thicker than water

mmm...cake

If you recall my earlier post where I was set to conquer my funk by getting creative in the kitchen, I figured I'd show you the fruits of my labors. After waivering back and forth between a Thomas-themed party and a lots of heavy machinery for Ryan's second birthday, I decided on the latter since I felt more confident that it would be a hit. In fact, I was pretty convinced when Ryan got his hands on a Birthday Express catalog, pointed to the backhoe centerpiece, and announced "dat one!" was his favorite. Good to know, except that it was too late to order from Birthday Express. Yup, Procrastinating Mom strikes again. But who knew that Party City wouldn't have anything in keeping with the theme, not even any lousy Bob the Builder napkins?!

But I digress. While improvisation compensated for my decorating failures, Hershey's Special Dark baker's cocoa produced the richest, fudgiest construction site I could have imagined. As much as I would have loved to spend a few more hours cruising the web for cake recipes to create from scratch, sanity prevailed (for once) and I went with your basic Duncan Hines marble with homemade chocolate buttercream frosting. I will say, however, that my time invested in learning about crumb layers did pay off.

Can we talk about the giddy feeling of joy I felt while standing in line at Wegman's at 11:15 on Saturday night and spying containers of chocolate candy rocks stacked on top of the magazine rack? Each piece irregularly shaped and candy-coated with shells that looked like they had been dredged from a canyon near Yellowstone, I couldn't have asked for a better complement for my backhoes and bulldozers.

My first stab at working with rolled fondant. I had delusions of grandeur, with 6 designs for unique construction zone signs to ring the cake. After I learned that edible markers are far less reliable than my trusted Sharpie, I scaled things back a notch and made only 2 detour signs. I do think my Pepperidge Farm French Vanilla Pirouettes are pretty nifty stand-ins for sewer pipes though.

I originally began looking for construction vehicles specifically designed to serve as cake decorations, but the few I encountered looked pretty cheesy and would never hold up to playtime at the dinner table after the cake was served. Instead, I settled on a pack of Matchbox trucks that I found at Target on clearance (thanks, Amber!). More realistic---and durable---for the boy who asks me to repeatedly drive by the backhoe owned by his school's landscaping company.

All in all, a pretty satisfactory endeavor to snap me out of my funk. Maybe next year I can plan far enough in advance to be able to place that Birthday Express order so I don't have to be worrying about napkins when I'm working on that fondant.

king for a day...or two

Okay, let me catch my breath! My apologies to anyone out there paying attention who noticed that I've been MIA since last week. I've got one two-word excuse: Ryan's birthday.

Granted, I took off from work last Friday with the express intent of feeling less harried as I finished (um, started... continued... finished) preparing for a family gathering on Sunday followed by a celebration at daycare on Monday, his actual birthday. Ironically, the child has been answering the question "how old are you going to be?" with "2 in August" for the past 2 months, yet he refused to believe that August had actually arrived. I could have deferred the whole thing for another couple weeks and he would have been none the wiser.

Actually, that kind of practice has always been fairly commonplace in my parents' home. Many a Thanksgiving dinner has been consumed on Black Friday, too many Christmases celebrated on Christmas Eve to accommodate my brother's social calendar. And speaking of birthdays, my brother's and mine were frequently consolidated into one celebration manifesting as a single chocolate cake with buttercream frosting. You see, our birthdays are 1 week apart, or, to be more specific, 8 years and 51 weeks apart. So my brother got to enjoy 8 years' worth of birthdays devoted entirely to him before I came along.

Now, if I'm sounding bitter, I don't want you to get the idea that I harbor a growing resentment toward my parents or brother that keeps me awake at night. I do recall a few momentous gifts that came my way: my new two-wheeler, a new Quick-Curl Barbie, my new 10-speed (sadly, the gifts of transportation ended before I turned 16). Yet, there still is a part of me that feels like I must strive to do better to make my son's birthday an occasion all to itself, even if he's too young for it to leave an indelible impression. I don't necessarily want to break with routine by heaping mountains of sweet treats on his plate, nor do I even care about making my point with extravagant gifts (thankfully, for my meager bank account); I just want him to feel like he's the center of attention to an even greater degree than he already is whenever he enters a room.

