Proof of Life

Parker is, most assuredly, a victim of "second child syndrome." No ifs, ands or buts about it. With Son #1, there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth (mostly mine, some of it from grandparents) over the decision of where he should matriculate for kindergarten - then, once we decided to "dance with the one that brung us" and enroll him in the local public school, I distinctly remember fastidiously assembling his enrollment packet, well in advance of the enrollment period. All exhibits were carefully labeled. I practically had the thing professionally bound.

Fast forward a few years. It's been common knowledge for a couple of years that a certain teacher is waiting for Son #2 (postponing her retirement, even), so in our minds, PJ has been locked and loaded for some time. Thus, as tends to happen, the actual details of enrolling him in kindergarten got pushed . . . to this week, being the week prior to school. Once we became fully engaged, we remembered a couple of things:

(1) To enroll a child in school, one must demonstrate that the child, in fact, exists.

(2) Evidence of the existence of a second child - yeah, not the cakewalk that one experiences with first children. (Hey, we consider ourselves stellar parents in that he is represented in roughly half of the photos on display in our home. Based on comments I have received from grown-up younger siblings, we're firing on all cylinders.)

In the words of Yo Gabba Gabba's DJ Lance, "Uh, let's break it down!":

Item A: Birth Certificate. Seriously? You need proof that he was born? He's standing right. Over. There. Clearly, he serves as his own evidence on this point. But, um - yeah, I've got the application for the birth certificate right here. Says we were supposed to expect it . . . some time during my maternity leave. So, yeah, blame that one on Dad. I wasn't opening mail during that time period, what with the lactating and the recovering from major abdominal surgery and all. Which recovery, by the by, was totally ad hoc and on the fly. If I haven't said this before, let me once again go on record: C sections are notable among surgical proceedings for the distinct lack of regard afforded to the post-surgical patient. Immediately after being wheeled out of the surgical suite, you are: (1) weaned off of the good drugs (because poor, widdle baby shouldn't have to deal with all of that icky-wicky stuff . . . really, because the reality of having a mother who is cranky, in all sorts of pain and therefore potentially entering "wiggin' and homicidal" territory is so much better?); (2) asked to get up and move freely about the cabin - sans the good drugs; and (3) thrust headfirst, without ceremony or any form of orientation, simultaneously into your new roles as:

(1) Social secretary! ("Mom! The birth certificate guy is here. Oh, were you trying to sleep? Yeah, he's on a bit of a schedule, sooooo . . . if you could just sign here, and fill this part out here.")

(2) Personal stylist! ("Here comes the First Foto photographer. Time to dress baby in an outfit that, by all rights, should fit the kid, because he weighed a metric ton when he arrived eighteen hours ago, but, oh, he seems to be shrinking - so, maybe a little tuck there, and another one over there?")

(3) Nutritionist! (Self-explanatory.)

(4) Julie the Cruise Director! ("Hey, all of your husband's college buddies are here to see the BA-BY! Oh, were you trying to nurse? Well, could you postpone that, maybe, and hide those bits upfront back in your gown, there? They're on a bit of a schedule, sooooo . . . .")

By no means discounting the fact that non C-section moms are dealing with equivalent ickiness and discomfort of their own, and not intending to place the C-section experience above all of that. No, my basis of comparison (and complaint) is the hysterectomy - basically, the same incision as a C, but I could not help but notice that, 24 hours past surgery, my mother was on all sorts of good drugs (THE DAMNED SPINAL BLOCK WAS STILL IN PLACE!), no one was asking her to dress anyone (herself, even) or obtain a Social Security card for anyone, and a lot of concern was given to "letting the patient sleep and get better."

Bollocks. Total and utter bollocks.

Cost for a duplicate birth certificate: $23.

Item B: Social Security Card. Yeah, here's the letter acknowledging that we've filed for one - it's right next to the "we're going to send you a birth certificate" letter. But no actual, factual social security card. We received one, based on the fact that, once upon a time, we gave the number to our accountant. But we don't carry the physical card, because of identity theft concerns - not that misplacing the physical card is any great shakes on that score. He does have a number, though, for sure. I don't actually know it off of the top of my head, but our accountant totally does, soooooo . . . .

Item C: Shot Record. Okay, we have MULTIPLE copies of that. Can't find any of them, but we definitely have them. Oh, here they are - discovered minutes after another one was procured from the pediatrician's office. Would have needed another one, anyway, as all of them are identical . . . in that they are current through eighteen months, and then just sort of stop.

Item D: Utility Bill. I mean, we GET them - and we totally PAY them. But, uh, we pay them online and, in the spirit of a paperless environment, we receive most of them electronically, and we shred and recycle the ones that come in hard copy. You would think we would have at least one of them laying around . . . .

