh yeah, Where did you get him baptized, at a bar? Me: “Hey, don’t be cheeky, see what a nice, unique memory this is?”

So yes, while I was at the INS office with my husband answering questions about what brand of toothpaste he uses and what side of the bed he sleeps on, my six month old was at a pub watching Celtic play Barcelona with my now dear friend Janice, who assured me that in Glasgow this would be completely acceptable and that after my daughter’s first pint of Guinness she hardly fussed at all. (kidding) (I think).

Thanks to Janice, I didn’t have to take my baby to the INS office and I got my green card. Three years and one more baby later, baby at the pub turned out to be one of our tamer adventures. New York City  China Town purse shopping, half-marathon training, almost-arrested at a soccer match night before my son’s baptism made up some of the more interesting times I won’t soon forget.  Janice, thanks for the memories and the blog material.

Unfortunately, I can’t seem to find any scrapbooking materials made for INS interview- green-card memories but like most of the stories in my life, they don’t seem to readily fit into pre-made categories.

Resolutions Are For The Rich

It’s that time of year when everyone is busy posting or discussing their New Year’s resolutions. Resolutions are wonderful; it’s good to have goals, at least that’s what the Anthony Robbins cassette tapes I bought at a garage sale told me - Have resolve! Or, start a revolution! (the tapes were in Spanish and I am a little rusty.)

What some of you may not know is that resolutions are for the rich. It’s true. It’s a little known fact that New Year's Resolutions are somewhere near the top of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, just above subscribing to Oprah magazine and just below Sweat Lodge Retreats.

Let’s have a look at the three most popular Resolutions* (*based on an extensive twenty second Google search) to demonstrate how resolutions are for the rich.

Most Popular Resolution # 1. Lose Weight.

Oh yes, gym memberships are flowing like Evian water and there’s a wait-list for weight watchers, people want to lose some pounds after a binge on brie and skipping out on Pilate's classes. You want to know the true secret to weight loss?  The most effective and 100% proven best diet in the world? Being broke.

Yes, it’s damn near impossible to put on weight when your three squares a day consist of one and a half, with one being Raman Noodles and the half being a can of Bud Light. The skinniest I ever was is when I was broke. Not college student broke but adult world-recession, starting-a-new-company, are-you-going-to-finish-that-sandwich? broke. You know when I put on weight? When I finally had enough money to upgrade from the hand basket to the cart at the grocery store.  In fact, stretchy pants should be standard issue with any Costco membership.

 So Richie-Rich keep your weight loss goals to yourself, that skinny intern sitting at the desk in the corner may not be on the Zone Diet, twelve almonds may be all she can afford after taxes and daycare. Trust me.

Most Popular Resolution # 2 Spend more time with family.

Folks love to talk about how they are going to carve out some quality time to spend with their kids and to go visit grandma and get to know uncle so and so because he is so interesting and just published that book of poetry. You know who doesn’t need to spend more time with family because they are probably living with both their mother and her poet-brother? Broke folks.

 Yep, it’s one big happy extended family when you can’t pay rent or afford a mortgage.

The family that prays together may stay together but if they all live together, the prayers are entirely related to getting in the bathroom before grandpa disappears into it with the Reader’s Digest.

Even if you aren’t living together, you see family plenty when pennies are tight. Forget Sunday dinners at grandma’s house - it’s any night she will have you and your carnivorous family. Not seeing family is a luxury reserved for those who have upward mobility or perhaps live in a town that is not on the Greyhound bus route.

 Most Popular Resolution # 3 Help the environment.

Another worthy goal set for those who feel guilty for letting their SUVs idle in the school pick up lane. You know what leaves a small carbon footprint? A bus pass.

 When you are broke you and the environment are BFFs - you take the bus, brown bag your lunch and can upcycle your little girl’s ballet slippers into passable gym shoes. Heck, you take your brown bag lunch, devour it and then fold that brown bag back up and rinse out the Ziploc to use again.

You want to know what breaks down in half the time of an empty glass wine bottle? An empty wine box. BYOB in broke-speak is “bring your own box” and for that matter, bring a wine glass too, because we only have two and my mother and uncle won’t let me use anything from the china cabinet.

So take heart, well to do Oprah subscribing people of the world, you are richer than you think. Now you just need the resolve to, ironically, learn to live with less.

Now for the disclaimer. I am no longer broke. I have lived the broke life. I have taken a bus and two subways to work, I have had boxes of groceries shipped to me by loving family, I have lived with my dear extended family and I have had extended family live with me. Being broke gives you character and most importantly, it gives you a passion to succeed.

These days I take my successful non-broke self to Costco in my stretchy pants, drive in my paid off mini van to meet my mom at the airport when she flies in to visit my family and smugly fill my recycle bin with empty wine bottles.

Happy New Year to all of you may 2012 be your year of resolve.  

Got Lactose-Free-Organic-Soy Milk?

