On our roadtrip to New Orleans, I tossed my laptop in the car and burned Matt some mixes as he cruised us towards Louisiana. I rifled through my Itunes, trying to conjure up a mixture of stuff that would keep us entertained and take Annie's mind off Jack's Big Music Show, Laurie Berkner and all things Winnie-the-Pooh.
Lo and behold, my kid is now really into the B-52s and Bob Marley. A girl can only take so much Love Shack, so I made a new mix for the car- that will continue their musical education and kick off Summer 2008. What's on your summer playlist? Here's mine:
Soak up the Sun- Sheryl Crow
Somewhere Over the Rainbow- Israel Kamakawi
Faith- George Michael
Jump- Van Halen
Footloose- Kenny Loggins
California Girls- Beach Boys
The Reflex- Duran Duran
Our Lips Are Sealed- the Go Gos
Cheeseburger in Paradise- Jimmy Buffet
Summer of 69- Bryan Adams
Walking On Sunshine- Katrina and the Waves
Do You Believe in Love- Huey Lewis & the News
Stir It Up- Bob Marley
Kokomo- Beach Boys
Major Tom- Peter Schilling
Walkin' On the Sun- Smash Mouth
Born In the USA- Bruce Springsteen
You're So Bad- Tom Petty
Brown Eyed Girl- Van Morrison
Hey Ya- Outkast
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Funny Girls
We've been busy. Busy with a capital- B, and if I dare show you pictures of what we have been busy with, you will agree with my mother that I really, really need to get a job. Today was transportation day at preschool- and their parking lot was taken over with pedi-cabs, pony rides, semi-trucks, ambulances, firetrucks, school buses, cop cars, some crazy zebra car from the zoo and horse drawn carriages.
Of course, stupid me signed up to bring snack today. During Annie's parent-teacher conference, they hit me up with this request, and I was so pleasantly overwhelmed with having a conference that I didn't get nervous for, and having a conference where they truly acted like they liked my kid, and hearing that my kid didn't smear poop all over the bathroom or break anyone's leg I was more than happy to agree to make firetrucks for today's snack.
After a long internet search- we settled on graham crackers, smeared with red royal icing, Oreo cookies for the wheels, pretzel sticks for ladders and red jellybeans for the sirens and white ones for the headlights. These suckers were CUTE. And also a complete pain in the ass.
While making the cookies, Lucy started whimpering about a bug on the floor. Absentmindedly listening to her while piping hubcaps on Oreos, I muttered "Don't worry Lucy, it's not a bug, it's probably a piece of dirt."
A few minutes later Lucy tugs on my leg and asks: "Mommy? When did dirt learn how to walk?" It was a bug.
Today, I was telling Annie how we're going to California soon, so we can buy a new house.
"How are we going to do that?" she asks. "Houses are so big! Who will carry it to the car?" I laughed and told her we would order it online, and the mailman would deliver it. My kids think our mailman is better than Santa Claus- with all of the stuff he has for them in his truck. But his truck is not as cool as this:
Of course, stupid me signed up to bring snack today. During Annie's parent-teacher conference, they hit me up with this request, and I was so pleasantly overwhelmed with having a conference that I didn't get nervous for, and having a conference where they truly acted like they liked my kid, and hearing that my kid didn't smear poop all over the bathroom or break anyone's leg I was more than happy to agree to make firetrucks for today's snack.
After a long internet search- we settled on graham crackers, smeared with red royal icing, Oreo cookies for the wheels, pretzel sticks for ladders and red jellybeans for the sirens and white ones for the headlights. These suckers were CUTE. And also a complete pain in the ass.
While making the cookies, Lucy started whimpering about a bug on the floor. Absentmindedly listening to her while piping hubcaps on Oreos, I muttered "Don't worry Lucy, it's not a bug, it's probably a piece of dirt."
A few minutes later Lucy tugs on my leg and asks: "Mommy? When did dirt learn how to walk?" It was a bug.
Today, I was telling Annie how we're going to California soon, so we can buy a new house.
"How are we going to do that?" she asks. "Houses are so big! Who will carry it to the car?" I laughed and told her we would order it online, and the mailman would deliver it. My kids think our mailman is better than Santa Claus- with all of the stuff he has for them in his truck. But his truck is not as cool as this:
Saturday, April 26, 2008
I Want Candy
It's trippy to see your kid get to an age where you distinctly remember what you were thinking when you were that age. (Does that make sense? Basically, I totally remember being four). Dredging up the CoolWhip story the other night rekindled a few memories of my childhood- most of them involving grocery stores.