Love you, Parker James. Too busy loving you, and your brother, to fret over all of the silly details that seemed so blessed important when we were new at parenting and didn't have our eyes fully focused on the real ball. So take our scatter-brainedness as what it is - evidence that we, finally, got a clue about what is really important. Neatly indexing and cross-referencing only OCCASIONALLY relevant data was "rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic" behavior, the stuff that we did to fill time before you and your brother came fully online and demanded our more direct attention. You know, the stuff that fell by the wayside in favor of teaching you to read, taking you to soccer games . . . oh, except we haven't spent nearly as much one-on-one time reading with you as we did with your brother. Hope you absorbed a lot by osmosis. And is late soccer registration still open?

Bollocks. Wanna hit the toy aisle at Super Target?

Piece of Flair . . . or Something

Two separate house porn magazines urged me to buy this book, on the same day that One Kings Lane (that alluring and addictive online storefront for house porn) advertised its Rizzoli coffee table book sale and offered to sell me my own fabulous copy of Flair by Joe Nye at a substantial discount. I was intrigued. I went to Half.com to comparison shop. I purchased my own fabulous copy of Flair by Joe Nye. And I waited anxiously for it to be delivered - because I am a big fan of exquisite invitations, lush flowers and gorgeous table settings, and always looking for ideas for all of the above.

So, reality check. First, this is not a coffee table book, per se. Unless, maybe, you live in Manhattan, in a 400 square-foot efficiency with a really tiny coffee table. So, okay - given that I may have just described a large segment of the target audience for Flair by Joe Nye - culturally biased snarky remark withdrawn.

But I know these facts to be true - cultural biases or no:

(1) Flair by Joe Nye is noticeably short on images of (a) exquisite invitations, (b) lush flowers or (c) gorgeous table settings. Like, really noticeably short. There aren't all that many pictures - and none are jaw-droppingly stunning. The orange ranunculus/parrot tulip/geranium leaf/berry thing that he has going on on page 45 is worth duplicating. The rest are pretty ho-hum.

Also, many of the pictures are of Joe Nye - author of Flair by Joe Nye - creating flower arrangements and table settings. Helpful photos like a picture of Joe Nye - author of Flair by Joe Nye - holding a wine glass and smiling at the camera (page 8). I particularly enjoyed a montage of photos of him holding silver-colored things (page 54), accompanied by the caption, "There is sterling silver and silver plate, both of which are shown here." Only he doesn't identify which items (out of a sauce boat, a leaf-shaped dish, a salt cellar and an assortment of handled cups) are sterling silver, and which are silver plate. Also a fave: the shot of him hunched over an arrangement of blue glasses, white porcelain, blue and white porcelain and a striped placemat that he has spread out on the floor. The caption: "At Crate and Barrel, I am arranging a possibility of blue glassware, white porcelain, and blue-and-white-porcelain on a striped placement." Okay, placement - typo or affectation? And what, exactly, does the caption add to the image, other than the inferred tidbit that glasses, porcelain and placemats/placements can be acquired at Crate and Barrel?

Which leads me to my second observation.

(2) The target audience for Flair by Joe Nye not only has never thrown a party but, in all likelihood, has never attended one. Here are some helpful tips for those of you who happen to dwell under rocks:

Page 62: Hot mixes of strongly colored flowers can set the tone for Mexican-themed or other festive parties.

Page 86: Self-service is a common feature of buffets. (Were you sitting down for that one?)

Page 94: E-mail invitations are fine for some informal occasions, or for work-related occasions (where, you know, e-mail likely is your primary means of communication?), but a paper invitation is appropriate for formal occasions (like your wedding? the coronation of European royalty?).

Page 98: One of the greatest invitations that the author ever sent out was last minute, and - get this, people - HE WROTE OUT THE TEXT ON PAPER. WITH A SHARPIE MARKER. AND THE SHARPIE MARKER WAS RED. THEN HE HAD KINKO'S COPY THE PAPER. SEVERAL TIMES. It's not specified whether the copies were color or black-and-white. THEN HE BOUGHT ENVELOPES AND MAILED THEM.


I could go on and on. Really - I could. I could quote the whole book in an arch and ironic tone. But, instead, I'll limit myself to two favorite passages:


"Because they are used well before the party starts, invitations are the first things you should think about after you've decided when and what the party is going to be" (page 92). So, wait - we should set a date for a party before we print the invitations? And also pick the theme? Yeah, I can see how it would be embarrassing if you send out invites to a baby shower tentatively scheduled for November and then subsequently determine that you really want to throw a Super Bowl-centered chili cookoff. Oh, wait, page 100: "Ironically, the part of creating an invitation that many people find the most challenging is figuring out what to say. I've seen hosts get so caught up in finding a fresh way to say, "Will you come?' that they go overboard, or worse, forget to include important information such as the date or time!" So, the whole "think in advance about what and when" concept is a hedge against making a complete arse of yourself. Got it.