I must premise this post by revealing that I have an unfounded and irrational issue with   food allergies. I scoff at them.      

You start talking gluten-free to me and I will not be able to stop myself from slapping you with a loaf of french stick. Ridiculous I know. This is of course why life, being the consummate lover of a good joke, should send some food related issues my way.

When I first met my husband, some fifteen years ago in university, at some point, he told me he was lactose intolerant. I paid little attention to that fact given that ninety-seven percent of the grocery funds went to beer and ramen noodles and the other three percent to the bus fare to get to the grocery store.

Years later when we married and  had proper jobs and went grocery shopping for proper grown up foods like imported beer to go with our ramen noodles, I gasped when he put Lactose-free milk in the grocery cart.

“Are you serious with that?” I groaned.

“Um, yeah, milk really kills my stomach. Why?”

“You know it’s some kind of marketing ploy, all these special brands.”

“Yeah, well it’s this special brand of milk or a special brand of toilet paper if I buy regular milk, the choice is yours.”

I opted for the extra carton of his special lactose-free milk.

Years passed and I grew to accept us as a two milk carton family.

What’s that you ask – why didn’t I simply drink the lactose-free milk?

On principle - the principle of liking regular milk and not wanting milk minus the fat or lactose or from an almond or a coconut or a jersey cow raised just for me and fed organic clover.

Then our daughter, Sunny came along.

She was breastfed for most of the first year and things were good and I developed a very profound respect for all lactating mammals and once I decided I had enough of being one myself I started introducing her to cow’s milk. Regular cow’s milk.

Over time – let’s say two years – we noticed our daughter frequented the bathroom quite a bit.

You know, my husband said, she is probably lactose-intolerant.

WRRRRR – WRRRRR – WRRRRRR – “What’s that, honey? I can’t hear you, I am just making her and I some milk shakes….” WRRR – WRRR

I did not want to believe it.

Took her to the pediatrician. You guessed it.

Allow me to recap the carton count in our fridge.

Husband – Fat Free Lactose

Me – 2% Regular or “Real” milk, as I like to call it

Daughter – Whole, Organic, Lactose-Free milk

 SIGH.

Along comes our son, Julian.

Another round of breastfeeding. A year or so later and it’s time for milk. Things seem okay, no poopie blow outs. In fact, no poopie at all. Hmmm.

Off to the pediatrician. Return with a mild laxative. Continue with milk and food. Still no poopies.

I do a consult with Dr. Google. “In children with chronic constipation an often missed diagnosis is allergy to the protein in the milk which can only be resolved by eliminating dairy products.”

Eliminate dairy. Poops return.

The fridge – bulges.

My head spins.

If my family all want a glass of Ovaltine I need twenty minutes lead time to sort out all the milk.

I have a milk decoder posted to the fridge for the babysitter.

I was speaking with Heather at 4amblogger who is a recent Paleo convert and she quipped to me, “You know, you should just stop fighting it and ditch dairy all together.”

I slapped her through the phone.

“It’s just a phase, damn it! Some day we will all sit together in a Dairy Queen eating Blizzards and getting ice cream headaches like a regular family, you’ll see.”

“No, you probably won’t.”

“I know." Sigh. I know….

I am not, however, relinquishing my DQ Blizzard Fan-Club membership, you never know when they will come out with an organic-soy-triple brownie mudslide Blizzard.

And if you think I am above sitting by myself at Dairy Queen enjoying a full fat extra- lactose blizzard of the month and not being at the hot-yoga class I told them all I was trying out, you would be mistaken.

I am the one in the yoga pants with cookie dough stains.

The Mother Of All Days

The Mother of All Days

 

I just finished cleaning the toilets (naturally) when I got a call from my dearest friend Heather at 4amblogger.com. She made me promise that my mother’s day gift to me would be to put up a new post. So here you are my love, thank you for keeping me on track and reminding me not to wash all my dreams down my sparkling toilets.

So first, without hesitation, a very Happy Mother’s Day to every mom, grandma and auntie out there. I think it can be universally agreed one day to say thanks is not nearly enough, the work of  a good mother pays dividends for generations. No matter how well worded the Hallmark card or how bountiful the bouquet presented today, there can be no amount of gratitude for the substantial role a nurturing, loving mother plays in the preservation of our future here on planet earth.  

There are so many theories and essays and books on motherhood and the modern woman and to all that I say, “yawn”. You can put whatever mommy-moniker you want on the institution of motherhood but chances are whether you are a “soccer mom”,  a “SAHM”,  a “working mom of multiples” or an “organic-lacto-vegan-Montessori-mom” – at the end of the day most moms are united by three simple principles: 1) we are trying, 2) we are tired, 3) we are in need of chocolate (maybe that last one is just me).

If one were to ask for my deeply profound opinion on what it is like to be a mother today compared to say 1950, I would simply tell you that; some things are easier, some things are harder and some things have not changed at all, and I suspect they never will.