I love to grocery shop- always have, always will. This love has passed on to my children, who view a trip to Costco as an official outing, and it warms my heart to listen to their giggles of anticipation as we approach each aisle of samples. When I was four, I liked to toy with stranger's perceptions. For example, one of my favorite games was to fake a limp. I would trod behind my mother as she pushed the cart, and I would muster my best Tiny Tim face and suddenly start gimping all over the frozen foods section. I would try my hardest to listen to the whispers of each passerby- straining my ears to hear them whisper "poor, poor girl" when really they were probably thinking what a freaking nutcase I was.
Then, there was the day we went to Giant. Giant was this huge grocery store in Herndon, Virginia- and it felt like we went there every other day. We were ALWAYS going to Giant. My little brother would get a matchcar during every visit, and he had more cars than Donald Trump has gold light fixtures. It was seriously disgusting- he could have started his own NASCAR league and invited Mario Batali over to cook him some lil' smokies.
One day, I got sick of Billy and his mini-car obsession, and decided to venture off to pick a present for myself. Not much to choose from in a grocery store in 1980- but I did find a Brachs store display of candy. It featured tiny bags of Brachs candy- all hanging from a silver metal tree- each metal arm featuring a different flavor. I so love Brachs chocolate covered cherries, so I immediately realized I had to have one. Suddenly feeling like I was being watched, I turned around to see 2 young boys- about 4 and six years of age, observing my every move, while their mother read the back of some instant Orange Julius mix or something.
The boys crept closer- for some unknown reason, my candy deliberation fascinated them. Ignoring their stares, I calmly reached forward and grabbed a bag of candy off of the fixture. To this day, I swear that is all I did. I simply grabbed a bag of candy. Unexpectedly, the silver tree, brimming with confectionary delights, suddenly shuddered, and horrifically started folding up on itself, sending bags of Brachs candy crashing. Chocolate covered cherries littered the floor like a bloody, pulpy mess.
This huge mess also made a huge noise, and the mother dropped the can of instant Orange Julius and immediately started screeching and spanking the boys for wreaking such havoc. Ignoring their desperate and fervent pleas of innocence, I silently limped away. To this day, I can still see the pained expressions of disbelief on those wrongfully accused boys, and the outrage of their mother as she clomped on broken bits of candy to gain a better footing for her discipline. I've never been able to enjoy a cheapy chocolate covered cherry since.
I love to grocery shop- always have, always will. This love has passed on to my children, who view a trip to Costco as an official outing, and it warms my heart to listen to their giggles of anticipation as we approach each aisle of samples. When I was four, I liked to toy with stranger's perceptions. For example, one of my favorite games was to fake a limp. I would trod behind my mother as she pushed the cart, and I would muster my best Tiny Tim face and suddenly start gimping all over the frozen foods section. I would try my hardest to listen to the whispers of each passerby- straining my ears to hear them whisper "poor, poor girl" when really they were probably thinking what a freaking nutcase I was.
Then, there was the day we went to Giant. Giant was this huge grocery store in Herndon, Virginia- and it felt like we went there every other day. We were ALWAYS going to Giant. My little brother would get a matchcar during every visit, and he had more cars than Donald Trump has gold light fixtures. It was seriously disgusting- he could have started his own NASCAR league and invited Mario Batali over to cook him some lil' smokies.
One day, I got sick of Billy and his mini-car obsession, and decided to venture off to pick a present for myself. Not much to choose from in a grocery store in 1980- but I did find a Brachs store display of candy. It featured tiny bags of Brachs candy- all hanging from a silver metal tree- each metal arm featuring a different flavor. I so love Brachs chocolate covered cherries, so I immediately realized I had to have one. Suddenly feeling like I was being watched, I turned around to see 2 young boys- about 4 and six years of age, observing my every move, while their mother read the back of some instant Orange Julius mix or something.