So with that, I trekked from store to store on Friday and Saturday, picking up little toys and trinkets to execute my construction site theme, seeing as how he's a huge fan of backhoe loaders and bulldozers and such. I felt like my efforts paid off when I put the finishing touches on the worksite atop his cake, which included the most amazing little candy rocks that practically fell into my lap as I stood in the checkout line at Wegman's at 11:15 on Saturday night. I hope to post photos of as soon as Jerry fulfills his fatherly duties of uploading my pics.

The real reward came last night though, as we learned that Ryan had finally come to accept that yes, it was his birthday. Did you have fun today? Yah! He did have a great day with his buddies at school, celebrating with Go Diego, Go! cupcakes (chocolate with buttercream frosting, natch) and a coincidentally scheduled ice cream social. His brain was on overload, trying to choose between playing with his new Thomas the Tank Engine set from Uncle John and Aunt Beth or hitting some balls with the new tennis racquet from Aunt Mary or floating the Little People boat from Uncle Ernie or pushing the bubble lawn mower from Uncle Don and Aunt Mary or taking pictures with the toy camera from cousin John. Funny, Mommy and Daddy's gift, The Gift, a new tricycle, was still in its box, having arrived too late from Amazon to make the big grand appearance that we had intended. Actually, we're now thinking that it might stay in the box until the day when the novelty of all those other gifts wears off...he clearly doesn't miss what he didn't know was coming.

Yup, I think my hopes for him having a special day were realized. I'm so glad you had fun, my sweet little boy.

will you friend me?

Okay, I admit that my first instinct is generally to avoid anything that causes me to make a verb out of a noun (is that some kind of reverse gerund?).* And then I usually realize that my being a stickler for grammar has once again caused me to be left in the dust. So, there I was, late on the bandwagon, joining Facebook in November 2008. Yes, 2008, for crying out loud.

Now, I'm not even going to get into a discussion of Twitter, even though you guys are slowly getting me to warm to the idea of setting up an account. No, I need to stick with the subject of Facebook for a minute, even if it is soooo 2007. Forget whether you Tweet or whether you're LinkedIn or if you Digg it. I'm having Facebook boundary issues and could seriously stand to hear some words of wisdom on the subject of who to friend and who not to.

Going back a few months, Jerry added our babysitter (who was a grad student at the time) as a friend. I didn't know if that was weird, given that she's a good 15 years younger than I am and might not want her occasional employer to view photos she snapped at last weekend's kegger. I sent her a wimpy friend request, telling her I completely understood if she declined (she accepted). Seeing as how she now holds a master's in social work, seemingly drinks only in moderation, and posts FB updates that are generally of the Bejeweled Blitz variety, the friending issue quickly became a nonissue.

Moving forward, one of Ryan's teachers at daycare resigned her position to become a stay-at-home mom and sent me a friend request. She and I weren't terribly close, but she wanted to stay connected to Ryan, so I accepted. Again, totally innocuous. I viewed her list of friends and saw the center's director, office manager, and Ryan's lead teacher from the infant room. I sent requests, all accepted.

However, I also saw the names of some of the other young women who, at one point or another, have worked in either the infant or toddler rooms and have cared for Ryan at one time or another. All of them are in their late teens or early 20s, all are friends (I mean, like, they're really friends, in real life), all are sweethearts, and all have given very good care to my son. I have nothing against any of them, and I trust them all to be responsible, at least within the confines of the daycare center property. Nevertheless, I couldn't bring myself to send them friend requests. I couldn't explain it, it just didn't feel right.

