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Paint: A Family History

Is there anything a fresh coat of paint can’t fix?  A coat of paint makes all the difference in the world. It can freshen and brighten up a room. It can totally change that room’s appearance- a mini remodel! Paint isn’t so expensive that your husband has a stroke when you come home, full of ideas, and announce A Project (he still might have a stroke when he understands the amount of paint needed to do said project, or even what said project is, but that stroke won’t be over the cost!) Stop me, I sound like a commercial for Home Depot! (Another way I know I am getting old is that I so heart you, Home Depot! I could spend hours cruising your aisles, much the way I used to at the beauty counters at Nordstrom- is it coincidental that both involve colors and paint?!…)

I am lucky in that I have always lived in nicely decorated spaces. (As soon as my parents finished their home, they would restart everything from the beginning again. It was an endless loop of paint, wallpaper, and fabric. The only thing that would prevent them from restarting the existing home was to move into a new one.)  Except for an unwavering devotion to the St. Louis Cardinals, my parents are not sports nuts. They will gamely tune into the St. Louis Rams and watch them lose every Sunday (they both watch the team and watch them lose as the Rams don’t see winning as a desired outcome of a game.).  To fill the void, they decorate.  Let’s face it- everyone has to be fanatical about something, right? The only arguments I can remember my parents having were over decorating issues. These fights were not of the knock-down, drag out variety; my parents are way too sophisticated for that.  The tactics they used were sly and cunning- I learned my guerilla warfare attacks from the best! (The most memorable one was over what I can only call legwarmers on the chain that held up the chandelier in the dining room. They looked stupid in the 80s over leggings, they look stupid now over jeans and they looked especially stupid in my parents’ dining room. The chandelier was a beautiful, antique frosted glass dome that hung from the ceiling on gold chains.   The chains evidently got chilly (from the frosted glass?!) and needed to be kept warm.  ‘What would be better than legwarmers?’ my father asked himself.  He must have had some weird, thankfully briefly lived, obsession with girly accessories. My father went through a phase of tying stupid silken ropes with tassels (that bore an uncanny resemblance to BELTS) on everything he possibly could.  Loafers wear tassels well; lamps- not so much. My mother would wait for my father to go out of town for business (which was very frequently) and she would untie and hide every rope.  Perhaps she wasn’t very good at hiding places because as soon as my father would come home, the stupid ropes were back on all of the lamps. And possibly even the cat.) This love of decorating meant walls, trim, doors, etc were constantly being painted. The smell of paint is linked to my childhood, and therefore very comforting to me. (As a toddler, I was hospitalized for high lead levels. My parents were stripping lead based paint in their house and had put me to work. Kidding! But I really was over exposed to the stuff, even though they were careful. Hire a pro and go on a vacation if you are so tempted..)

When my husband and l bought our first house together, the first thing on The List was to paint all the disgusting ‘natural’ colored trim white.  (My husband performed one of the Miracles referenced in the Bible- he painted for fourteen hours a day for five days.  Thank you honey!) Once that was done, we got to select wall colors (way more exciting for me than for him, shockingly). I knew I wanted something that would bring out the best in our furniture, while complimenting the colors in the house.  Armed with no fewer than forty-two paint samples from the ‘local’ Home Depot, I headed home. (Being new to the area, I didn’t know we had a Home Depot less than a mile from our house, so we were driving twenty minutes the wrong way through traffic each time we needed something, which was approximately every five minutes.)  I picked out my colors using the proven scientific method of holding the sample up to the wall in BOTH natural and lamp light.  Satisfied, I had the paint department mix my colors, and hurried home to start the job… The dining room color I loved.  The living room color was too pale, so back to Home Depot. I instructed the paint department lady to “make it a smidge darker”.  She very politely (really, she was super nice) asked for some clarification as to how much pigment to add to achieve a ‘smidge’.  Whatever she ended up adding was perfect.  (I did learn an important lesson this winter when I went to touch up the walls in living room- make sure you document the ‘custom color’ as it will be impossible to replicate it. Impossible.)  Next, we tackled our bedroom.   I selected a lovely, restful blue grey that accented our all white bed linens (I loved those linens. One of the first things I did when I found out I was pregnant was to change our linens to TAN. More on that later…). As it happened, a deep purple was on the same color card.  I experienced a Brilliant Idea- I would paint the office off of the same color card! So, it turns out that deep purple isn’t really very pretty, nor is it a Brilliant Idea when it is all the eye can see… (I also learned a few lessons in the office. When painting, a thicker coat doesn’t take the place of two coats. It will look drippy and stupid.  ‘Cutting’, especially a ceiling, is harder than it looks. While I had mastered the makeup brush (please see ‘On the Job Training’), the paint brush is a different beast.  Also- make sure that the tape you use to protect wood work is on in a straight line.) Four coats of ‘bleached almond’ later, we were back in business…. We painted the guest bathroom twice. (I found a way cuter shower curtain, which changed the color of the towels, which changed the color of the walls…duh.)

As you could guess, my husband was definitely Over It. This was a problem because I could not do the painting by myself.   There is something this Super Woman cannot do- paint the walls all the way up to ceiling! (This is ‘cutting’ a ceiling.)  Also, some of the colors I had chosen weren’t really working for me (they were so ugly the cat refused to even go into the room)… so to get around his declaration of “NO more painting ever,” I employed another tricky tactic that totally took advantage of his job (you will recall I used this same tactic to clean boxes when we first moved in together).  When Thomas was on a trip, I would paint the entire room the new color… the entire room minus the four inches under the ceiling! Ha! Genius! The room would have to be finished, and since I had proven my total ineptness at cutting a ceiling, Needless to say, Thomas wasn’t as impressed with my guerilla tactics as I was.

So, the office and the guest bathroom now fixed, I moved on to the most important room in the house- the Kitchen (in my family, we consider eating to be the family sport).  The kitchen looked OK, but it needed some color to break up the bleached almond walls (it was one giant beige box).  Inspiration struck- one of the walls needed to be orange! I went and visited my good friends at the Home Depot paint department; I had the perfect (albeit custom) shade.   I know this idea was divinely inspired because I was able to A) paint the wall B) cut the ceilings and the corners C) not spill the paint and D) apply tape in a straight line against the opposite wall.  I stood back, admired my work… and heard the door open.  Thomas was home early from his trip! I was so excited to show off my decorator (and painting) skills! He took one look at the wall, turned to me, and asked me Why The Fuck Had I Painted The Wall Halloween ORANGE?!  Excuse me? I had never (OK maybe once with the purple office) turned him in the wrong direction when it came to color, and who was he to judge, Mr. All-Beige-All-The-Time? And did he not SEE the perfectly cut ceiling and corners?! I told him to not speak to me until the paint had dried and he was ready to say he was sorry.  In the morning, the paint had dried and he apologized. And the kitchen looked amazing.