The boys crept closer- for some unknown reason, my candy deliberation fascinated them. Ignoring their stares, I calmly reached forward and grabbed a bag of candy off of the fixture. To this day, I swear that is all I did. I simply grabbed a bag of candy. Unexpectedly, the silver tree, brimming with confectionary delights, suddenly shuddered, and horrifically started folding up on itself, sending bags of Brachs candy crashing. Chocolate covered cherries littered the floor like a bloody, pulpy mess.
This huge mess also made a huge noise, and the mother dropped the can of instant Orange Julius and immediately started screeching and spanking the boys for wreaking such havoc. Ignoring their desperate and fervent pleas of innocence, I silently limped away. To this day, I can still see the pained expressions of disbelief on those wrongfully accused boys, and the outrage of their mother as she clomped on broken bits of candy to gain a better footing for her discipline. I've never been able to enjoy a cheapy chocolate covered cherry since.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Food For Thought
So it's no secret that I really, really love food. Other people say they are overweight because they are "lonely, and try to fill that loneliness with food." That's not me. I'm not lonely- hell, I haven't been to the bathroom by myself in four years, so lonely isn't what comes to mind. I'm overweight because I really, really love food. My favorite types of books to read are about food- Heat, anything by Anthony Capella, Ruth Reichl, Amanda Hesser, Jeffrey Steingarten. I heart Top Chef, and live for date nights when my hubby takes pity on my macaroni and cheese Monday-Friday existence and takes me somewhere swanky where they use napkins! And wear clothes to the table! And don't blow milk bubbles out their nose!
I was a skinny kid, and blessed with a high metabolism until I turned the age of 18 and started birth control. God punished my wanton ways with expanding hips, and an expanding desire to stuff baked goods into my mouth. But even when I was skinny- I remember being obsessed with food. I remember being four, and my Mom was making dessert, and had half a container of Cool Whip leftover. She saw me laying on the 1970's linoleum floor (my favorite game was to act like I was "dead" and see the depths of despair of whomever found me). and took pity on my warped self and tossed me the tub of processed goodness. I couldn't believe my good fortune.
Then, in my sophomore year in high school in Hawaii, I suddenly became friends with a girl called Micki. Micki was a senior, and a cheerleader, and ran in social circles that I was only exposed to via John Hughes and Molly Ringwald. We called each other the "eating buddies." I remember going over to her house the day after Thanksgiving, and completely gorging on stuffing, and turkey and pie- and joking with her how we needed to "pace ourselves, so we could go the distance."
So it's pretty clear where this story is going- right? Micki had a raging eating disorder, and was hospitalized for bulemia before her senior year was up. I had no idea she was purging in between our Thanksgiving feasts--- and kind of shrugged my shoulders when I wondered why someone would want to get rid of all of that yummy food.
That same year, my high school's drama department got a call from one of the swanky resorts in Wakikia. They needed a high school student to dress up as the Easter Bunny and give out treats during their brunch. Instead of paying money, they would treat the Bunny's family to brunch. I jumped at the chance. I didn't care that I had to wear a white man's tuxedo. I didn't care that I had to wear a pink bow tie, and pink bunny ears, and a tail. I only cared that they had shrimp bigger than my fist, and a crepe station and desserts as far as I could see.
So I'm not trying to fill any emotional voids with food- I'm just seriously enjoying some good eats. Unfortunately, these days, I'm just trying to enjoy them a little less.
I was a skinny kid, and blessed with a high metabolism until I turned the age of 18 and started birth control. God punished my wanton ways with expanding hips, and an expanding desire to stuff baked goods into my mouth. But even when I was skinny- I remember being obsessed with food. I remember being four, and my Mom was making dessert, and had half a container of Cool Whip leftover. She saw me laying on the 1970's linoleum floor (my favorite game was to act like I was "dead" and see the depths of despair of whomever found me). and took pity on my warped self and tossed me the tub of processed goodness. I couldn't believe my good fortune.
Then, in my sophomore year in high school in Hawaii, I suddenly became friends with a girl called Micki. Micki was a senior, and a cheerleader, and ran in social circles that I was only exposed to via John Hughes and Molly Ringwald. We called each other the "eating buddies." I remember going over to her house the day after Thanksgiving, and completely gorging on stuffing, and turkey and pie- and joking with her how we needed to "pace ourselves, so we could go the distance."
So it's pretty clear where this story is going- right? Micki had a raging eating disorder, and was hospitalized for bulemia before her senior year was up. I had no idea she was purging in between our Thanksgiving feasts--- and kind of shrugged my shoulders when I wondered why someone would want to get rid of all of that yummy food.