But then it happened. One of them got to me first. She's the daughter of the lead teacher of the infant room (who I had friended), and she has spent a lot of time with Ryan herself. I begrudgingly accepted. Most of her status updates were innocent---photos of her with her family and friends on vacation or attending concerts. Nothing scandalous. A lot of the other girls from the center were tagged in many of her photos, and many of them commented. Occasionally, I'd comment: "Looks like you guys had a great time!" That kind of thing. Then one by one, I started getting friend requests from the other girls. The ones I knew well, I accepted. The others I ignored until I'd run into them and they'd ask me about it. (I guess it's a higher priority for that age group than it is for mine.) Eventually, I had accepted all of them.

Things have continued on okay, for the most part. No photos of underage drinking parties. No "look at me in this Girls Gone Wild! outake!" Just nice girls giving status updates and posting photos of what nice girls that age do. But then, last week, I began to notice a change in tone in the updates from J, the girl presently working as the assistant to Ryan's lead teacher. More frequent updates, first declaring her boredom but then sounding increasingly depressed. Things like, "all I want to do is cry" and "why is God doing this to me" (I'm paraphrasing.) A couple days later, J spoke (via status updates) of "always feeling empty," like "standing in the center of a crowded room SCREAMING at the top of her lungs, and no one notices."

These words were coming from a very pretty and generally smart girl who I believe is getting ready to start college this fall, so I delved into my memory bank to try to recall things I was feeling at her age. I suspected guy troubles, which was confirmed this morning during a tangential conversation with the lead teacher of the infant room. Apparently her son dated J until their breakup earlier this year but recently had cause to be spending more time with her again (probably due to the practically incestuous friendships at the center). I remembered how it was, the hollow aching in your heart that you feel as young woman who is pining for someone content to be just friends. So that's what appears to be going on here.

I'm not a psychiatrist, so I'm not going to make any kind of judgement call as to whether an 19-year-old girl's Facebook melancholy posts are indicative of some kind of underlying clinical depression. For all I know, she just might be "going through a phase" where she's into morose poetry that seems to reflect her feelings of the moment and she's quoting Sylvia Plath in her status updates. Whatever the reasoning behind her words, on some level, it does make me a little uncomfortable. She loves Ryan, and he loves her (he has even told me so), but I don't like this rising tide of awkwardness from knowing that she knows that I know. Why can't I just go into the toddler room and see the fascade of her smiling face while she sings Old McDonald? Am I being cold for wanting to stay blissfully, ignorantly isolated while one of my son's primary caregivers is feeling such torment? 

So here's my question (questions?) to you: what constitutes grounds for re-evaluating your "friending policy"? What spurs you to "defriend" someone, or do you avoid doing so at all costs? In the big scheme of things, does it even really matter? I recently heard a social worker talk about the ethics of oncology nurse/social worker/patient relationships on Facebook, and I could completely understand the need for hard-and-fast rules when you're in that kind of profession, but what about all the other relationships in our lives? How do generation gaps play into your Facebook behaviors? At times I feel that I'm overreacting, and other times I feel completely justified in wanting to squelch virtual friendships that cause unnecessary discomfort. Your thoughts? 

*My grammatical OCD kicked in, forcing me to go back and re-edit this sentence since posting because my tired brain forgot that a gerund is a verb used as a noun, not the other way around.

baby bites

Before I begin, I want to thank those of you who took time to comment on my “Getting Serious” post about my newfound sense of blogging purpose. As I wrote that post, I was feeling a little stressed about my dwindling bank account  and probably gave a little too much emphasis to trying to eek out some advertising dollars for my blog. You guys gave me a much-appreciated reality check, and, during the interim, I finally had a check in my mailbox [cue trumpet fanfare] and connected with a freelance client that will be a little more of a sure thing as far as the moolah goes. Clearer heads prevail, and today I’m feeling better focused on furthering my original purpose: connecting with a community of smart, talented women (okay, guys too) who admittedly feel more than a little overextended.