The next game of Fun with Painting started about three years ago, when I found out I was pregnant. Naturally, we needed to repaint several rooms, as we had to convert one into a nursery (Emma’s room is a beautiful rose color- ‘Dusty Rose’ by Ralph Lauren.  I learned my lesson about custom mixed paints and went straight from the color card! Did you know that all Ralph Lauren paints have been discontinued and the formulas are no longer on file at Home Depot?! I cannot make this up.) I also wanted to update our bedroom, as I had a feeling the white bed linens weren’t the best choice going forward. I found a beautiful, silky duvet set that was sand colored, with a beautiful blue border. Most of the time. The fabric was beautiful, and it changed colors depending on the light and the folds in the fabric.  I took the sham into my friends at Home Depot, and we color matched the fabric.  Of course, I needed a custom color to match this one of a kind color.  It looked wonderful when I compared the fabric to the custom paint; I was so excited! Once on the wall, the two matched perfectly. And by matched perfectly, I mean by a blind person.  It was awful. On to custom paint #2.  The same blind person showed up for work that day.  We had the same results with #3, #4, and #5.  After #5, my husband asked me, in all seriousness, if I wanted a divorce and was too chicken to just ask for it. Because, he explained, at that point, I could have it- and I could have the house, the checking account, the cars- whatever I wanted, just please God let him stop painting! Finally, we got the color right. (I returned the unmatchable duvet and picked out a different, solid colored one.)

The good news is that the bedroom walls compliment the bedspread, the kitchen walls look fantastic, and Emma loves her pink room.  The bad news is that I have no way of touching up the various marks from picture frames, Christmas trees, toddlers, and furniture (Fun With Furniture is similar to Fun With Painting, and I suspect I enjoy this game more that my husband does too.)  I have no more painting projects in the works (depending on whom you ask this is good news (Thomas) or bad news (me).) In more good news, we are still (happily) married, despite what my husband might have suspected.  I hope my life lessons will make someone else’s life easier, and more peaceful. As I reflect on how far we have come, from the country dirty blue wallpaper disaster to the modern, clean colors that surround us, I realize and understand how lucky I am (not only to have a home that is happy, but to have one that isn’t filled with boxes and remodeling crap everywhere). Please remember, as you make changes to your living space, that it is not underhanded or mean or sneaky to use guerrilla tactics to ensure you get the desired outcome- be it paint, lamp legwarmers, or emptying out boxes.

Why I Believe OCD is an OCDo

OCD- the word (name? description? behavior?) (way of life?)  brings to mind vacuuming your rugs three times a day or turning off and on the light switch exactly seven times before you can leave a room (remember that True Life: I have OCD?!! MTV did have some fine quality programming to redeem itself from some of the current excuses that pass for shows. Or is that me being old again?).  I take the position that a little OCD isn’t necessarily a bad thing. How many OCD people have messy houses? Or pass germs around? That’s right, NONE.

I am a tidy person.  Granted, I was more tidy prior to the arrival of my bundle of joy, but I am still tidy, none the less. I don’t think it’s abnormal to lint roll my lampshades and curtains.  I love sorting and organizing and purging things, like sock drawers.  Refolding all my shirts? Love it! Matching all of my socks? Yes, please! Cleaning out the medicine cabinet? My pleasure! As a child, it was not punishment to send me to my room to clean it (now, as a teenager, maybe… I remember packing my room when we moved my freshman year of high school. My preferred method was to scoop piles up off the floor and dump them into boxes… which made unpacking sort of like a mini Christmas- I had no idea what was in each box.) My favorite store is The Container Store- ooh the possibilities! That store makes me want to start hobbies just so that I can organize them.

Even at my untidiest, I have been a purger.  I get it from my father.  He used to throw away anything and everything that wasn’t nailed down. Oddly enough though, this doesn’t extend to food.  My father is Captain Just-Cut-The-Mold-Off-The-Rest-Of-It-Is-Fine.  (To be fair, he possibly got it from his parents who remembered the Great Depression. When we cleaned out their house after their deaths, the stash was impressive.  The freezer was an advanced work of the art of packing. We could have eaten for a month, all three of us, on the reserves from that small freezer. Also, they had a habit of stashing packs of peanut butter crackers around the house. They were both diabetic so the crackers were an answer to the threat of hypoglycemia.  We found 64½ packs of crackers…in a house that was 1000 sq feet! ) It doesn’t matter to my Dad what food it is, either…cheese, bread, hummus, salsa… It has gotten so bad that my mother will wait until he is out of the house on trash day to throw things away (Sorry for outing you, Mom!)   I can remember many a night, armed with a flashlight, going through trash bags to rescue math homework. It had been thrown away because I had neglected to put it where it belonged, or, more importantly, out of the way of the garage express. (My father, after I told him about this post, informed me that the trash is where he puts all important documents that he wants to make sure my mother sees. So, I guess I didn’t have a chance either way- thanks Mom and Daddy!) I belong to the party of Throw It Away.  If you don’t use something within two weeks, it’s gone.  Extra buttons on shirts? Gone. Instruction manuals (once item is fully functional) Buh-bye!  (I do understand that some of my items-to-be-tossed are a bit excessive; however, my husband has a penchant to hang on to an item’s packaging. Yes, the empty card board boxes (and the packing materials) would be piled up in our attic, and closets, and spare room, and office, and work room if he had his way. I have seen him do it! When we first lived together, I would wait until he left for a trip and I would purge the boxes o’ crap with militaristic efficiency.  When he got home, I would tell him that I was able to combine the boxes. I would leave out the part that I junked almost everything. Before you get all shouty at me, I ask you—does one really need: a broken alarm clock (no radio), a broken blue desk lamp, dried up highlighters, unsticky post-its, and carbon checks from a checking account that has been closed for more than five years? No, one does not.)

To my husband’s credit, he has seen the light and is now a very tidy person.  On a few occasions, he has returned from his parents’ house armed with old crap that his mother dug out of the basement… and he puts it directly into the trash can outside of the house! It never even enters our home! That, my friends, is progress! I am not sure if he is really a tidy man at heart, or if it is just easier to do it my way. Either way, I am happy. Also to my husband’s great credit, he is usually willing to do things the right way (the

Julia Way

).  However, the few times he has stuck to his guns, he is usually right.  You think I would remember this, and yet, I have found myself donning a hazmat suit to recover items from the trash that I thought he was finished with (i.e., that I was sick of looking at).  I don’t know if I should be very proud, or very ashamed, but my daughter is a card carrying member of the OCD Clean and Organize Club.  She is two and a half… At daycare, she routinely helps (yells) at other children who throw things on the floor, suggesting (chastising) that they throw whatever it is away. She thinks the bottles of 409 and Windex mean game time. I have found her emptying her drawers, only to be able to put everything back, neat and tidy.  The only behavior that I find a little troubling is the constant hand washing (I do attribute this to the newly found skill of using the potty and washing hands afterwards. Also, she got to pick out her own pink Cherry Blossom soap. Who wouldn’t want to use it all day?!)