And one more, from page 86 (it's long, but I can't bring myself to edit it):


"A basic full bar should include a mixture of dark and light liquors, beer, and wine (at least one white and one red). Scotch, bourbon, gin, vodka, and sweet and dry vermouth will cover pretty much any drink a guest could think up. Tonic water, ginger ale, cranberry juice, and another tangy juice are good to have on hand as mixers. Some people also like to stock sodas, such as Coca-Cola and 7UP. And always keep a good supply of flat and sparkling water for those who prefer not to drink.

"If all of this sounds too fussy, you can forgo the mixed drinks and just serve beer and wine. That's certainly more economical, and if the party is quite casual, it's perfectly fine not to go all out. Or you can choose to serve one type of cocktail or alcoholic beverage along with beer and wine. If your gathering has a theme, you may want to come up with a drink that goes along with it (such as pina coladas for a beach party or mojitos for a Cinco de Mayo celebration) or one that goes with the color scheme or aesthetic you've established."


Questions and comments:

(1) Did you get all that? The part about the different beverages, the clarification that some are alcoholic and some are not, and the stuff about how different people like different beverages? Also that you can offer two things, or three things if two doesn't seem like enough, and buying a few things is more economical than buying all of the things? Did you get that beverages come in colors? Which you can coordinate with your theme - if you remembered to pick one, before or after you sent out your invitations?

(2) Entreaty to Joe Nye, author of Flair by Joe Nye: if your target audience is incapable of functioning within society on the strength of common sense alone, as you seem to suspect that they are, you really should not leave it up to them to pick "another tangy juice." Also, consider using a synonym for "aesthetic."

(3) Cinco de Mayo (Spanish for "fifth of May") is a holiday held on May 5 that commemorates the Mexican army's unlikely victory over French forces at the Battle of Puebla. A mojito is a traditional Cuban cocktail. Cuba is not located in Mexico. It was separately colonized by the Spanish, some years prior to the colonization of Mexico. 1492, Columbus . . . ring any bells? Sterling, silverplate or otherwise? It's called Wikipedia, buddy. But perhaps the Internet service to your rock is dial-up and therefore on the spotty side . . . .

Yes, I'm in a bad mood. I was expecting a sparkly piece of Flair - and I think I got a piece, alright. But, on the bright side, I put a coin in my "Seriously?" jar with the turn of just about every page. I may have paid for my next gorgeous table setting.

Postscript: I was going to delete this post before I published it, realizing just how mean-spirited that it was. But then my ten year-old mentioned that he had looked at Flair by Joe Nye, and he thought that it was funny, "because someone needs to tell you that you can display flowers in a pitcher instead of a vase? Seriously?" So give it up for guest blogger Connor, who would like to add the following:

"Maybe he should clarify that if the flowers are too tall for the pitcher, you should cut them - but DON'T CUT THE HEADS OFF!"

"Aren't margaritas the appropriate beverage for a Cinco de Mayo party? Mojitos are Cuban."

"I have allergies - sniffle, sniffle." (He made me write that last part. Why? Because he's ten, and he's silly - but I think he might have a little more on the ball than this Joe Nye guy, even when suffering from allergies.)

The Vacation That Wasn't

Day 1 of "staycation that might turn into an actual vacation at a moment's notice if we could just figure out where to go and also could get over our angst specific to dumping the dorgi dog off at the very vet's office where he spent six weeks in a Guantanamo-esque hotbox recovering from heartworms": The inside air conditioning unit ices over. Spouse changes the filter and runs the fan. Per call placed to spouse's cousin, an air conditioning contractor who - for reasons that completely escape me - we feel "funny" about "imposing upon" during "his busy season", this should cause the ice to melt and solve the problem once and for all. Unless we are looking at a freon problem. (Side note: Is it imposing if you offer to pay American dollars to someone for a service that he provides to the public, simply because he is family and might actually care enough to check up with his A/C tech and make sure that the guy actually made the service call?)

Day 1 of "STMTIAAVAAMNIWCJFOWTGAACGOOASTDTDDOATVVOWHSSWIAGHRFH" plus four hours: Whoops. There's still ice on the inside air conditioning unit. Freon problem, it is. Call placed to our go-to A/C contractor - the one that we don't feel "funny" about "imposing upon" during "his busy season" (and will not be imposing upon henceforth . . . keep reading). Contractor assures us that we will see his A/C tech bright and early Sunday morning. With ceiling fans running and the A/C pushing the air around (just not cooling it), the temperature isn't that bad overnight.

Bright and early on Day 2 of . . . um, we'll just call it "Fred": No A/C tech on the doorstep. House is now noticeably hot. And noticeably humid.

Close to 5 pm on Day 2 of Fred: Is it just me, or do the carpets feel kind of damp to the touch? Honey, did you call the A/C guy for an update after his tech missed "the window" by, roughly, five hours? No? Um, okay. No need to get testy. I thought it was a legitimate question. Wow, it's really hot in here.

