Um, hi there. Is this thing on?
Happy 2011! Along with the usual "Hey, let's not be a fatty" new year's resolutions, I'm going to try something different this year. When I sit back and think about some of my favorite days- excluding the obvious ones- the wedding, the births, the day I met Jerry Seinfeld backstage at the 1992 Emmys, I realized something.
Most of my life's favorite moments are small ones. Unexpected little gifts that did not come with an anticipated check off of my calendar.
I love those small moments. And I like to think that when I'm gumming jello in the nursing home, my cup will be runneth over with millions of tiny memories that will leave me warm & fulfilled. If not, I sure hope the drugs are good.
So this year, I'm all about the small moments. The connecting with those that I love. The impromptu games of Trouble, the silly voices I give Barbie, a quick walk around the block. This year will have more Saturday morning snuggles. More doughnuts. More puzzles. More letter writing. More phone calls. More reaching out to those that I love that I've lost touch with.
I want to know the people I share my life with. I want to know them BETTER. And I want them to know they are loved.
Happy New Year, my friends!
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Thursday, November 11, 2010
It's Beginning to Look A Lot Like...
Holiday season kicked off today.
I made my annual trek to the Houston Nutcracker Market. For those not in the know, the Nutcracker Market is the annual fundraiser for the Houston Ballet. Basically, it's like a tradeshow for girls. With booze. And no kids (ahem! strollers) allowed. Picture every interesting boutique this side of the Mississippi, and they have a booth. Same goes for every kind of tasty food. Home decorating. Jewelry. Nonsensical stuff you didn't even know existed. Station after station of wine bars, wine-a-ritas, bloody marys, mimosas. Tons of Christmas decorations.
We lined up, tickets already in hand, at 10am. Today was the first day the show opened. We had to wait for more than 30 minutes to get inside the building. (It's THAT crazy!) After we got in, my girlfriends and I did a happy jig and loudly wished each other a "Merry Christmas." Then we hightailed it over to a bar and got our shop on. Kids are in school for only so many hours!
If anyone is interested in going to the Nutcracker Market with me next year- you are most welcome! Please just help me find a buyer for my house in California. This rental house is now brimming with Xmas decorations that need more room.
I made my annual trek to the Houston Nutcracker Market. For those not in the know, the Nutcracker Market is the annual fundraiser for the Houston Ballet. Basically, it's like a tradeshow for girls. With booze. And no kids (ahem! strollers) allowed. Picture every interesting boutique this side of the Mississippi, and they have a booth. Same goes for every kind of tasty food. Home decorating. Jewelry. Nonsensical stuff you didn't even know existed. Station after station of wine bars, wine-a-ritas, bloody marys, mimosas. Tons of Christmas decorations.
We lined up, tickets already in hand, at 10am. Today was the first day the show opened. We had to wait for more than 30 minutes to get inside the building. (It's THAT crazy!) After we got in, my girlfriends and I did a happy jig and loudly wished each other a "Merry Christmas." Then we hightailed it over to a bar and got our shop on. Kids are in school for only so many hours!
If anyone is interested in going to the Nutcracker Market with me next year- you are most welcome! Please just help me find a buyer for my house in California. This rental house is now brimming with Xmas decorations that need more room.
Monday, October 25, 2010
For The Record, We Don't Know Any Pams
My Lucy is turning five. FIVE! She cannot wait, and is eagerly counting down the days (one left-) before the clock turns and she is now one entire hand old. I am furtively trying to figure out how I can get footie pajamas in a size 6- because I cannot fathom not having any anklebiters in footies. No footies equals a freaked out mamma.
My baby grew up a lot this year. She handled the move with grace and aplomb (I love that work- it sounds like a wonky fruit). She quickly slipped back into old friendships, but has also made some new ones. She is now reading. She is now writing. She is now telling jokes and silly stories that regularly keep us all in stitches.
One day, a few months ago- we were in the car. Kids are in the backseat, radio was on low. Lucy starts calling her sister by her family pet nickname- "Anne-Anne."
"Don't call me that, Lucy." Annie says. "I hate that name, and I don't want anyone to know you guys call me that."