In the future, I will continue to embrace my OCD, as I do believe it makes my world a better, cleaner, less cluttered place.  Although it might not be that socially acceptable, you do it, too. And you know it. (Whether you disinfect every square inch around yourself and your children in public, or you re-sort all food items into matching Tupperware before you put them away in your cabinets, or you have a special good luck routine prior to flying on a airplane that may have up to 18 steps and include multiple family members, or wearing the same underpants and socks for game day to ensure your team’s victory even though you don’t play on the team, your life (and everyone else around you) is better.) Carry on friend, carry on.  And know that the world would be a better, safer, cleaner place if there were more like you.

Happy Hallmark Overpriced Day, or, a Valentine's Day Wrap up

Ahh Valentine’s Day... What a stupid holiday.  (And before you start judging, I have had a Valentine every year on Valentine’s Day since I was 15- you know, since I have been all grown up and mature and shit.)  Valentine’s Day sucks.  I am not going to give you the standard, PC (I am not so PC, perhaps you have noticed?) of ‘people should love each other every day’ and ‘I don’t want flowers because Hallmarks says I should have them, I should get flowers just because’ or even ‘I don’t need a special day to tell my partner how much I love them because every day is Valentine’s Day at our house’ (I just threw up at this one.) I hate Valentine’s Day because the bar is too high- no matter what, you are going to lose. Someone is going to have a better day than you.  Did you get a dozen roses?  Suzy got two dozen.  Did you go out to dinner at nice restaurant?  Katie went to a nicer restaurant and the chef created a special menu just for her and her Valentine.  Did you get engaged?  Jen got a bigger diamond and a more elaborate proposal. I mean, really, why even bother?

I went to Nerinx Hall, an all girls Catholic high school. (Yes, we wore uniform plaid skirts. Yes, all the stereotypes are true- except for the one that we all danced around like Britney Spears in ‘Baby One More Time’. The Nerinx girls were much bigger fans of Mary Katherine Gallagher’s lunge with spirit fingers as a signature move). Valentine’s Day was something out of a Lifetime movie. Seriously, you would have to see it to believe it.  Valentine's Day became a study in the ‘have’s’ vs. the ‘have not’s’… a political ad could have been shot to graphically demonstrate whatever tax hike/tax cut was the flavor du jour.  To accommodate the impending flower deliveries, several large tables from the cafeteria (the Nerinx girls called it the ‘cafe’) were moved to the front hallway/entrance of the school. The tables made that hallway look like a make shift dead rock star grave- minus the candles- but including the stuffed animals. As flowers were delivered during the day, the lucky recipient was announced over the PA system and told to come to the front office- it was the only time one wanted to go to the front office, and we wanted it oh so badly!  (I had the same boyfriend all four years at Nerinx. And he never got it right.  He was always too cheap to send actual roses from a florist.  The first year, I did get roses.  He hand delivered during his lunch break. Sounds sweet, except that he misspelled my name and so no one knew whose flowers they were for almost the entire day.  On subsequent years, he visited the hospital gift shop next to his house for some lovely carnations -dropped off at the front office; he knew the drill by then-because “they don’t jack up the price on Valentine’s day”.  Can you believe I let him slip away to marry my ex best friend/college roommate?!)  The girls who received flowers (especially those who were surprised and had not expressly ordered their boyfriends to send flowers) were thrilled, and those who didn’t, well, weren’t.  Every year I was there, and every year my youngest sister Laura was there the I Hate Boys Club was established. I was so glad the tradition had continued during her time at Nerinx, and I sincerely hope that it was alive and well this year.  Members were easily spotted by their paper signs (I Hate Boys), had a really bad attitude, and went through the lunch line more than once for ice cream sandwiches and candy bars. Can’t you feel the love?

In college, I also had a boyfriend every year.  And yet, this did not change my attitude about Valentine’s Day (possibly because he was such a jerk).  My bestie at the time (see ex best friend, married ex boyfriend) didn’t have a boyfriend sophomore year.  We decided to launch a full out attack on all the ‘loving happiness’ around us… by making t shirts.  (We were sorority girls. We made t shirts for everything.  We almost made a sheet sign and hung it from the sorority house, but decided that would be overkill.  Such mature examples of self control we were.)  The shirts proclaimed “Happy Fucking V-day” and had a red heart with a large black X through it.  (I searched everywhere for the picture, and sadly, I cannot find it... My words here are not conveying the genius of the shirt.) We thought about licensing, but really, we weren’t in it for the money.  And possibly, (probably) no one would have found them quite as funny as we did.

When I started dating my husband, my feelings surrounding Valentine’s Day were clear:- I-hate-it-it’s-stupid- whatever-and-please-for-goodness-sake-do-not waste-your-money-and-buy-me-some-overpriced-thing-just-because-you-are-supposed-to.  Inevitably, the dreaded day rolls around, and true to my wishes he didn’t get me anything….not even a card.  Around nine o’clock that night, I casually mentioned (loudly demanded) to know where my card was.  He went ashen, then red.  He told me he didn’t have a card for me; that I had said not to get me anything.  He told me that I was changing the rules which was unfair; and how could he have possibly known the rules were going to change SO he wasn’t going to feel badly.  I calmly explained (yeah right) that a card was in fact, NOTHING.  We agreed to disagree… and the following year I got a funny card, a sweet card, and a card from the cat.

This year, Valentine’s Day came and went.  My husband was on a trip on Valentine’s Day, so we couldn’t spend it together. (I’m sure it broke his heart almost as much as it did mine. However, I was able to bravely carry on. I assume he did too as I did not receive any hysterical, sobbing calls from him.)  He totally came through for me though, and I had a card under my pillow waiting for me.  So, my Valentine’s Day was great… I am sure yours was better.

Low Rise Jeans, And Why They Are Never A Good Idea

I was on the phone with my little sister earlier this week (another perk of getting older is that you actually enjoy and seek out your siblings and really don’t care if they borrow your sweater!) and she suggested a topic on which for me to write. Sort of like English class, (is it even called “English” anymore? I cannot imagine that in this politically correct, let’s- not-hurt-anyone’s-feelings-and-everyone-gets-a-trophy environment that it is. Don’t tell me what it’s called; I don’t want to know.)  when your teacher gave you a topic and then forty five minutes to write it and suddenly you blanked and instead spent the time writing letters to your friends and then folding them into origami?  (I can’t imagine that kids today know any origami, or how to make that folded up paper fortune game. I am sure there is an app for that.) Only, I am not blanking (good news for you!).

She didn’t so much “suggest “but rather “loudly express her distaste”.  Laura, it turns out, is so over- WAIT FOR IT- low rise pants, especially jeans.  And frankly, I agree with her. (She rectified her situation by going on a shopping spree at Ann Taylor Loft. Oh, to be young and not paying for daycare again!)  Things I am also so over include wearing white after Labor Day, and wearing sandals in the winter (a recent trip to Miami was so exhausting for me. I mean really- it was JANUARY.) I don’t care what the thermometer says, the calendar trumps. 