Which probably makes my topic today seem a little ironic. Cooking your own baby food? Who has time for that?! Actually, I did just that, despite my perpetually overextended circumstance. I never thought I’d be one of Those Moms, but when Ryan started solid foods around 5 months, I became borderline obsessive with his diet. Maybe it’s because I’ve always battled with my weight and didn’t want him to have a lifetime of the same. Or was it because, at the time, I was working with three people who had such severe food allergies that we could never agree on a restaurant for department-sponsored outings? Maybe it’s because I have low tolerance for picky eaters and didn’t want him to be the kid who goes to a friend’s house for dinner and demands chicken nuggets in place of chicken Kiev. Or maybe I just read too many labels and was astounded by the amount of crap that they put in some brands of baby food unless you want to pay higher prices for the organic varieties. Whatever the case, I was determined to introduce him to as many foods as I could at a young age without provoking a spat of hives (or worse) or breaking my bank. My favorite book for the next year became Bridget Swinney’s Baby Bites, which was so comprehensive and sensible. And it taught me what quinoa is.

With Ryan turning 2 next week, I don’t need to make the time for custom steaming and pureeing anymore, but I still got more than slightly giddy when I opened this week’s promo from Williams-Sonoma and saw this cool new electric. Oh, what I would have done for a combination steamer, blender, warmer!  I don’t know anything about the manufacturer (Beaba) or if it even does everything it claims, but I mournfully read the description as I thought of the time such an apparatus could have saved me. I used to hate the process of steaming zucchini and Brussels sprouts and turnips and carrots and transferring them to the blender and then spooning them into freezer trays. I did find some trays by FreshBaby that were a little better suited than conventional ice cube trays, but Beaba appears to have improved on that as well with a tray that accommodates bigger portions and is probably easier to fill. Microwaving my little cubes of snow pea puree was always a little tricky too. Without fail, I’d nuke it for 5 seconds too long and end up having to wait 10 minutes for the sizzling goop to cool down.

Even without a cool steamer/blender/warmer combo to simplify my life, I do feel like my efforts paid off. While other kids his age seem to be going on food jags, Ryan happily chows down on teriyaki glazed salmon and broccoli with blackberries for dessert. And while it seems unlikely that Jerry and I will have another child (despite virtual strangers telling me otherwise), if we do, I am totally ordering one of these.

weekend still life 2: the revenge of Elmo

Another grainy cell phone photo in what looks like will be a continuing series. At any rate, I seem to have enough material to perpetuate the theme.

Is it possible for Elmo to look vaguely satanic? If so, I think I've managed to capture it. While it may seem like you're looking at some creepy mass grave of beloved Muppets, in fact you're seeing an aerial view of one of my end tables. Or as I like to call it, Easter in July.

You see, I purchased a Sesame Street Easter egg hunt kit back in March, which contained six plastic eggs and six Sesame Street characters that fit inside. Note that I did not say six unique characters. To be precise, there was one Cookie Monster, one Ernie, one Super Grover in full regalia, and three Elmos. I understand kids love Elmo, but did they really have to stiff us on Bert?

And so, four months later, all three Elmos continue to take up residence on my end table. Ernie, I believe, was last seen laying face-down in the cat's bed, no doubt pining for Bert. Cookie Monster, despite being a good 15% larger than the others (probably due to excessive caloric intake), is nowhere to be seen, and Super Grover is presumably laid up after one of his many crashes. Guess I'm witnessing survival of the fittest, as reinforced by the presence of the other eerily glowing object in the photo: a slice of dried apricot. Clearly, Elmo knows how to take care of himself. 

okay, now it's time to get serious

I feel slightly embarrassed even writing this post, given my new content irregularity the past two weeks (why, oh why, do I have to sleep?). But here's the deal. I want to be the next Heather Armstrong. Okay, not quite exactly Heather Armstrong (I seriously don't think she sleeps, but I've got to get hooked up with her masthead designer), but it's becoming my personal mission to figure out what it means to be a "successful" blogger. It's nice to be consumed by something other than my son's eating and sleeping habits or my father's mental status for a change, so I'm going to go with it.