Lucy pauses for a moment, and then says, "Ok, Pam."
Happy Birthday, my girl. Your Mommy loves you.
My baby grew up a lot this year. She handled the move with grace and aplomb (I love that work- it sounds like a wonky fruit). She quickly slipped back into old friendships, but has also made some new ones. She is now reading. She is now writing. She is now telling jokes and silly stories that regularly keep us all in stitches.
One day, a few months ago- we were in the car. Kids are in the backseat, radio was on low. Lucy starts calling her sister by her family pet nickname- "Anne-Anne."
"Don't call me that, Lucy." Annie says. "I hate that name, and I don't want anyone to know you guys call me that."
Lucy pauses for a moment, and then says, "Ok, Pam."
Happy Birthday, my girl. Your Mommy loves you.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Hold Me
I like to tell jokes. This is both a blessing, and a curse. My husband likes to think that I have a sixth sense to inappropriately inject humor into un-funny situations. I don't like to admit this, but he's right.
It happened again this week. My daughter's school hosted a "tea" for parents. At 2:00 in the afternoon, on a Thursday. I put on a dress, took out my greasy ponytail, applied some makeup and tried to act well mannered. The tea took place in an empty 4th grade classroom. The head of the lower school sat in the middle of a horseshoe of tiny chairs- and encouraged the parents to join her in a casual conversation of raising children.
Sounds pretty harmless, right? Sitting next to me was an older mom- probably late 40's. Gorgeous. She was wearing a designer dress, beautiful boots. She had a huge men's sized Rolex on one wrist- a chunky gold bracelet on the other. Apparently, she has a third grade daughter that is growing up way too quickly for her comfort level.
During a conversation of study skills, Men's Rolex Lady continually asked why the third graders got so much homework. "There's no time to smell the grass!" she complained. She then went on to say that she decidedly refused to allow her daughter to participate in any after school activities this year because "this is the last year she'll want to spend time with me and I'm going to enjoy it. "
Alrighty. The conversation then shifted to advice the more seasoned parents could give new parents arriving to the school- and instead of suggesting the fall festival, or Santa's Breakfast, Men's Rolex Lady pipes up and encourages us to "just hold your little ones. Hold them for as long as you can."
That's when Genius me piped up and giggled, "Sounds like someone needs to hold YOU."
Oof. It was like all of the air sucked out of the room and I suddenly morphed into Fozzie Bear looking for the big hook to drag me off stage. Men's Rolex Lady's eyes got hard, and she stared at me for a full five seconds while I squirmed and felt that my little seat was growing smaller by the minute.
Someone quickly changed the subject. I kept my mouth shut for the rest of the affair. Afterwards, I approached Mens Rolex Lady, and apologized- explaining that I was just kidding, and that I hoped I had not hurt her feelings. And in the meantime? I need to brush up on my manners- these Southern ladies mean business.
It happened again this week. My daughter's school hosted a "tea" for parents. At 2:00 in the afternoon, on a Thursday. I put on a dress, took out my greasy ponytail, applied some makeup and tried to act well mannered. The tea took place in an empty 4th grade classroom. The head of the lower school sat in the middle of a horseshoe of tiny chairs- and encouraged the parents to join her in a casual conversation of raising children.
Sounds pretty harmless, right? Sitting next to me was an older mom- probably late 40's. Gorgeous. She was wearing a designer dress, beautiful boots. She had a huge men's sized Rolex on one wrist- a chunky gold bracelet on the other. Apparently, she has a third grade daughter that is growing up way too quickly for her comfort level.
During a conversation of study skills, Men's Rolex Lady continually asked why the third graders got so much homework. "There's no time to smell the grass!" she complained. She then went on to say that she decidedly refused to allow her daughter to participate in any after school activities this year because "this is the last year she'll want to spend time with me and I'm going to enjoy it. "
Alrighty. The conversation then shifted to advice the more seasoned parents could give new parents arriving to the school- and instead of suggesting the fall festival, or Santa's Breakfast, Men's Rolex Lady pipes up and encourages us to "just hold your little ones. Hold them for as long as you can."
That's when Genius me piped up and giggled, "Sounds like someone needs to hold YOU."