But, back to low rise pants. They are awful, and unless one is under 18, impossible to pull off.  And, no one under 18 needs to be wearing them. (Have you seen what passes for “clothes” these days?! Here is another sign I. Am. Old. (and still not caring!)) For years, I have battled the inner Julia on a variety of topics. Interestingly enough, most of my material comes from ignoring her.  She is sort of boring.  However, in this case, she was right. Let’s start with the low rise part.  If one is to wear them, one cannot eat or drink anything lest your tummy puff out (also known as ‘muffin top’).  This should be a mutually exclusive event, as the pants are designed among other things (I cannot imagine anything else but I am giving the benefit of the doubt here) to entice your date, and what does one do on a date? (Keep it clean folks, my daughter might one day read this and as far as she is concerned, dates happen at Church. In separate pews.) As many dates take place in restaurants, eating and drinking are required. Strike One.

No shirt ever, ever comes close to covering that strip of skin on one’s back that is exposed anytime one moves when wearing low rise Jeans.  This makes for a very uncomfortable, chilly draft.  If you are constantly rearranging your clothes, both you and the clothes look stupid.  Strike Two.

The lower back is not the only thing that gets exposed. (Have you ever noticed that tramp stamps and low rise jeans are a match made in heaven? And the tighter the pants, the larger the tat? This would be a great idea for a government research grant.) One’s underpants are also out for God and country to see.  Unless you are a Victoria’s Secret model, no one wants to see your underpants. (And frankly, I don’t want to see theirs either.) Strike Three. 

Low Rise Jeans- You’re Outta Here!

I had my own excommunication of Low Rise Jeans last winter.  Despite the fact that I am A) over 18 (and over 30, but that’s neither here nor there), B) a mother (unless you are either a freak or a fitness instructor, I‘m sorry, that shit doesn’t go back. I do not want to hear about sit-ups, kegel exercises, or any other stupid idea that clearly was that of a male who has never had a child; They don’t work.), C) always cold (that chilly draft mentioned in strike two was really annoying, as was the constant pulling of clothes), and D) my underpants hung out, I persevered.  I was flat stomached (sort of, especially when I sucked it in), young (enough), and so fashionable (riiight). Also cheap. I had several “good” (expensive) pairs, and I didn’t want to buy more.  I ignored inner Julia (and my husband).  My final breaking moment: When my daughter, who had just learned to walk, snuck up behind me and SNAPPED MY THONG UNDERPANTS.  Oh, the HORROR! Also- terrible role model behavior.In retrospect, I was scared of the dreaded “Mom Jeans”. For good reason- they are dreadful!  All acid washed, high waisted, and big in the hips.  Oh, and tapered.  My other sister, who I also really like came to visit me and braved the shopping for new jeans trip to the mall with me.  Bloomingdale’s, I totally heart you. If I wasn’t already married and wasn’t going to marry a chiropractor next (I could get adjusted every day!), I would marry you. You have always come through for me, especially when the pressure is on.  In fact, I would give you one half of a BFF necklace if I thought you would wear it (I never got one of those. And I wanted one so badly!)

After a very painless shopping trip, I have cute jeans, that are appropriately waisted (not too high, not too low), are cute, and, most importantly, have zero strikes! I just love a happy ending! (I wish my happy ending included more shopping at Bloomingdale’s…)

Airport Security, Or, How I Learned to Stop Judging Others

We have some wonderful neighbors, who have taught us several important lessons, among them being that it is never too late to drop in for a cup of sugar; when making dinner, make enough for leftovers; never buy furniture without prior approval (our neighbor’s decorating skills make HG TV look like amateur hour) (also you will hear about it if you don’t follow said advice), and don’t judge others. During one of our first interactions with them, this piece of wisdom was delivered as follows:

Jeff: We don’t judge others, we don’t feel like its our place.

John:  But don’t think we don’t talk about you when we get home!! (Said with attitude and possibly a head swing)

Unfortunately, I didn’t always take this to heart… so, to every mother of a screaming child in A) a restaurant, B) Target, and C) an airport security line, I’m Sorry!  (However, D) church- not so much.  Take your child to the nursery or go outside.)  (Also- laptops and shoes have been required to be removed for over ten years now. Get with the program, fellow travelers. No apology is due to you. HURRY UP!)

As anyone who has traveled with a small child (whether or not its yours isn’t the point- everyone has been on a plane with a little one) knows, it can be compared to the Ironman triathlon, with the traveling being less enjoyable.  There is a point on every trip where one would volunteer to go compete in the Ironman RIGHT NOW RIGHT THIS VERY SECOND rather than the current reality (which is you, your child, a very small space, and angry, angry people attempting to kill you with their eyes).  As all parents know, that journey begins way before you even pull into the parking lot (of course it’s the furthest parking lot. It is the furthest parking lot known to man. And it is, of course, raining). Once you get everything, and everyone, rounded up and inside, the real fun begins.

Post 9/11, the airlines are rather strict about who is allowed past security. I doubt that Jesus Christ himself could get through security without the correct documentation. Thankfully, there is something called a “gate pass”. This pass allows someone to assist the passenger(s) through security and to the gate.  What a wonderful idea! Genius! The gate pass was my “Jesus Christ” of documentation! It really was a shame (devastating category five catastrophe) that my husband didn’t take advantage of the gate pass…

When my daughter was about nine months old, she and I went to visit Grandma and Poppa. As they live 600 miles away, flying is the preferred way to travel (I’ll spare the horror film that is the ten hour drive.  Did you know that eardrums can bleed? We found out that if one listens to Titanic level screams for a long period of time, it can happen.  It was suggested to my husband  to drive into overpasses just to make it stop.) Because of the amount of stuff we had, my husband came inside to the ticket counter with us.  I had the following: diaper bag stuffed to the gills, my purse, laptop, portable DVD player, stroller, carseat, sippy cup (must be sent through security separately), and a baby.  The carseat is one of those combo deals- the carseat fits into the stroller through a series of ridiculously complex plastic switches/knobs.  The ticket agent surveyed the traveling circus that was us, and offered my husband a gate pass.  “Oh no”,  he said, “She’s fine.”  “Really?”, the agent asked again.    “Yeah, REALLY?”, I echoed, as I glanced back at the mountain of things that could easily be more things than the average villager has in their hut at any given time.  “Yes, she’s fine. You’re fine”, he said one more time.  (Um, WOW- how did all of this stuff suddenly shrink? He helped me into the airport itself! Was it the rolly bag? Because, seriously? That bag was the least of my problems.)