What is easier? Of course there are a myriad of consumer products for moms today everything from disposable diapers (sorry environment) to battery powered breast pumps to margarita mix - all of which make life far easier on the modern mom. From a social perspective I would say that the internet is my favorite answer as to what has made life easier for moms in this generation.

The internet is the new front porch, the coffee time talk where you can go and find answers and support to just about every mom and woman issue on the planet. There are fabulous, supportive and informative moms and women who will open up and share their life and experiences with  everything from gluten free living to tightening your glutes. Or maybe you just find someone who makes you laugh, like I did with The Martha Project.

 So thanks to all the moms and women; the funny, the informative, the supportive and also a shout out to the few crazies out there (because who doesn’t like to feel a little smug every now and again?)

What is harder? Well of course, the same informative super highway can make a mom feel like she has taken her minivan onto the autobahn.  “Honey throw out those Oreos and milk, we should be buying organic super double fudge cookies and dunking them in soy milk.” I think.

There is perhaps a bit too much information to digest at times. Our moms did what their moms did. And their moms did what their moms did, which for most was be happy to have survived a war and a Depression. Today’s moms feel like they need to put on a size two designer jean, load up a baby that can read into a stroller that costs as much as the car, walk to Whole Foods and spend a week’s pay on a piece of salmon and ten jars of organic star fruit. So one really needs to temper the pressures and information made available to them. This is best achieved by balancing each hour on the internet researching a topic with thirty minutes on TMZ – to cleanse oneself if you will.

What has stayed the same? Well let’s see, I cleaned the toilets on mother’s day and my husband went to Home Depot. Heather at 4amblogger will call me to say she is home alone with her 6 month old, 4 year old and 6 year old because her husband is on a hunting trip. I will tell her that’s okay I am home alone with an 18 month old and a 3 year old (soon to be four) because my husband is at an all day soccer tournament. 

Some things don’t change much generation to generation. Husbands may come in the delivery room and moms may pull in salaries that dwarf their husbands, but in most grocery stores it’s the moms in the aisles and at the playgrounds and at the daycare for pick up.

I don’t think there is anything terribly wrong with this, I don’t think Gloria Steinem need cringe but Virginia Woolf probably should.  A mother’s quest not just for a “Room Of One’s Own” but as I like to say, “A Bathroom Of One’s Own” is painfully difficult.  It’s just that moms today pull double and triple duty. Michelle Obama once said she would get up at 5am to get in a work-out. Most moms would agree that crack of dawn or middle of the night may well be the only time they can find to do the things that matter them. To their souls. To their dreams and ambitions. Whether those dreams are defined delts or to write a blog.

That is where every Oprah must find her Gayle, a friend to push you to your capabilities beyond organic quinoa, advanced gymnastics for preschooler try-outs, 7am conference calls and pant suits with Spanx.

We must remember that one of the very best gifts a mom can give her kids is to have been true to herself - because the kids won’t remember the sparkling toilets they grew up with, but they will remember a mom filled with love and joy – not just for them, but for herself.

With extra love and kisses and joy to my mom, a true friend and inspirer.

Twas The Night Before...

 
My son turned one this week. Sigh. Last year he was just this little meatloaf we cuddled and posed with his big sister and our giant bulldog (naturally). I decided it would be nice to throw him a little party. After all, we have birthday parties for his big sister (precedent) plus with his birthday  in the Christmas season, it made sense to tie it in with some holiday cheer for family and friends (two birds, one stone).

It all sounded easy enough at the time. There would be food, drink, family, kids and cake.  I struggled a bit with theme since he  isn’t really crazy for anything aside from his hot sitter. My husband suggested I arrange to have her jump out of a cake. So in between Googling divorce attorneys I Googled some cake ideas and narrowed it down to this sweet Hungry Caterpillar cake or the show stopping Cookie Monster cupcakes. I thought of the oohs and aahs and perhaps a small applause as I bask in the glow of the one candle and my domestic godessness.

  
Of course, I am not @TheNextMartha, but I had myself convinced I could pull this all off. Until I got a call last Friday. Could I start a new job on Monday? Um, sure. Could I start an hour and a half earlier than I presently start? Oh - that depends on whether business casual means pajamas and a pony tail. It doesn't? Hmm. I will try. 

I did try. I somewhat succeeded. The children went feral, my husband went missing (soccer) and I drank enough coffee to throw off the commodities trading for the week.

And now  it is the day before his birthday party and guess what I have done? Zip. Nada. We are out of milk, toilet paper and apparently, dignity. I think my family ate mandarin oranges for supper. Canned mandarin oranges. Our house looks like it was ransacked by gypsies who were seeking refuge from a pack of rabid mongoose who in turn, tracked them to our home and tore it apart trying to find them. Even hot sitter is looking a little weathered (you have to look closely).

Now I am exhausted. Another long day ahead and I wonder what the heck I can pull out of my hat to save the day and leave everyone wondering “How the hell does she do it?” rather than “How old do you think the sitter is?”