Oof. It was like all of the air sucked out of the room and I suddenly morphed into Fozzie Bear looking for the big hook to drag me off stage. Men's Rolex Lady's eyes got hard, and she stared at me for a full five seconds while I squirmed and felt that my little seat was growing smaller by the minute.
Someone quickly changed the subject. I kept my mouth shut for the rest of the affair. Afterwards, I approached Mens Rolex Lady, and apologized- explaining that I was just kidding, and that I hoped I had not hurt her feelings. And in the meantime? I need to brush up on my manners- these Southern ladies mean business.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Shop Till You Drop
Monday. Blurgh. As some of you know, I like to cook big family dinners on Mondays. Today, I was inspired by this recipe mostly because the weather has turned and I can think about baking a biscuit, and also- pickled jalapenos! My love affair continues.
So I'm in the local HEB Market. I go through the arduous task of selecting all my produce- weighing them & printing out the little sticker price tags. I make it about half way through the store, and stop in the cereal aisle. After finding my kids' Raisin Bran Crunch (Mommy's little fiber helper) I look up, and my cart is gone. GONE.
I immediately start to run- 45 minutes has already gone into filling that cart, and I really don't want to start again. I grab my box of cereal and start running the aisles- furtively looking at everyone's cart- and hoping against hope to find one with a pink bag of Baked Lays chips. (October is breast cancer awareness month- did you know?)
In other words, I look like a complete lunatic.
In the frozen foods section, I spot a cart with a pink bag of potato chips. I glance down, and the woman pushing the cart looks at me like I'm going to mug her Batman fruit snacks.
"Ummm.... I think you took my cart by mistake." I say as I notice my chili fixings, pickled jalapenos and HEB Kettle Corn (do not judge).
"OH CRAP!" the woman bellows, and I instinctively take two steps away from her and bump into the case of frozen pizzas.
"Where the hell is MY cart?" she says as she grabs her Batman fruit snacks and glowers at me.
"Cereal aisle?" I gulp and quickly grab the cart and hightail it over to ice cream.
Next Monday I'm ordering pizza.
So I'm in the local HEB Market. I go through the arduous task of selecting all my produce- weighing them & printing out the little sticker price tags. I make it about half way through the store, and stop in the cereal aisle. After finding my kids' Raisin Bran Crunch (Mommy's little fiber helper) I look up, and my cart is gone. GONE.
I immediately start to run- 45 minutes has already gone into filling that cart, and I really don't want to start again. I grab my box of cereal and start running the aisles- furtively looking at everyone's cart- and hoping against hope to find one with a pink bag of Baked Lays chips. (October is breast cancer awareness month- did you know?)
In other words, I look like a complete lunatic.
In the frozen foods section, I spot a cart with a pink bag of potato chips. I glance down, and the woman pushing the cart looks at me like I'm going to mug her Batman fruit snacks.
"Ummm.... I think you took my cart by mistake." I say as I notice my chili fixings, pickled jalapenos and HEB Kettle Corn (do not judge).
"OH CRAP!" the woman bellows, and I instinctively take two steps away from her and bump into the case of frozen pizzas.
"Where the hell is MY cart?" she says as she grabs her Batman fruit snacks and glowers at me.
"Cereal aisle?" I gulp and quickly grab the cart and hightail it over to ice cream.
Next Monday I'm ordering pizza.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Awkward
Curse of the Back To Schoolness.... we all have colds. Correction- I have a cold, the kids have a cold and my husband has a severe case of "someone please find Pampers in a size 36 because I'm the biggest baby that ever lived."
He called me today. I was in the living room, tooling around on my laptop, and the house phone rang. It was him. Calling from my cell phone. From the MASTER BEDROOM. He was calling to make sure I knew how miserable he felt. Because before the call- we had no idea. The incessant whining, dramatic collapses on the couch and three minute sniffle updates did not shed any clues.
********************
I bought my husband a suit for his birthday. At a very fine establishment- known for their refined good taste. He needed the pants tailored, and after picking them up and trying them on at home- there's a big problem.
The pants are not pants. They are pantaloons. They bunch up around his hips, and make him look much more at home on a pirate's ship than in an office. It is seriously ridiculous.