So, with a very dubious glance from the gate agent, Emma and I put on our game faces and went off into the great unknown.  One perk (possibly the only perk as near as I can tell) to traveling with a stroller is that you get to use the “Special Assistance” (rock star) line at security.  Since we qualified, we zipped on through. That was the only “zippy” part of the day.  As we neared the x-ray machine, like a General readying the troops, I took action.  I needed (count them) 5 bins (diaper bag, purse, laptop, portable DVD and general-shoes, etc).  I worked like Charlie Sheen on a high and had everything unloaded and reloaded. My plan was to push the stroller through the x-ray machine (common sense would say that if anything explosive was suspected, the scan would catch it. Also, they could use a wand. Sadly, like all things TSA, common sense did not rule the day.)  One of the helpful (hateful) agents politely (so f-ing rude) informed me that I would have to collapse the stroller, which also meant that I had to dismantle the carseat from the plastic (iron) clutches of the stroller, which ultimately meant that I had to get the kid out of the carseat.  I weighed my options (which didn’t take long as I didn’t have any), and put Emma on the floor. The floor of the busiest airport in the world, at the security checkpoint (so that floor had the most shoeless feet of any airport in the world), I set my crawling baby down. Emma’s favorite activities at that point in her life were 1) crawling and 2) putting whatever she could get her hands on in her mouth, and 3) screaming.  She wasn’t impressed with the offerings of things-to-put-in-her-mouth that the floor had, so she settled for option three… she screamed and cried. That was not only helpful, it provided a nice soundtrack for the other passengers waiting in line. I almost joined her in screaming and crying a minute later because I couldn’t get the carseat out of the jaws of the stroller.  No amount of turning knobs, pushing buttons, or just praying was working.  As Emma could sense that something was upsetting Mommy, she decided to stop screaming, and start crawling.  Away from Mommy.  At lightning speed. Here is a brief recap of what was going down:  four orphaned bins through security (did you catch the ‘four’? Remember, I needed five), an escaping baby, an incompetent Mommy, and some really annoyed fellow passengers.  It was great.  A nice man (guardian angel) came to my rescue and got the carseat out of the clutches of the evil stroller.  As I placed the carseat on the conveyer belt, I was helpfully reminded that the carseat had to go through upside down and backwards.  I flipped the carseat, and rescued Emma from two lines over.  Now, we were ready to go through security ourselves! The end was in sight! The polite (so hateful and mean) TSA agents reminded me that the stroller had to be collapsed and then sent through backwards and upside down.  Fine. (At no point did TSA offer to help me. Glad to see my taxpayer dollars are employing the best of the best.)  I collapsed the stroller, totally forgetting that the DVD player (which, as any parent knows, is key to keeping the kid quiet during travel. It is the holy grail of carryon bags) was in the basket under the seat. Emma, the TSA agents, our fellow passengers, and I  watched as the DVD player sailed through the air (someone shouted ‘FORE’) and landed in several pieces five lines away.  We made the hard decision to leave the wounded on the battlefield. We said a silent goodbye, and took a step to go through security.   The stroller was collapsed; everything else was waiting for us on the other side (Promised Land).  The nice (HATE HATE HATE) TSA agent then informed me that the sippy cup couldn’t go; it would have to be checked separately. Emma was especially pleased to hear about this, and voiced her opinion rather loudly.

We made it through the x-ray, collected all of our things, including our now broken DVD player and headed for the gate. As we made our way down the aisle on the plane, we encountered more death stares.  Perhaps our reputation had preceded us? (There is nothing more powerful than the stares of other passengers WILLING YOU NOT TO SIT NEXT TO THEM PLEASE GOD NO as you walk to your seat.)

We settled into our seat, and I had a moment to think about how much trouble my husband was in. And how many things he was going to have to do make it up to me.  I called Grandma to let her know we had survived the urban jungle that was the airport.  She was glad to hear it, and passed along a message to me, my husband had called her to let her know that he had dropped us off at the airport, that he had “messed up” by not taking the ticket agent up on her gate pass offer, and that he was “sorry”.  Sorry?! As I buckled us in, (and said a quick prayer that Emma didn’t contract the Ebola virus from her time on the floor at security), I thought of how many ways he could make it up to me…

After having some time reflect on this experience, I realized that it actually taught me a few more important things than just the obvious lessons.  Traveling with children will always be, um, difficult, to say the least.  (Benadryl does make travel a whole lot less painful, FYI). But, as parents, we don’t have room to judge others.  We are all doing the best we can, and in fact, remembering, some other “incidents” I have witnessed over the years, I am actually impressed with a lot of the moms (and dads) I have seen.  And, lastly, always, always, always, take the gate pass. 

Who Wants to Get Old? I DO!!

Everyone bemoans getting old.  And, from what I hear, it’s really not that much fun. According to my father, getting old ‘isn’t for wussies’.  If the minor aches and pains (and way, way worse hangovers) are any indication, that is probably true.  My question is—When Did I Stop Caring That I Am Getting Old? Getting old seems to require a certain amount of looking stupid, i.e., comfy shoes vs. cute; protective gear for recreational activities, and looking like a tourist while being a tourist (guidebook, tennis shoes, big bag of supplies).

 I remember one of the first indications that I was nearing the end of my ‘prime.’ I was having my floors refinished (you really take a look at the amount of furniture you think you need when you have to cramp an entire house’s collection into two rooms), so I had to find another place to spend a couple of days.  One of my friends was super sweet and came to the rescue.  As an added bonus, she had an actual guestroom (and bathroom!) I should say that my husband and I discovered the value of having an actual guest bed during a trip to Paris. As proud college graduates of fine, fine state schools, we have done our share of couch/ floor/ bathtub crashing.  We have been out of school so long that we no longer have student loans (because we paid them unlike today’s kids but Not Going There). After the usual long travel day—I  have said it before and I will say again (and actually mean it this time), Charles De Gaulle Airport is THE TWELVETH CIRLCE OF HELL AND WILL SUCK THE LIFE OUT  OF YOU and I will never ever set foot in that hellhole again—we arrive at our hotel. This particular hotel can best be described as a set for a snuff film.  Words cannot do it justice. Let your imagination run (and I’m talking marathon run…not ironman run) with this one…bugs, hair, holes in the wall, stained bedspread, broken furniture, unflushed toilet. Yes, it truly was that horrible.  Luckily, we had a friend who offered her “guest bed”.  Parisian real estate is like New York, only more expensive.  Her 800 sq ft apartment did have a guest bed—a flippy couch (more commonly called a ‘flip n fuck’, but I’m attempting to keep this blog classy)—complete with metal bars that bisected the “mattress”…conveniently digging into our backs. So you can understand my excitement at an entire guest suite.  After we arrived at our friend’s house, they took us upstairs to show us said guestroom, etc. It was gorgeous with a custom bedspread, shiny cherry furniture, matching nightstands with lamps that coordinated with the bedspread, and beautiful custom made drapes! The thing that most caught my attention, though, was the drapes. Or more specifically, what the drapes surrounded—CUSTOM MADE WOODEN BLINDS! SWOON!! During the next few days, my friend showed me all kinds of treasures: Beautiful jewelry, designer jeans, Ridel wineglasses… you can imagine the rest.  Confronted with all of those riches, the blinds stayed with me the longest. It was the blinds that caused me to say to her that we ‘might be in fight’ because of my green eyed jealousy.  It was the blinds that gave me that catch in the throat, and the blinds that kept me up at night, dreaming of my house with custom blinds…