Now, I know there's a lot of different ways of defining success in this arena. And I know that generating new content that interests somebody is the best way to start. I know it doesn't happen overnight. But geez, can we talk about how cool it is to have 6 followers in one month? And only one of them (hi, Lily!) is someone I knew before I got myself into this scene? It's kinda like the same buzz I get after a couple glasses of good cabernet.

When I wrote my first post, I said that I hoped that would "draw in some readers from someplace, though I think it will help me to just put some things down in writing even if they vanish into the black abyss." Now, about five weeks later, I want more. I keep thinking of things that fall into the category of "surely I'm not the only person in the world with this question, so why does Google give me nothing but crap in return for my searches?" I keep having these weeks where I crave interaction with people who get me when my best friends seem far removed from my circumstances. And then I start reading all these articles about "monetizing your blog." Seriously?! You mean if I play my cards right, I could write stuff people actually find interesting and make money doing it? And I don't have to consult with Tony Robbins first? NICE.

I don't want to forget the flip side either. How I get so psyched about reading the new posts that you guys are writing. How bummed I feel if I go to bed without having caught up with Anya, Jill, Cara, Amber, and Kate. In such a short time, I feel like I've gotten to know so much about you, like we're already old friends. And almost every day, I feel like I find another person to bond with...what Kathleen just yesterday called "kindred spirits." I wish I could figure out a way to schedule virtual playdates with everyone to thank you for coming into my life.

So now I've got some questions I want to throw back to you guys since you've all been doing this longer than I have. How did you guys go about reaching new readers? Did you just wait for them to find you, or did you seek them out? What strategies did you use? Do I really have to use Twitter (please say no)? And for those of you who decided to let your blog do double-duty---give you a forum to air your thoughts and make you some cash to boot---how did you go about making it happen? Or was it kind of a happy accident because some company sent you something and asked if you'd write about it? Is it worthwhile? Does it cramp your style? In all seriousness, I can't make this a full-time job yet because I've already got a couple of those (although my employer has seemed a little shaky lately), but is there a way to make anything more than a couple pennies here and there without selling out?  Did you start when your blog was still green, or did you wait until you had built up a sizable following? I'm just curious as to what's worked for you, what's been a waste of time, and what you fear drove some people away. Fill up those comment boxes!

I am so totally going to BlogHer 2010, if I have to drag Ryan with me.

like mother, like son

My apologies to anyone who's noticed my lack of blatherings this week, I've been the lucky recipient of summer cold germs. It's been all I can do to muster up the energy to get through the work day (thankfully, work has been relatively slow...although when I'm feeling better, I may realize that isn't necessarily a good thing), so I haven't had much get-up-and-go left over for anything extra, even blogging. But I couldn't let today go by without passing along this little gem.

Yesterday evening when I picked up Ryan from daycare, I noticed that they had given me an extra bag of paraphernalia to bring home. On a normal summer Tuesday, all I'm responsible for collecting is his sippy cup, the Tupperware dish that contained his breakfast, the day's activity log, and his "wet day" laundry: swim trunks, t-shirt, water shoes, and towel. Yesterday, though, I've get a bonus bag of laundry, featuring his naptime sheets and blanket that normally come home on Fridays. Ryan points to an orange star-shaped Post-It on his activity log and asks if he can hold it. Before I hand it over, I read the note scribbled on it from his teacher, who had already left for the day. "Ryan threw his blanket in the toddler room toilet."

Ewww!

Here's your star, buddy. Make sure you hold on to it so you can show it to Daddy.