We took the pants back today, and after trying on his pantaloons for the assistant manager, she still didn't see a problem.
"I just don't understand the problem here." she said, shaking her head.
"There wouldn't be a problem if he was Napoleon," I replied. "Or if you had an argyle eye patch to match his socks."
They took the pantaloons back.
*************************
In other news, my 4 year old played her first soccer game yesterday. Aside from my husband morphing into Gypsy Rose Lee's mother for a short time period, the whole event was as expected. They lost. A gazillion to three. The kids on the opposite team were already shaving, and stood a good 3 feet over our 4 year olds. Their star player had a good soccer name- Fernando, and he would celebrate each goal (and there were many) with a jubiliant cartwheel. (Who teaches their kid to do that?)
My heart stopped in my throat (or maybe it was the cold?) when my little one suddenly stepped up to play goalie. 20 minutes before the game, she didn't really understand the concept of soccer, and now she was responsible for warding off Fernando's blows? I suddenly hoped Fernando was up for some serious cartwheeling. She held her own, but we quickly realized we had to put the camera down. If she even caught a glimpse of a lens that "might" be focused on her- her concentration dropped and she would instinctively start posing.
***********************
I got my hair cut yesterday. I tried this stylist when I first moved here, and I really liked her, so I thought I'd give it another shot. She's Parisian, and left France to try life in the United States and absolutely adores Texas. She's a lot of fun to chat with- but the people she works with are craaaaazy. Uncomfortably so.
Yesterday, I'm sitting in her chair, covered in a black tarp with a head of wet hair when a woman approaches us. She's well into her seventies, with a head of bright orange hair. Her figure is cute, but she's wearing a cropped polo (they should really be outlawed) and a sliver of her belly is visible (which grosses me out on Britney Spears- but on a seventy+ year old carrot top? Heinous). She gives my stylist a kiss, apologizes to me for interrupting, and then says, "Oh child. I hurt my neck last night. After dinner, Ralph and I were just playing around on my bed, and I don't know what happened, but I snapped my neck and couldn't move for a few moments. Ralph thought I died."
I honestly didn't know where to look. I wound up hiding an uncomfortable case of giggles behind my iphone. Awkward. This weekend was chock full of awkward, awkward moments.
He called me today. I was in the living room, tooling around on my laptop, and the house phone rang. It was him. Calling from my cell phone. From the MASTER BEDROOM. He was calling to make sure I knew how miserable he felt. Because before the call- we had no idea. The incessant whining, dramatic collapses on the couch and three minute sniffle updates did not shed any clues.
********************
I bought my husband a suit for his birthday. At a very fine establishment- known for their refined good taste. He needed the pants tailored, and after picking them up and trying them on at home- there's a big problem.
The pants are not pants. They are pantaloons. They bunch up around his hips, and make him look much more at home on a pirate's ship than in an office. It is seriously ridiculous.
We took the pants back today, and after trying on his pantaloons for the assistant manager, she still didn't see a problem.
"I just don't understand the problem here." she said, shaking her head.
"There wouldn't be a problem if he was Napoleon," I replied. "Or if you had an argyle eye patch to match his socks."
They took the pantaloons back.
*************************
In other news, my 4 year old played her first soccer game yesterday. Aside from my husband morphing into Gypsy Rose Lee's mother for a short time period, the whole event was as expected. They lost. A gazillion to three. The kids on the opposite team were already shaving, and stood a good 3 feet over our 4 year olds. Their star player had a good soccer name- Fernando, and he would celebrate each goal (and there were many) with a jubiliant cartwheel. (Who teaches their kid to do that?)
My heart stopped in my throat (or maybe it was the cold?) when my little one suddenly stepped up to play goalie. 20 minutes before the game, she didn't really understand the concept of soccer, and now she was responsible for warding off Fernando's blows? I suddenly hoped Fernando was up for some serious cartwheeling. She held her own, but we quickly realized we had to put the camera down. If she even caught a glimpse of a lens that "might" be focused on her- her concentration dropped and she would instinctively start posing.