A popular topic after the holidays is what Santa brought (this is not a politically correct blog.  We are Catholic and Santa visits our house. If you do not have Santa as a visitor, please substitute appropriately).  Sometimes, ‘Santa’ means ‘husband’, and I found myself in a conversation of “If My Husband Got Me ‘X’ For Christmas I Would Kill Him.”  The usual gifts were mentioned—vacuums, lawn mowers, any sort of electric tool, hammers, and screw drivers.  Oddly, I found myself thinking, “Hey! some of those things might not be so bad!” I mean, I would LOVE a new vacuum! And, if my husband got more tools he could finally knock a few things off the ol’ Honeydo List! (My husband is a wonderful man who does check things off the list. However, we sometimes have a timing discrepancy) I sensed that I was alone in this line of thinking, so I nodded agreeably (yes, it is possible for me nod agreeably and not to open my mouth, even though I might not have a tremendous amount of practice at it).  As the conversation progressed, the ladies were getting more and more worked up.  Finally, the straw that broke the camel’s back: One woman exclaimed that her husband had the gall to suggest that Santa could leave a new washer and dryer! Everyone gasped indignantly—except for me.  I was busy daydreaming about a brand new, shiny, front loading washer and its matching dryer in my laundry room (which is the corner of my kitchen sort of behind the fridge, cordoned off by the baby gate, which is necessary to keep the kid out of the cat’s litter box, which is also in said ‘room’). The ladies looked at me, waiting for my (classic Julia) snarky comment.  And they got a comment alright… I demanded to know if this lady was crazy! I mean—a new washer AND dryer!! WOW!!  The ladies were, um, dismayed at my lack of fight for their cause.

The most interesting part of this getting old business that I have experienced so far is that, as I mentioned, I don’t care. AT ALL.  I always figured that when the time came, I would so mad at myself for picking comfy instead of cute shoes… but I’m not (and the people within five miles of me are so thankful as well.  Especially my husband.)  I look forward to the “oldies” weekends on the radio station! I still choose restaurants based on the atmosphere, as I did in the past. Only now, I want quiet and not busy/crowded/loud music/drinks, etc. 

I don’t know what the future holds, but I’m betting it will include more comfy shoes, yelling at young people, telling the same story like a broken record (no hope in this department as my father has taken this trait to new levels), and, hopefully, custom blinds. Oh, and a new, top front loading washer and dryer.

Meet Me at the Hotel, Motel...

Hotel rooms can really make or break a trip. I don’t care where you are—Tahiti, Hawaii or even just down the street if it gives you a break from your everyday life—if your room is horrible, you aren’t happy.  I just got back from a business trip where, coincidently, I stayed in a hotel.  (I had the BEST roommate ever… the kind of roommate that quits 24 hours before said meeting, thus ensuring I had a single room!) I have been very fortunate to have stayed in many hotel rooms, from down the street to the other side of the world.

Once we had a room in Cancun with no electric lights.  Another room in Bloomington, IL had a car alarm outside that wouldn’t shut up (it was totally our car, but whatever). The most expensive hotel room I ever stayed in (if I tried to write the cost per night, my keyboard would burn up.  BTW the only way that I got myself there was as a guest of my husband’s employer… when he told me he had a trip to Antigua I informed him that if I wasn’t going on that trip, niether was he) had the lumpiest, worst mattress (the floor was more comfortable).  There was that room we had in Paris that doubled as a set for snuff films and our “roommates” in China (roaches, roaches everywhere)   …

Sometimes, the room is perfectly fine—it’s the idiots who are staying in them who render them terrible.  One of the first ‘dates’ my husband and I had was in Jacksonville.  (Because my husband and I lived about 800 miles away from each other when we met, and because he is a pilot, many of our “dates” lasted 72 hours and were in different places around the country.)  The first day I was there, my husband had to work all day. So I did what any woman who was bored and had more than five dollars of disposable income in her pocket and more than ten minutes to herself (gosh I miss those days) would do—I went to the mall.  I found a candle store, and, determined to ‘make it special and memorable’ (shout out to Cosmo), I purchased a few small candles that smelled divine—not too strong, not too flowery, but the perfect mix of spice and floral notes. Or at least they did in the store.  When I got back, I unpacked the candle… and instead of smugly congratulating myself, I was second guessing myself.  I must have had sensory overload when I finally made my selections at the store (possibly due to an expected high from candle sniffing for an hour), because those candles STUNK.  BAD.   The suite at the Embassy Suites was quickly becoming more of a tiny cruise ship cabin than a nice, spacious suite. However, I was undeterred.  After all, I had read Cosmo, and, remember, this was going to be a Special And Memorable Night.  Thomas came back to a beautiful candle-lit (albeit stinky) hotel room.  The evening was in fact, memorable… Right before we got into bed to go to sleep, I leaned over to blow out the candles… and engulfed my entire head in a fireball. Yes, a fireball.  During this time of my (young, silly) life, I thought I was a blonde (I will say, though, I have definitely had more fun as a brunette. Also more money in my pocket as I don’t have to cough up $$ (edited due to husband’s reading of this blog) and more time on my hands (as I don’t have to sit for three hours at the salon every six weeks). As you can tell, I have DARK brown hair… dark brown hair that gets very fragile when bleached to a lovely, brassy, bleached out color. Also, I am very accident prone (many more stories for you to enjoy on that topic in the future)… Basically, I was a walking recipe for disaster.  As the smoke cleared (yes, there was smoke), and I calmed down (as you can imagine,  hysterics were involved. I mean COME ON, MY HEAD WAS ON FIRE), I inspected the damage.  I lost all my right eyelashes, over half of my (way too skinny) right eyebrow, and I now  had what could best be described as a ‘fringe’ standing straight up from my scalp at my hairline.  I was a hot mess (and that’s being generous). The flame extinguished itself; and thankfully, no one and no property was permanently damaged.  However, some damage had been done… namely to me and more specifically, my face.  As I am pondering how the hell I am going to make myself presentable to the general public for the next several weeks, my husband spoke up.  I turned and looked at him, ready for some comfort—a hug, a smile, any sort of reassurance would have worked.  Instead of A) inquiring about my charred head, B) giving me a hug to comfort me after my near death experience, C) telling me some nonsense like ‘it’s not that bad’ (it really was that bad), or D) offering a cool compress/ washcloth if I needed one, he picked E) laughing so hard he cried, and then F) ordering me to take a shower immediately because I smelt so horribly of burning hair.

Hotel rooms can be a glimpse at what living with someone might be like.  I learned about my husband in that room.  I learned that he is sensitive—not to me and my near death experience, but to smells.

On the Job Training

On the job training may seem like a good thing, and it generally is.  On the job trial by fire not so much… My first job out of college was at Nordstrom, working the cosmetics department.  As I had worked for Clinique in college, I felt confident I had the ability to demonstrate how to use different makeup products (like eye shadow).  I mean, I totally rocked at using Q-tips to smear No-Show Taupes on customers. Q-tips are the same thing as brushes, I was sure. It was a little troubling that there were so many different types/ sizes of brushes, but I was/am a college-educated sorority girl. Also? I totally wear makeup. How hard could it be?