That same year, my high school's drama department got a call from one of the swanky resorts in Wakikia. They needed a high school student to dress up as the Easter Bunny and give out treats during their brunch. Instead of paying money, they would treat the Bunny's family to brunch. I jumped at the chance. I didn't care that I had to wear a white man's tuxedo. I didn't care that I had to wear a pink bow tie, and pink bunny ears, and a tail. I only cared that they had shrimp bigger than my fist, and a crepe station and desserts as far as I could see.
So I'm not trying to fill any emotional voids with food- I'm just seriously enjoying some good eats. Unfortunately, these days, I'm just trying to enjoy them a little less.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Just Breathe
So after all that trash talking, things got kind of interesting around here. By five o'clock in the afternoon, it felt like a concrete block was sitting on my chest. I freaked, and called Matt at work to ask him to come home. I also paged my doctor- and by the time she called back, I was having problems breathing, and the chest pressure got really intense. So I do what makes perfect, rational sense-- I burst into tears. My poor doctor can barely make out who is on the other line because I'm a wheezing, blubbering mess. I'm almost too embarrassed to have to go see her in a week.
She, of course being of sound mind and concrete-block free body, logically tells me to get my ass to the closest emergency room. I (thank you Google!) find this clinic around the corner, grab my keys, meet my husband who has just pulled into the driveway and take off.
To put this in perspective, this would only be my 4th visit to the ER in the last ten years. Once, I was in a car accident and my neck got tweaked. Two other times I had the remarkable pleasure of passing kidney stones (while pregnant! nothing prepares you for labor more than shredding your insides to bits with calcified sand granules). All four times, I drove myself to the ER. When you're married to someone that works on average of 120 hours a week- a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. It did get somewhat ridiculous when I was mid-passing a stone in the ER and they kept trying to force morphine on me and I was all, "Hey now, that's not a good idea because I really need to drive myself home. Please just give me some Vicodin and we'll call it a day." Driving yourself while having a serious respiratory issue is a walk in the park compared with having a grumpy husband and two very-near bedtime toddlers accompany you to a sterile waiting room for an indefinite wait. I'd rather donate some much needed organs, while living, than to have to go through that.
So when I show up at the local Doc-in-a-box, I was expecting a long wait. And really, when you don't have to put the kids to bed or clean up the dinner dishes, how bad is it to sit in a plastic chair and be forced to watch CSI and Survivor? It fucking sucks when you have a two ton block of concrete on your chest and are gulping for air.
Luckily, they either saw my distress or were afraid I was going to scare away the rest of their business for the night because they had me in an exam room in fifteen minutes. (I only got to see one severed head on CSI- that's pretty good by gory time standards). After one abnormal EKG where the nurse (he was from Australia, his Dad is an aborigine that lives in the bush. Why must I insist on finding out everyone's life history whenever I'm in a hospital?) became convinced I was having a heart attack- this kind of dampened my plans for a few moments, and made me wonder if the last thing I was going to see was a crappy CSI and the speckled ceiling of an exam room- he fixed some button and finally got a normal reading.
After figuring out I was not pregnant, not having a heart attack and ruling out pneumonia, they quickly discovered I really couldn't breathe that well. I was having a "flare up" of asthma that I thought I had outgrown four years ago. They put me on oxygen, gave me some steroids to lessen the swelling in my lungs (hey look! I also get testicles as a parting gift!) and gave me a breathing treatment. Within two hours, the concrete block had lessened to a piece of particle board, and I was ready to go home. Home to a house that no longer had a week's worth of trash in it. Because I was sly and dumped it at my neighbor's before theirs got picked up. I'm classy like that- particle board chest and all.
She, of course being of sound mind and concrete-block free body, logically tells me to get my ass to the closest emergency room. I (thank you Google!) find this clinic around the corner, grab my keys, meet my husband who has just pulled into the driveway and take off.