Day 3 of Fred: Call placed to A/C contractor, who cannot get over his SHOCK and SURPRISE that his tech failed to show. Rest assured, said tech will be fired - well, after he does the job. Then he'll be fired. When the theoretical tech fails to materialize by mid-morning, another call is placed - to A/C contractor #3, who is well known about town and advertises in the Ridglea Scene newsletter. I go up to the office (yeah, technically I'm on . . . um, Fred . . . all week, but I needed to attend to some business - and, also, the office has A/C). Spouse gets nervous, calls "bonus" ACC#4. I envision a situation where all three techs show up at the same time, each demanding a service call fee, and decide that I'm sitting pretty where I am. ACC #3 arrives first; ACC #4 is waved off, and spouse decides that ACC #2 doesn't earn a phone call at this point. Fluid levels definitely are low, but ACC #3 doesn't carry the fluid we need (puron, not freon) on the truck. So he has to come back. Which he does. Puron is topped off, and we get an earful about how, when we replaced the outside unit five years ago, we also should have replaced the inside unit, which has a freon coil that is NOT compatible with puron. Ohhhhhhkay. How does one explain that the darned thing has worked fine in a "puron environment" for five bleepin' years? Tech has no explanation, suspects that it's some sort of miracle from above. But now we really do need to think about replacing our coil. Although, notwithstanding the laws of (very) theoretical physics, the ambient temperature should start dropping soon.

Whatever. Clan McGlinchey heads to Grapevine Mills to consort with animatronic animals at Rainforest Cafe. Mom McGlinchey meets up with her friends Michael, Stuart and Kate (Kors, Weitzman and Spade) at Neiman's Last Call. They listen to my tale of woe and suggest that a new cardigan, a pair of super-cute slip-on loafers and some sunglasses will change my outlook on life. Who can argue with that logic - particularly when you get FIVE PERCENT OFF IF YOU USE YOUR NEIMAN'S CARD? Overpriced food is consumed at RC. Mom desperately wants a margarita - but not enough to stomach the $9.99 sticker price. Or deal with the commemorative glass. Prospect of the commemorative glass (which you KNOW the kids would insist on taking home) somehow depresses me more than the cost of the beverage. On to glow-in-the-dark mini golf. INDOOR mini golf - with air conditioning. Did I mention that things glow in the dark there? Cool deal. Except not so cool - their A/C is on the fritz. Sign out front cheerfully encourages us to bring our own beverages inside. Start to reconsider the $9.99 margarita in the commemorative glass.

10 pm on Day 3 of Fred: Arrive at home. House feels exactly the same. Try on my new fall sweater and suede loafers as an attempt at a pick-me-up - then remember that what's depressing me is the fact that I'm BLOOMIN' HOT. Sorry, Michael and Stuart - but points for trying.

Day 4 of Fred: Phone call to ACC #3. Our problem, apparently, was that we didn't let hot air blow through the system. Or didn't let it blow through long enough. So we still have ice on our coil. Consider chipping off some of the ice and blowing a portable fan over it. I really don't remember what I did for the rest of Day 4, but on the evening of Day 4 I ventured out of the house to attend a previously scheduled boutique shopportunity/girls' night out. This girl stayed out as long as possible . . . in large part because of the enjoyable company, but in no small part because said enjoyable company was camped out in a location with air conditioning. Also purchased jewelry - including the same necklace in two different colorways, because (1) it was a shopportunity, so, hey, 15% off, and (2) when you're hot and bothered, how can you be expected to make rational decisions? In the interim, spouse determines that blowing hot air through the system is . . . well, a bunch of hot air. Phone call placed to ACC #5 (a client and friend of spouse's, based in a county of north of here), who was prepping to have dental surgery but had time to opine that it sounded like we were dealing with an expansion valve issue.

Day 5 of Fred: Mom heads to pool with children, because spending a day outdoors actually sounds more pleasant than a day spent indoors. ACC #3 returns to Casa McGlinchey, confirms that we need an expansion valve . . . which he does not have in back stock. Periodic updates from ACC #3 (transmitted to me by spouse via cell) indicate that valve is not to be had in the Metroplex. Spouse begins feverishly searching for SOMEONE with a spare expansion valve laying around. I order another pina colada. By dinnertime, we have determined that the smartest course of action is to purchase a new inside unit, thus securing a new valve AND a new coil, all fully warranted and guaranteed to peacefully coexist with our puron whatchamacallit. Any hope of actually leaving Tarrant County is now dashed, because someone needs to be there to solicit bids and be on premises when the unit is being installed. Spouse heads to Coppell to retrieve a portable air conditioner from his older brother, and the kids and I head to my mom's to collect three additional space fans - and watch "So You Think You Can Dance" in a fully air conditioned environment. As God in his Heaven intended.