My job was to manage the Trend Cosmetics Department.  Sounds really big and important, but not really. One of the claims to fame of the “Trend” lines (Urban Decay, Hard Candy (now at Walmart WTF?!), Too Faced, and Tony & Tina) is the high level of pigment in the products, i.e. a little goes a         L-O-N-G way.  (As I am sure you learning, I am not subtle, reserved, or afraid to ‘go big’, so this point was a little lost on me.) As any “Nordy” (dedicated Nordstrom shopper) knows, it is the job of all associates to go the extra mile for the customer. (The store has a policy to take EVERYTHING back.  Returning a lipstick with a receipt from the store at the other end of the mall that is a direct competitor—no problem, m’am! Legend has it that one Nordstrom refunded a customer for a set of SNOW TIRES.) In the cosmetic department, going the extra mile means makeovers.  (A lot of makeovers. For free.) We did a tremendous amount of bridal makeovers.  As any self respecting bride knows, one must look perfect on her `Big Day.  Hair stylists and makeup artists are vetted more carefully and thoroughly than many that hold political office.  (Not going there.)  The typical selection process went something like this: a bride would scope out a makeup counter before initiating any conversation.  Once contact was made, the bride and the artist would do a ‘run through’ to see if the bride (her mother, sister, and bridesmaids) liked the look. After the run through, an appointment would be made for the Big Day.

One Saturday, we noticed a group of young women wandering around the department. (This particular store was in Indiana, and was the ‘big city’ for a lot of the residents of the farm towns that were relatively close.) After they made several passes around the department, they approached a counter and spoke with the salesgirl… turns out they were a bridal party and wanted free makeovers for the wedding, which was in 4 hours. What? Seriously? This girl needed to have her ‘bride card’ pulled! But, this was Nordstrom and we were going to make the customer(s) happy! The members of the bridal party were placed around the department at different counters.  I luckily did not pull the actual bride; I got some junior bridesmaid/book signer person.  Although I am confident in my abilities, I am a little nervous as THIS IS A WEDDING! I have watched my fair share of Bridezillas and My Fair Wedding; I am totally feeling the pressure.  I led my ‘assignment’ over to my station, hoping that my walk looked authoritative and in control.  The girl sat down, and we briefly discussed what ‘look’ she wanted.  At no time did she indicate she wanted black glittery eye shadow from her eyebrows to her nose.  Guess what she got. (Since the wedding wasn’t Goth, I was pretty sure she wasn’t going to appreciate this look.) I swung into Full On Panic Mode.  I located the makeup remover, and after using half the bottle, I managed to eliminate the Panda Eyes she was sporting.  (A couple of times she asked to see the progress- perhaps she was concerned when she noticed the amount of black eyeshadow on my brushes? I assured her everything was going according to plan, and that I wanted to ‘surprise’ her… I’m not sure why she didn’t push the issue and demand to see her face—perhaps I was authoritative? I’m guessing she was scared and just didn’t want to know. The girl wasn’t the only one I was hiding my work from during the ‘make over’.  Other members of the department wandered by several times, wanting to make sure I was OK since I was new.  Thankfully, I had stationed her behind a large display, thus blocking all lines of sight from the main aisle.)  Somehow, I managed to get the job done.  I credit my guardian angel and also my Grandma from heaven.  When I was done, and I had handed her the mirror I gave my sales speech.  She needed the lipstick, right? How would she reapply during the hours and hours of photos/dancing/eating? And really, I had just spent over an hour working with her and I was paid on commission.  Of course, she didn’t want anything. She assured me that her lips were super sticky and thus the lipstick would stay put.  All night long. Well, super.  I was so glad that she had magic lips.  The girl and her magic lips seemed pleased with my work when she looked in the mirror at the end of the makeover (ordeal).  I mean, she didn’t scream, cry, or faint, so I am counting that as a win.  She left the counter, taking some of my youthful optimism (over confidence) with her. 

My time in cosmetics did not end that afternoon.  I started hanging out with the department makeup artists, under the guise of wanting to be their best friend (but really to figure out what the hell I was supposed to do with all those brushes!). I don’t think that they bought my story, but whatever. And I can still tell you the difference between a smudge, crease, angle, blending, brow, and fan brush (to name a few).

Green Beans- Its what's for dinner

 I recently outed myself—that I am in fact willing to lie to my kid. It turns out I am also totally OK with tomfoolery…. Steamed green beans are one my favorite things to eat. Not super exciting, but less fattening and more socially acceptable on the job than some of my other favorites, namely Chardonnay (as I have a company car, Chardonnay consumption is generally frowned upon during working hours). Also, quit hating.  I grew up in the Midwest, the daughter of parents from the East Coast, where vegetables taste like vegetables… What a surprise I had in store for me when I moved to the South (or God’s Country as my Georgia-born and raised husband claims)…. I knew I wasn’t in Kansas (Missouri) anymore when I attended my first F (for our last name, not anything else!) family Holiday Gathering (my in-laws have ‘gatherings’, my parents have ‘parties’. Guess who is better behaved?!) I did not recognize any of the dishes on the table, except maybe for the rolls.  Not one thing.  (I won’t go into detail here but just know that apparently it is acceptable for gravy to have HARD BOILED EGGS IN IT).  I made my way down the food table, with my then-boyfriend-now-husband whispering descriptions of what each dish was.  This system worked until we got to the green beans. Or should I say grey beans.  These beans were so cooked that the green had been cooked off of them.  Also? They were flavored with MEAT! I ask you—what is the point of eating a vegetable if it tastes like meat? If you want meat, eat meat. If you want a vegetable, eat a vegetable! Unbeknownst to me, cooking green (grey) beans like that is standard. Order green (grey) beans at any Southern style restaurant and that is what you get.  When we have my in-laws over for dinner, I call my Mother-In-Law at least a week in advance and let her know that I have started to cook her green (grey) beans.  (To be fair, they are just as horrified at my version of green beans as I am with theirs.  The crunchiness is not really a selling point to them. The first time I served green beans Julia Style, she very politely pulled me aside and expressed some concern that the green beans hadn’t been cooked enough.)

Since I love green beans. I had high hopes my 2 year-old daughter would embrace the correct way to eat a green bean (crunchy, with a little salt and garlic).   Out of the gate, things went well. She loved it when we mixed pureed green beans in her baby cereal. (Baby cereal, it turns out, is its own food, and not super soggy rice crispies as I had suspected.  Yes, I thought that is what everyone was talking about when they referenced baby cereal. One day, I asked another mother for clarification on this ‘baby cereal’, explaining that I thought it meant super super soggy grown up cereal.  Care to guess whom I asked?  My boss. That was super comfortable, let me tell you!) Back to Emma and the pureed green beans- she gobbled them up! As she moved to table food, I just knew she would love them as much as Mommy does… As it happened…not so much.  If by ‘liking’ something, one pitches a fit complete with Broadway style theatrics and emotions, then Emma LOVED THEM. So she wasn’t really digging Mommy’s favorite. (I would have settled for “Southern” green (grey) beans at that point).  One night, I was desperate. It was becoming a Battle of The Wills (anyone who knows me knows I am COMPETITIVE), so clearly I wasn’t going to lose this battle.  I thought long and hard, and then I enlisted that secret weapon that Mommies have in their arsenal—SUGAR. Yes, I did. I rolled those damn green beans in sugar and SHE ATE THEM AS FAST AS SHE COULD CRAM THEM IN. AND THEN LICKED THE PLATE. My husband was out of town, and at first didn’t believe me when I triumphantly relayed the news of my victory.  (I did come clean. He was impressed with my resourcefulness!)