To put this in perspective, this would only be my 4th visit to the ER in the last ten years. Once, I was in a car accident and my neck got tweaked. Two other times I had the remarkable pleasure of passing kidney stones (while pregnant! nothing prepares you for labor more than shredding your insides to bits with calcified sand granules). All four times, I drove myself to the ER. When you're married to someone that works on average of 120 hours a week- a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. It did get somewhat ridiculous when I was mid-passing a stone in the ER and they kept trying to force morphine on me and I was all, "Hey now, that's not a good idea because I really need to drive myself home. Please just give me some Vicodin and we'll call it a day." Driving yourself while having a serious respiratory issue is a walk in the park compared with having a grumpy husband and two very-near bedtime toddlers accompany you to a sterile waiting room for an indefinite wait. I'd rather donate some much needed organs, while living, than to have to go through that.
So when I show up at the local Doc-in-a-box, I was expecting a long wait. And really, when you don't have to put the kids to bed or clean up the dinner dishes, how bad is it to sit in a plastic chair and be forced to watch CSI and Survivor? It fucking sucks when you have a two ton block of concrete on your chest and are gulping for air.
Luckily, they either saw my distress or were afraid I was going to scare away the rest of their business for the night because they had me in an exam room in fifteen minutes. (I only got to see one severed head on CSI- that's pretty good by gory time standards). After one abnormal EKG where the nurse (he was from Australia, his Dad is an aborigine that lives in the bush. Why must I insist on finding out everyone's life history whenever I'm in a hospital?) became convinced I was having a heart attack- this kind of dampened my plans for a few moments, and made me wonder if the last thing I was going to see was a crappy CSI and the speckled ceiling of an exam room- he fixed some button and finally got a normal reading.
After figuring out I was not pregnant, not having a heart attack and ruling out pneumonia, they quickly discovered I really couldn't breathe that well. I was having a "flare up" of asthma that I thought I had outgrown four years ago. They put me on oxygen, gave me some steroids to lessen the swelling in my lungs (hey look! I also get testicles as a parting gift!) and gave me a breathing treatment. Within two hours, the concrete block had lessened to a piece of particle board, and I was ready to go home. Home to a house that no longer had a week's worth of trash in it. Because I was sly and dumped it at my neighbor's before theirs got picked up. I'm classy like that- particle board chest and all.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Talking Trash
In other news, I've recently acquired the latest in preschool viruses- the most fashionable sinus headache, coupled with this season's unstoppable snotty nose- which then morphs into a transcendent chest cold that feels like the entire last season of Project Runway is sitting on my chest (which occasionally makes me cough up a lung and pee my pants a little bit so I don't think they'll let me wear their creations anytime soon).
I hate being sick. My husband, dear man that he is, has an extremely short attention span for sickness- and I blew all of his goodwill two nights ago when he brought home Chinese and put the kids to bed. Today, my wheezing is so bad, I sound like a geriatric prank caller, and my energy level is zip.
In my Nyquil induced stupor, I suddenly realized I forgot to drag the trashcan to the curb today for pickup. The kindly garbage man stopped in front of my house, and leaned on his horn- as if to say "Come on Sicky Girl! Drag your sorry ass over here and tinkle your pee pee all the way to the curb so I may relieve you of a week's worth of refuse." I pretended like I couldn't hear him.
I'm going back to bed now.
I hate being sick. My husband, dear man that he is, has an extremely short attention span for sickness- and I blew all of his goodwill two nights ago when he brought home Chinese and put the kids to bed. Today, my wheezing is so bad, I sound like a geriatric prank caller, and my energy level is zip.
In my Nyquil induced stupor, I suddenly realized I forgot to drag the trashcan to the curb today for pickup. The kindly garbage man stopped in front of my house, and leaned on his horn- as if to say "Come on Sicky Girl! Drag your sorry ass over here and tinkle your pee pee all the way to the curb so I may relieve you of a week's worth of refuse." I pretended like I couldn't hear him.
I'm going back to bed now.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
California Here We Come!
We've decided.
We are beyond happy.
We said goodbye to a great job and more money than we knew what to do with, but in the end- life is not all about the bank account (we've proven that this far) and we want to be near friends, family and In-N-Out Burger more than anything.
My new house will be somewhere in Orange County, and I hope they let me my non-botoxed, droopy boobs self in.
WOOOOHOOO!
We are beyond happy.
We said goodbye to a great job and more money than we knew what to do with, but in the end- life is not all about the bank account (we've proven that this far) and we want to be near friends, family and In-N-Out Burger more than anything.
My new house will be somewhere in Orange County, and I hope they let me my non-botoxed, droopy boobs self in.
WOOOOHOOO!
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