Day 6 of Fred: ACC #3 calls, announces that he cannot find the valve anywhere and has chosen to give up. He does offer to refund the prior service charge, which leaves me sort of nonplussed. Um, thanks? Wish I had the luxury to give up and move to a new house? ACC#6 and ACC #7 compete for our business. ACC #7 is, apparently, hitting the crack pipe hardcore and quotes us a price that makes me snort Diet Coke out of my nose. ACC #6 is declared the winner.

Day 7 of Fred: NUUUUUUUUUTHING. Because ACC #6 can't install our new unit until the next morning. At least the house is cooler - down to 78 or so, thanks to stuff borrowed from the family. Really have no excuse not to pick up the mess that our house has become during Fred week (because, really, who wants to clean or straighten in excessive heat?). But, nah . . . much more satisfying to shop for carpet for the Man Cave. Because, when you're depressed about the cluttered state of your house and an approaching large hit to your bank account, what do you do? Say it with me, girls! BUY STUFF FOR YOUR HOUSE THAT COSTS MONEY! Spouse laments that, due to A/C installation scheduled for Day 8, we will be unable to attend birthday lunch for his older brother (he of the way-cool portable air conditioning unit).

Day 8 of Fred: ACC #6 arrives at o' dark thirty. Spouse answers door, I use excuse that I am sleeping in a camisole (unsuitable for A/C tech viewing) to roll back over and go to sleep. At 9 am, I rouse, spouse informs me that tech is way ahead of schedule and birthday lunch may be a go after all. Yeah, right; not my first ro-day-o. I go back to sleep. At 11 am, spouse provides another status report - ACC #6 apparently has "created an electrical issue." EXSQUEEZE ME? A BAKING POWDER? Here are some words guaranteed to give me apoplexy: "Electrical issue." Because other words brought to mind by said words are "fire" and "hazard." Demand further information (but still refuse to change out of camisole) and am advised that tech has shorted out a control panel that is relevant to both the A/C and the furnace and is having to "bypass" it (yeah, another apoplexy-inducing word right there). To his credit, he has another tech check his work before he leaves. An hour and a half past birthday lunch, tech leaves, apologizes and assures us that we will be getting a new control panel on him (ordered and scheduled to arrive later the following week), but, in the meantime, we won't be able to run our furnace. Spouse lets go one of those laugh-snorts: "Yeah, it's 104 outside and we haven't had A/C for a week. Chances of us firing up the furnace are slim and none, buddy."

Son #1 departs for birthday party. Spouse and Son #2 head out to family birthday lunch - only two hours and twelve minutes late. I offer to stay home, make sure that the unit is truly up and running and do a little light housecleaning. Except that it's still too warm to really get into housecleaning, and I'm quite over the whole thing (what thing, exactly? the lack of A/C? lack of a clean house? Fred? mi vida loca in general?) - so I make it about an hour and a half, and then head to the pool with my book and my Kate Spade consolation sunglasses, hell-bent on securing a margarita in a non-commemorative glass. All's well that ends well. And happy Fred to everyone!

Hive a Fun Weekend

Just once, I'd like to enjoy a normal weekend. I mean, really, is that too much to ask? Yeah, probably - not even sure what normal is anymore, and suspecting that "abnormal" has become, in fact, our "new normal."

Let's recap:

Friday afternoon: had a nice lunch at Patrizio's with some folks from work, didn't eat anything weird (this will become relevant in a moment), returned to the office and, around 4 pm, started itching. A lot. Now, itching is part of my "abnormal normal" - although all of the McGlincheys suffer from allergies, only two of us (Dad and #1 Son) experience a normal histamine reaction (watery eyes, stuffed-up nose). The other two of us (yours truly and #2 Son) exhibit all of the signs of what is known as atopic syndrome (well, PJ doesn't have all of the signs yet, but, given that I didn't develop asthma until I was 30, it's probably just a matter of time until he does). In the simplest terms possible: our histamine reactions are freaky-deaky. The same pollen that makes other people sneeze gives us an upset stomach, eczema rashes and mouth sores and causes the little chicken skin bumps that are ever-present on our arms (proper name, keratosis pilaris - also an atopic condition) to become really BIG AND PRONOUNCED chicken skin bumps that itch and itch and ITCH.

The itching leads to scratching, and the scratching inflames my skin and makes it itch more, and the everything goes to Hades in a hand basket in a hurry. A dermatologist explained it to me this way: your skin is like a forest. If you drop a match in a forest that's gotten a lot of rain, the dampness will put the match out. If you drop a match in a forest that's tinder-dry, it catches on fire with a vengeance. So, when my skin is stressed (because of exposure to substances to which I truly am allergic), I start reacting to EVERYTHING - scents, even, and scents of things to which I am not truly allergic. The smell of a household cleaner, run of-the-mill food smells - it doesn't take much.