***********************
I got my hair cut yesterday. I tried this stylist when I first moved here, and I really liked her, so I thought I'd give it another shot. She's Parisian, and left France to try life in the United States and absolutely adores Texas. She's a lot of fun to chat with- but the people she works with are craaaaazy. Uncomfortably so.
Yesterday, I'm sitting in her chair, covered in a black tarp with a head of wet hair when a woman approaches us. She's well into her seventies, with a head of bright orange hair. Her figure is cute, but she's wearing a cropped polo (they should really be outlawed) and a sliver of her belly is visible (which grosses me out on Britney Spears- but on a seventy+ year old carrot top? Heinous). She gives my stylist a kiss, apologizes to me for interrupting, and then says, "Oh child. I hurt my neck last night. After dinner, Ralph and I were just playing around on my bed, and I don't know what happened, but I snapped my neck and couldn't move for a few moments. Ralph thought I died."
I honestly didn't know where to look. I wound up hiding an uncomfortable case of giggles behind my iphone. Awkward. This weekend was chock full of awkward, awkward moments.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Back to the Grind
In the hustle and bustle of the move, my scale never received its much needed new battery.
In the hustle and bustle of the move, yours truly ate her way out of stress and anxiety.
I got the new battery. And after weighing myself, I almost had a heart attack.
Not that bad, (I do tend to dramatize) but five pounds is a lot when you're already lightyears from a bikini.
So when the kids started school, I started to exercise again. I dragged my lab around the perimeter of Rice University- (3.2 miles). I started taking the whole-damn-fam to Family Yoga at our local YMCA. And this week?
I tried ZUMBA.
Holy schniekies, people. When I first started reading about Zumba- I read that you burn a kajillion calories in one hour. Picturing myself surrounded by Latina hardbodies in sports bras and teeny tiny shorts, I sucked up my pride, put on my capri yoga pants and free Orbit gum t-shirt (pilfered from my little bro) and convinced a girlfriend to hide with me in the back of the class.
The average age of my Zumba class? 65. I was cha-cha dancing with the Golden Girls. I think I burned more calories belly laughing my way through the ridiculousness of watching grey haired grannies in their polyester elastic stretch pants shake their boot-tays in a circle. At one point, I looked back to check on my girlfriend. My girlfriend who runs marathons, and does triathalons, and trains for 3 hours a day- she had an absolute look of disgust and amusement on her face as she was completing her jazz box and shaking her moneymaker. (Side note: the music is also hilarious. Picture Ricky Martin on steroids and each song has Uber Ricky loudly whispering "Zoooooommmmmba.")
So yeah, I'm going back this afternoon. And maybe I'll start watching "Murder She Wrote" reruns with my new friends.
In the hustle and bustle of the move, yours truly ate her way out of stress and anxiety.
I got the new battery. And after weighing myself, I almost had a heart attack.
Not that bad, (I do tend to dramatize) but five pounds is a lot when you're already lightyears from a bikini.
So when the kids started school, I started to exercise again. I dragged my lab around the perimeter of Rice University- (3.2 miles). I started taking the whole-damn-fam to Family Yoga at our local YMCA. And this week?
I tried ZUMBA.
Holy schniekies, people. When I first started reading about Zumba- I read that you burn a kajillion calories in one hour. Picturing myself surrounded by Latina hardbodies in sports bras and teeny tiny shorts, I sucked up my pride, put on my capri yoga pants and free Orbit gum t-shirt (pilfered from my little bro) and convinced a girlfriend to hide with me in the back of the class.
The average age of my Zumba class? 65. I was cha-cha dancing with the Golden Girls. I think I burned more calories belly laughing my way through the ridiculousness of watching grey haired grannies in their polyester elastic stretch pants shake their boot-tays in a circle. At one point, I looked back to check on my girlfriend. My girlfriend who runs marathons, and does triathalons, and trains for 3 hours a day- she had an absolute look of disgust and amusement on her face as she was completing her jazz box and shaking her moneymaker. (Side note: the music is also hilarious. Picture Ricky Martin on steroids and each song has Uber Ricky loudly whispering "Zoooooommmmmba.")
So yeah, I'm going back this afternoon. And maybe I'll start watching "Murder She Wrote" reruns with my new friends.
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