This morning, I caught up with Bridget, his teacher, to get the full scoop. She said that she went to put away his sheets after naptime and discovered that his blanket was soaked on the one side. She had asked Jayme, her assistant, if his diaper had leaked. Jayme told her that he was dry when she changed him and offered the suggestion that maybe he had drooled while he was sleeping. "Nobody drools that much." Then they saw the wet trail, much like a path left by a snail, ending at his cot and originating from the pint-sized toilet in the changing room off the main classroom. They then asked him, point blank, Ryan, did you put your blanket in the toilet? "Yah." Bridget told me that never, in her eight years she's been teaching there, had any other child ever put his blanket in the toilet.

I actually found that surprising. When I was little, I remember that I loved to put things in the toilet...and flush them away. I never grasped that once I flushed, the subject of my experiment would be gone for good...or even worse, would be returned all over the floor in a sea of nonpotable water. One of my favorite trials involved taking a new packet of hair ribbons (actually, they were really thick strands of yarn in bright, vivid colors) and flushing them all at once. Seeing that spectrum of color swirling in the water was better than any kaleidoscope. Don't get me wrong, I never flushed a pet down the loo like the recent story out of England, but I did back things up more than once for my own amusement.

Am I alone, or do any of you have recollections of doing such things? What was the most impressive thing you ever flushed as a child?

weekend still life

The first in possibly a continuing series. Depending on your willingness tolerate the poor-quality camera-phone pics, because, while I do have a splendid Nikon SLR with macro zoom in my closet and a Canon Elph within arm's reach at all times, the scanner and uploading software are on Jerry's PC in his office, and his butt will likely remain firmly glued into that chair for12 hours most days. So you're stuck with what he likes to call "grainy, handheld footage." 

So, this is a purely random shot of what I found in my refrigerator yesterday. Disregard the yogurt cups and the lemon curd in the background; that's completely normal. As is the vast nothingness on the far right, because we desperately need to get to the grocery store. Also normal is the zucchini on the left, from my father-in-law's garden: a common finding during the months of July through September. But what's that in the center? Two slices of another zucchini, the remainder of which Jerry randomly fried up with breadcrumbs and proceeded to eat directly from the frying pan last night. But why these two slices? Why cut in this manner? Why placed directly on the shelf in a crude cross formation? Was this some sort of Virgin Mary's Face-Is-in-My-Toast kind of moment that should move me to tears? So I looked to the heavens and asked what it was there for.

"To be eaten. I guess I should have put it in a bag or something, huh?"

So there you have it, folks.

one way to survive the digital conversion

Now, I may have mentioned once or twice that my parents are not exactly up with the modern times. I can remember sitting in the student union lounge back in 1987, thinking, oh my God, this is what it feels like to watch music videos any time of night or day. Not having to wait through the news and The Tonight Show for Friday Night Videos, just to watch Danny Aiello preaching to Madonna, or maybe see Whitney Houston belt out (for the 947-thousandth time) "I Wanna Dance With Somebody" in that bubble gum pink lip gloss and slinky tank dress and hair looking like she just stuck a fork in the toaster. And I didn't even like that song. By God, If I'm in the mood for a little Peter Gabriel, I want my MTV and I want it now.

But alas, cable didn't come to my parents' house in the 80s. Or the 90s. And forget big screen, high-def plasma screens. The largest screen at that residence is a 13-incher. No, your eyes do not deceive you, no that isn't a typo. Thirteen inches. I have a better view of a Flyers game from the nosebleed section behind the goal. Fortunately, the stereo speakers work well enough to deafen me when I walk through the front door.

Christmas 2001, my brother and I decided to take our chances and try to bring our parents into the modern era. Just in time for my mother to discover the MSNBC reports by Ashley ("oh, do you know who I mean? I really like her, she has such cute glasses") Banfield, still sifting through what remained of the sad rubble of 9/11. We sprung for one digital cable connection for the 13-incher in the living room (hookup plus 6 months of paid service), amounting to over 130 glorious channels and, at last, one set without rabbit ears. Antennas remained on the other two.