I suppose I should have seen the signs prior to Friday - upset stomach all this week, trouble breathing, etc. Nevertheless, the itching at 4 pm on Friday seemed to come out of nowhere: one minute everything was fine, and the next minute I was (quite literally) a red, hot mess. Didn't need to look at my back in a mirror to know what I would find - long, angry welts, like whip marks. That's a normal occurrence for me. The itchy neck and chest were normal, too.

What happened next went a little past normal - and kept going.

Like the idiot that I am, I (1) failed to take a Benadryl and (2) en route to friend Ruth's house for dinner decided to get my nails done. And, at said nail salon, my fingertips came into contact with acetone nail polish remover. JUST my fingertips. But that's all it took. At some point during my manicure, I noticed that other patrons of the salon were staring at me. I assumed that my odd behavior in the manicurist's chair was attracting their attention. (Manicurist would begin filing the nails on my left hand, I would withdraw my right hand from the table and SCRATCH MY BACK FURIOUSLY. Just like a dog with a bad batch of fleas. Then said manicurist would need my right hand back, so I would bring that hand up to the table, my left hand would snake around and I would SCRATCH MY BACK FURIOUSLY SOME MORE.) When I got up to wash my hands, though, I came face-to-face with myself in the mirror, and I saw what everyone else saw - half of my neck was magenta, and the other half had magenta polka dots. The solid magenta part was creeping up over my jaw line and threatening to take over my left cheek.

Whoops.

Paid for my manicure, drove to Ruth's and had been in her house for maybe five minutes when the hives started developing at the pulse points on my wrists. Ruth offered me a Benadryl. Nope, I'm fine. Hives started marching up the insides of my forearms. Seriously, you should take a Benadryl. Aw, this is nothing . . . scratch. Scratch. SCRATCH.

I took the Benadryl.

And made it home and into bed without incident. Then, around 2 am, I woke up very suddenly, and I think I actually uttered the following sentence out loud:

"Why I am wearing sandpaper pants?"

Seriously, the inside of the (cotton knit yoga) pants that I was wearing felt like sandpaper to me, and every subtle shift of my body made my legs burn. I shuffled into the bathroom and turned on the light, knowing what I was going to see but still afraid to see just how bad it was.

O . . . M . . . G. The sheer number of hives, and the angry purplish-ness of their color, did not surprise me, but the overall appearance of my skin did. You know when the sheets bunch up under you, and you wake up with sheet lines on your body? Yeah, the overall texture of my skin was like that - weird lines and ridges everywhere - because, apparently, MY SKIN HAD DECIDED THAT IT WAS ALLERGIC TO MY PANTS. Hives of various sizes were superimposed over the lovely background texture, and the tops of my thighs were basically one giant hive each. It really, truly looked like I'd been scalded.

And it hurt like no one's business.

I made it back to bed, and that's when the other symptoms hit me - headache, difficulty swallowing . . . yup, definitely heading into anaphylaxis territory here. I woke up my spouse, who normally takes my health crises with a grain of salt, but he took one look at me and, well, sort of panicked. Enough for the both of us. Like Ruth before him, he assumed the mantle of Benadryl pusher and made me swallow two pink caplets . . . and then a third one for good measure. Then he got ice packs out of the freezer for me to put on the really itchy parts, and he talked to me and distracted me from scratching as best he could. The pills finally kicked in, the itching subsided, and I drifted off to sleep. Parnell didn't - the next day, he confessed that he woke up at half hour intervals the rest of the night to check on me, because he was a little bit afraid that I might check out.

Woke up Saturday morning feeling sort of human and looking a whole lot less polka-dotted, took another Benadryl to satisfy my spouse, and sent him off to his early AM drop-in tennis clinic. And then, given my status as PIC - parent-in-charge - I did everything in my power to remain awake, just short of jumping jacks, because LORD ALMIGHTY - there is a reason that I resist taking Benadryl, and "serious medicine head" is that reason. It felt like I was swimming through pea soup just moving around the house. So when Parnell returned, I took advantage of the opportunity to return to bed and take a catnap. Some time during that catnap, my AM Benadryl dosage wore off. Also during said catnap, Connor put a cup of Easy Mac in the microwave, forgot to add water (yeah, the blonde apple didn't fall far from the blonde tree), and I was awakened by the acrid smell of burnt-black pasta noodles. And then . . . .

I GOT HIVES. HUGE ONES. IN REACTION TO A BURNT FOOD SMELL. I mean, seriously, what the WHAT? I had Parnell take a picture of one of my arms, because by this point I suspected that a trip to my physician and perhaps a steroid shot were in my future, and I wanted to come packing visual aids. I will upload the photo later, so that you, dear reader, can marvel at the havoc that "burnt Easy Mac aroma" apparently can wreak on the delicate skin of my inner wrist and forearm.