What a Tangled Web We Weave….

When we first begin to deceive. That’s what I was always taught anyway. But as I am now a grown up and a mother, I have found myself questioning this logic.  And so….I find myself crying “BS!” at the source of this so-called wisdom. 

As a child, I had fond memories of playing a little game called ‘Candyland’.  We didn’t get to eat a lot of candy as little ones, but the supply was unlimited with Candyland.  I remember my game piece quickly traveling around the candied color squares, with nary a backstep.  Playing Candyland with my mom meant two or three chances to claim victory (and way superior CL skills!)  And so armed with these wonderful memories, I felt prepared for any Candyland battle any day, and against anyone.

Back in the day, I had a very brief interest in babysitting.  (Very brief. To this day, I maintain my mantra developed during those difficult afternoons: “If it’s not mine, I don’t really care/like/want to hold/pick up/listen, etc.” (However, if you are my friend and I  love you, then I do love your children, even if they are misbehaved/whiny, and even though my own child is perfect in every way.) Anyway, back to babysitting.  My client has just left me in charge of her two darling (hateful) boys, who are staring at me and getting ready to WHINE.  Out of the corner of my eye, I spot my salvation- Candyland! I grab the box, set up the game, and shuffle cards under the watchful eyes of my charges.  I’m so excited because I just know this will be the easiest $5 an hour (BTW I now pay over $10 an hour for sitters.  CASH!!! I might be in the wrong business… although again with the not liking kids thing…) I have ever made! Only things don’t really go as planned. The first problem is the amount of backwards movement on the game board. Huh? I don’t remember ever going backwards.  The reverse momentum of game pieces is directly proportional to the amount of complaining, whining, and disinterest in the game.  And that’s just me! In a desperate move, I hide in their coat closet and call my mother.  I explained the situation to her, and I can practically hear her nodding over the phone.  She acknowledged my fond memories, and then asked me a key question- “had I ever seen her shuffle the cards?” OOOH! No way! I never had! She explained the key to a successful Candyland experience- Always Stack the Deck.  Made sure the kids are always moving forward, and that all obstacles are removed.  No Molasses Swap (now the Chocolate Swap.  We are raising sissy children, but that’s another post.)   She said to make sure the cards played out in such a way that the game was less than 10 turns and that the kid won every time. Armed with this knowledge, I marched back into the family room and announced a “re-do” because I had not followed all the rules when shuffling the cards.  I explained that the shuffling must be in absolute secrecy, and only one person could in charge.  I ran to kitchen, did some creative shuffling, and BAM! Instant success. I worry a little that when those boys grow up and try to play Candyland with their children that they will have the same panicky sweaty palms when the memories they have of Candyland aren’t matching up to their  situation. (BTW according to Wikipedia, in 2004 the rules to Candyland were changed.  The new rules make it easier to win and shorten the time the game takes to play.)

I never thought I would be one of those holier than thou parents who Never Lies To Their Children, and who believes in Total And Full Disclosure.  In my estimation, one of the best perks of being a mom is getting to say “Because I’m the Mommy, that’s why”. Recently, the Today Show did a segment on “When is it OK to lie to your kids?”  (This post could suddenly take a turn for the worse and become a soapbox for the special type of stupid that exists today. I’m going to try really, really hard to not have that happen.)  For this Mommy, it’s OK when it avoids both danger and temper tantrums (especially in public and/or in front of extended family); when the truth isn’t really relevant (does it really matter if one needs 4 pink pieces or 2 to win a boring long drawn out game), or when one is defending Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny (should be self explanatory).  I fully plan on shuffling in the kitchen, stacking the deck, hiding batteries, and using “BECAUSE I SAID SO”.       

Why?

BECAUSE I SAID SO. 

Superstitous

Ah, a new year. New resolutions.  I wish I had stock in weight loss companies and gyms this time of year.  Especially gyms.  This year, I am going to try to get my superstitious, karma-fearing self a break.  As an Irish Catholic, I’ve got superstitions for my superstitions! And I am so scared of the karma train; ‘OCD’ has been whispered in my presence.

“Never sleep with your feet facing the door.” This is a cornerstone of my decorating mantra, especially when decorating a bedroom.  Think about the only time you are carried out of a room, feet first… probably not your best day (although it will be your last).  My mother has repeated this to me every single time I have moved (all 14 times). (A special thanks to all past boyfriends! Not to my Daddy, who announced after move #7 he was done and didn’t love me that much after all.) (BTW one of the best checks I have ever written in my life was hiring MOVERS!!)  My now husband is also very well acquainted with this particular rule.  He became aware of this particular rule our first night living together.  Our day had started out very early, and rather poorly… I was moving from St Louis to just outside of Atlanta, and my parents had thrown a going away party for us (really for me since Thomas never lived there, but “us” sounds so much nicer than “me.”)  Our morning started early, as I swear the alarm when off before t he sun came up, (possibly not but that is what is felt like), and really regretting all the AP Special Sangria from the night before. (My mother’s tip for perfect Sangria is to forget to cut it with club soda. Delicious every time!) So there we were—hung over and not so excited about spending the next 10 hours in a U-Haul towing a Jeep behind it. (Marriage retreats should be conducted in a road trip like environment.  Depending on the intensity of the retreat, different variables could come into play- no AC on a hot day, no radio, flat tire, etc.)  I sobbed the first three and half hours of the trip, which really set the mood.  I was OK by the time we got to Nashville, where we stopped for lunch.  That is, I was OK until I found out that Taco Bell had discontinued its standard chicken soft taco.  A nasty fake cheesy thing covered in scary white sauce had taken its place.  Seriously Taco Bell? You are going to play me like that?! Um, no thanks.  That set off the next round of crying. Just short of the Georgia state line, we started hearing some strange noises.  Because we did not have eyes in the backs of our heads (I do now because I now have a child), we stopped… and discovered that the Jeep was very close to coming unhinged. Not really sure of the hows or the whys as that is above my pay grade. Would speculate but might lose creditability.   Super. Thankfully, Thomas was able to fix it as all I was able to do was cry.  We continued on, and made to the house a very very long 11 hours later.  Thomas had the place painted (by a one armed painter. Thankfully we did not need any wall paper hung.), new carpet installed, and a deep, deep cleaning done. He wanted everything to be perfect, which was so sweet that it made me stop crying.  He opened the door with great fanfare, and… I started crying again. Thomas might have teared up as well.  The bargain deal on carpet laying did not include removing the unwanted/unused part of said carpet… Another couple of hours, a lot of elbow grease, and some crying, and we were done. We have set up our bedroom. (We have put a mattress on the floor and have moved enough crap so we can navigate around said bed.)  As Thomas comes into the room and is about to collapse into bed… but… THE BED IS FACING THE DOOR.  UNACCEPTABLE!!! Thomas learned about the “Never sleep with your feet facing the door” rule very quickly.  Then he started crying.  In the end, we had a great night’s sleep on our mattress with our feet facing the window, and, because of my vigilance, lived to tell about it!