Seven months later, they traded in the digital box for a standard one, "because we really don't watch that many channels." Yup. No point in paying for digital when you only need Comcast SportsNet and Fox News and whatever channel The Bonnie Hunt Show is on. I'm still trying to understand the Fox News thing ("do you like that Glenn Beck? he's quite the character"), although there are some things about my parents' views that I will never understand. Staunch Clinton (Bill AND Hillary) supporters. Anti-every-Bush-out-there. Yet avid cheerleaders of Sarah Palin and Mike Huckabee. And Howard Dean. Threatened to shoot Dick Cheney if he ever set foot in their town. Huge fan of "that nice Pamela Anderson." OJ is innocent, and so are Jon-Benet Ramsey's parents. That Whoopi is quite funny, and Elizabeth Hasselbeck is so sweet. Al Gore got screwed, but how about that funny Hannity and Colmes? See where I'm going with this? Jerry says he doesn't understand how I can just sit and nod through so many "conversations" with my parents, but what else can you do? If you have any suggestions for how I could agree or disagree with them, I'm open to enlightenment.

But I digress. To recap, by mid 2002, their house had one 13-inch television with basic tier cable and two televisions (another 13-incher and a 9-incher) with rabbit ears. Which meant that panic set in when the announcement was made in 2008 that all television stations would be converting to digital transmission in 2009. Actually, panic might be too strong of a word; contempt might be more accurate. All of this high-tech business was somebody's money-making ploy to sell more of those big TVs. "And I won't have one of those in my house!" I'm telling you, the strangest things get Mom worked up into a lather.

So, I debated. Do I get them those converter boxes for the remaining two sets? Ignore the problem and hope it goes away? Wait for my brother, the industrial technology teacher with a love of gadgets, to step in and save the day? (um, you probably don't know John, but if you did, you'd probably agree it's not a good idea to pin your hopes on that one). Well, I waited. And then, President Obama postponed the digital revolution for a few months (ah, to be the leader of the free world and have that kind of power). And then I waited some more. And then, imagine my surprise when Mom told me they were having Comcast come out to their house to hook up the other sets. Really? Having a service technician with possibly dirty hands and dirty feet come to the house and possibly drill a hole and undoubtedly move furniture and string unsightly cable wires? And possibly bring in cable boxes that will force relocation of knick-knacks? And, God forbid, possibly ask to use the bathroom? She was really going to voluntarily allow such a person to cross the threshold? Excuse me while I pick my chin up off the floor.

Yet, that's exactly what they did. And fortunately, he took his shoes off as requested and washed his hands and held his bladder until his next stop. And gave them a full spectrum of digital viewing pleasure on every postage stamp, er, set in the house.

That is, until approximately 90 minutes later after he left.

"We had Fox on, just beautiful on the kitchen set, and then nothing!" This was what I was told at my visit last week. I feared that this was the beginning of many years of technical difficulties (and possibly many calls by me to some misfortunate customer service person a hundred miles away, asking me to unplug boxes and wait for a reboot, and me having to juggle a second phone on a different line while somehow explaining this to my technology-challenged mother). Imagine my relief when I discovered the real problem. The TV remote, not the cable remote, had been used to change the channel to 48. I reset the TV to channel 4 and told Mom, "Put this remote far, far away. Forget that you have it. You don't need it." Uncertain stare. "Oh. We used the other remote, but it didn't work." As usual, all I can do is nod, because it really doesn't matter now that everything is working.

That was last Saturday. Tuesday, the phone rings and I see the name on caller ID. And allow the call to go to voicemail. "Hi, Laurie (hello, Mom, I'm 41 years old, why do you still call me that?). I was hoping I'd catch you at lunch, but you don't have to call me back. I just wanted to talk to someone sane." End of new messages. I feigned busy-ness for the next three and a half days because surely if it wasn't serious enough to request a call-back, I did not want to hear whatever it was she had to say.