Ay, chihuahua. But we're not done yet. What's the worst possible thing that you can do when you have hives (other than letting your ditsy ten year-old near a microwave)? Get out in the heat, right? So it was agreed that I was on lock-down for the rest of the day. And then. THE. AIR. CONDITIONER. ICED. OVER. Of course it did - because the filter needed changing, and it was having to work overtime anyway due to 104-degree temperatures outdoors, and - oh, yeah, BECAUSE I HAD HIVES. Why WOULDN'T the A/C would choose this particular day to stop working?

So . . . it's almost 4 am Sunday morning, and I have the bed to myself (sweet husband took the portable fan into the den and is sleeping on the couch, as he has a tendency - particularly when he is hot - to encroach into my real estate, often flinging his limbs out to the sides and over me, pinning me to the mattress and making me altogether uncomfortable). It's not hot, actually, with the ceiling fans all turned to "amps on eleven," but I can't sleep, and it's a foregone conclusion that (1) we will be rescheduling with our maid (currently scheduled for Monday), because there's no way in the world that my hivey self is going to complete the usual "Sunday evening pre-maid debris pickup" in the stifling heat, and (2) we will be heading somewhere else during the heat of the day. We had tentatively planned on dinner at Rainforest Cafe and glow-in-the-dark (indoor) mini golf for Monday night, but I'm thinking that Sunday afternoon is as good a time for those activities as any.

Odds that the vocalization of an animatronic gorilla or the reflection of black light off of phosphorescent paint gives me hives?

The Hallway Reboot

Our weekend started out with a trip to Cupcake Cottage. Aren't these pretty little things? From left to right, you're looking at traditional vanilla, German chocolate (babycake and regular sizes), amaretto (the orange one top right) and red velvet.

The babycake was mine, as was the amaretto. Sufficiently fueled by sugar and the shot of liqueur from the cupcake, I headed out for the last few items that I needed to finish the hallway project (Parnell having finished the painting for me the night before) - started at Goodwill on Camp Bowie, then drove around the corner to Camp Bowie Mercantile, hit Jo Ann for chalkboard paint and finished at Lowe's (lumber, screws and picture hangers). My last "stop" was my own overflowing craft closet, where I found a bunch of useful items. Here are the results:

This is the wall between our bedroom and the boys' bathroom. Except this isn't the greatest picture, because the weekly menu calendar (hanging trom the adorable wooden spoon at bottom) reflected too much flash . . . . So let's try again, minus reflective surfaces:

Better. Pine rack: $5, Goodwill. Nesting doll pillow that I needed like a hole in the head, but (1) it's a nesting doll!, (2) I collect nesting dolls! and (3) it's an aqua blue and chocolate brown nesting doll!: $12, Mercantile. The peg rack at the bottom is actually a quilt rack. It was half off at the Mercantile, and it attracted my attention because it was unfinished, the correct depth for picture molding and I thought that it might be possible to hang cool stuff from the bottom (under the knobs). The kids' award ribbons, maybe? Yeah, epic fail. Oh, well - it has pegs. That's enough utility, I guess. Here's a close-up of the top shelf:

Yes, I realize that I lined the photos up like cell phone bars. And, yes, that's a jar of paintbrushes. Why? Why not. When I shopped the craft closet, I found literally hundreds of them, left over from an event that I threw a couple of years ago. They were the right colors, I had a really cute canning jar, and the price was right at "free." Plus, they have personal meaning, since I like to paint. Speaking of which, I also found three square canvases in the craft closet - originally from Pottery Barn Kids, I think, had Connor's initials on them, but in baby pastels, so I had gessoed over them and set them aside for a future project. I painted them to match the hall, took a couple of photos that had been displayed on the old hallway bulletin board and decoupaged them. I applied scraps of fabric to the photo of Connor and his friend Christian, because the pattern reminded me of atoms, and for the longest time we could not go to the Science and History Museum without running into Christian's family.

The buttons were yet another craft closet score. I used those to decorate a photo of Parker and his friend Avery, because they are both cute as buttons. Even if PJ's head looks ginormous in this photo.

Next is the wall outside of Connor's room, which was going to be one giant chalkboard (painted with Hudson Paint's "Rayogram Gray"), but - quite frankly - it was a bit of a bear painting the wall adjacent to this one, the brown ended up wrapping around the corner, and I decided that I did not want to mess with creating a clean seam between two colors. However, I compromised by making two chalkboards for the lower part of the wall - one for each boy.

Picture molding one this wall is made from 36-inch long square dowels painted the color of the wall and screwed in. I then faced them with vintage yardsticks. The yardstick project was easier said than done. In painting this wall, we came to terms with the fact that it has some serious problems with uneven plaster. No matter how hard we tried, we could not fully conceal the three big patches that are a different texture than the rest of the wall. I suppose that we could have retextured first, but it seemed easier to just position the art to cover the wall defects. Yeah, it seemed easier - because the frames had to be placed just so, it was necessary to put the lower molding right along a horizontal stud. Took Parnell several experiments with different hardware to get that one done. But I do like the results . . . .