Today, I psyched myself up, and called back. After 20 minutes of discussing their new means of transportation to doctor's appointments (we'll save that topic for another day), I finally asked what prompted the earlier message. After several tangents, I learn that the 9-inch television was again not working. "But we finally figured it out. I took the black wire that was connected from the TV to box and unplugged it from the box and connected it to the wall. It works, and thank goodness, all the buttons on the TV remote work now. We don't have any cable channels, but we can watch Bonnie in the morning. I just need to call Comcast to see if they'll bring us some white wire instead of this ugly black---oh, I do hope they take this box back."

Good thing she came looking for sanity when she did...time might be running out.

the juices are flowin'

I would like to extend my grateful thanks to Kate and Amber for giving me the kick in the arse I needed (did I really just type arse? I’ve always wanted to do that) to get out of my two-week funkfest. All work and no play make Laura a very cranky girl. Cranky becomes exasperated when you throw in an overworked husband. An overworked husband who had to work through the long Fourth of July weekend for his client in India. Come on, people, you couldn’t forgive our ethnocentrism for three days? Just because you didn’t celebrate the holiday in your country, and just because we didn’t have any formal plans because we had to save our pennies because we didn’t have proof that the check for my husband’s last project was in the mail, and just because our neighboring town canceled their giant Fourth of July parade/festival/shindig-thingy because the economic stimulus plan didn’t include funding police overtime for Fourth of July parade/festival/shindig-thingies—that doesn’t mean we didn’t need some rest and relaxation when a good portion of the rest of America was getting it.

 

Yeah, I was feeling kind of bitter.

 

But I’m starting to snap out of it (even though the freakin’ check still isn’t in the mail), thanks to recent reminders that, sometimes, you have to look past the daily routine and remember your creative outlets. Kate reminded me when she pulled out her charcoal pastels, and Amber reinforced the message when she dug out her sewing machine.

 

Now, don’ t get me wrong. My portfolio of illustrations and lithos are still stashed in my attic, as are the crates of fabrics and patterns and partially sewn dresses, while my Bernina remains firmly entrenched in the back of my closet, mere inches from my Nikon SLR and its beautiful macro zoom lens. Martha Stewart doesn’t live here, and she never did. Even though I was always called “creative” as a child, I think I’ll always be a bit scarred by my college Studio Drawing 201 professor who said I had “lots of skill but no creativity.” And my Visual Design 251 professor who wished aloud that I had used “something other than the expected color scheme” for my nature mosaic. And my Black and White Photography 231 professor who “appreciated” my compositions but was “disappointed by” my use of light. And my Lithographic Process 301 professor who called my two-color print “a piece of $#!t.” (The guy didn’t mince words.) Learning that I was too thin-skinned to be an art major, I became an art minor instead. The criticism didn’t hurt as much when I accepted that there was no point in trying to pursue a career in which that would be my daily reality.

 

 

All of that is in the past now, so instead I look to express my creativity (or is it my lack thereof?) in other ways. For example, one way would be through what I like to call Fun With Frosting. Remembering the Fun With Frosting that I had last year in creating a cake for Ryan’s first birthday, last night I got to thinking, what kind of cake can I make this year for him? Now, I’m notoriously a procrastinator and had to feverishly comb the local shops for jungle-themed paraphernalia the week before his birthday last year, so the fact that I’m starting a whole 19 days before the big day is quite impressive for me. Of course, given his current love of heavy equipment like dump trucks and backhoe loaders (“back-hoe lowwww-duh,”  as he would say in something resembling a Bronx accent), I’m sure some sort of construction equipment will be involved. With some crumbled Oreos for simulated gravel.  And sugar wafers for wood pallets.  And some Pirouette cookies for pipes.

 

Ah, it feels good to get the old juices flowing again, and cake is involved to boot. No creativity, my arse.