Empty picture frame (made from ceiling tile) won't be empty for long. When I can remember to buy tile grout, I have a really neat handmade ceramic tile, colored in shades of tan and blue, that says "Purple Power" (yes, I said tan and blue - all of this particular artist's tiles are the same color regardless of what they say), and I want to glue that to the frame and then add a photo of Parker and his friend Lauren wearing their TCU purple.

I've gotten pretty good at spacing and mounting art on picture molding, haven't I? I can do all things through painter's tape, which strengthens me - and by "strengthens me" I really mean "allows me to mark exactly where the top of a frame should go, or the corner of one, or the hanger for one, so we know exactly where to drill or hammer."

Chalkboard #1 (Connor's): frame, $1, Goodwill; piece of maple, cut to fit, $2.88, Lowe's. The chalkboard paint is by Plaid, and while it isn't exactly the same shade of brown as the walls, by the time you cure it with chalk - pretty darned close.

Parker's chalkboard doesn't have a frame. It's mounted low on the wall, to cover up another wall imperfection.

Here's a closeup of some of the picture molding on this wall. Most of the yardsticks that I bought (yes, I still have some to use on a future project) bear advertisements for businesses on Camp Bowie or Vickery. The greenish-blue one isn't related to Fort Worth at all, but I really liked the color. Only problem is that it's a folding ruler, so it took an act of Congress to get it glued into place. (Shims were involved.)


Next wall was the most difficult, because it's basically the door to our air conditioner with just an inch or so of wall on either side - but because of molding placement you are talking about painting in teeny tiny crevasses with a detail brush, up one side and down the other. I like the way it turned out, though. We put three coats of magnetic paint on the door first, and - surprise! - it really turned the door into a magnet board. You can't tell in this picture, but the art in the bottom left is on a clipboard hanging suspended from the key that turns and opens the A/C closet. The ribbon helps camouflage the door as a door, I think. Oh, and the clipboard's decoupaged.

One final item - a total improvisation: I had purchased an old rolling pin and these brackets, intending to mount the rolling pin on the side of the kitchen cabinet (to serve as a dishtowel rod), by the window and over the sink, but discovered to my disappointment that the cabinet wasn't deep enough. So now I have a bracketed rolling pin in my hallway. Which I love. This picture doesn't do it justice, but "strange rolling pin installation" definitely is one of my favorites.

Now on to finish the boys' bathroom!

Adventures in Kid Party Planning

It's nearing the end of July, so of course Little Bro and Big Bro are hard at work planning their birthdays (which are at the end of October and the end of November, respectively). CLEARLY, neither apple fell far from the tree. The gonna-be-six-year-old initially requested a Karate Kid theme - "No, wait, Super Mario Brothers! No, wait!" - but then I reminded him of certain treasures stowed away in the No Man's Land that is our carriage house (fingers crossed, in an orange-and-black Rubbermaid tote - I really do try to color coordinate, but I also have a bad habit of shoving the remnants of the holiday I am packing down into the tote that I am unpacking, and Parnell has a bad habit of stowing them away without my knowledge, so next thing you know all of the chocolate and peanut butter are mixed, there are grinning goblins where the turkeys ought to be, the turkeys are hanging out in red-and-green totes meant for Santas, and so on). Said treasures were purchased on deep discount last November 1, and all are from Target's "Haunted Heraldry" collection. I figured that we are nearing a time where cutesy Halloween will elicit eye rolls, but a "haunted castle" theme might pass muster. (Think purple and red banner motifs, castle-textured surfaces, and skulls wearing crowns - but DON'T think Ed Hardy-ish skulls wearing Ed Hardy-ish crowns. If I wanted to throw my kids a d-bag themed party, I would totally take it in a "Jersey Shore" direction.)

So I snapped up a bunch of Haunted Heraldry stuff and made a mental note to suggest it to Parker as a possible birthday theme. (And, hey, I actually remembered the note, woo hoo!) On the one hand, I don't want to saddle him with a series of Halloween-themed shindigs simply because he was born just shy of the 31st, but on the other hand, could you possibly end up with a COOLER birthday holiday? I mean, come on. So I suggested a Harry Potter "Haunted Hogwarts" party - but PJ, being Wii-obsessed and having just finished his first stint at LEGO Camp, took it in a slightly different direction. So now I find myself tasked with planning a "LEGO-Harry-Potter-for-Wii-Haunted-Hogwarts" party. For those scoring at home, this will be my second or third LEGO venture, depending on if you count Connor's "LEGO-Star-Wars-for-Wii-AND-LEGO-Rock-Band-for-Wii" party as one or two themes.

Given the depth of my "LEGO-Whatever-for-Wii" experience, I think that I am up for the challenge. Initial idea board is below:

PJ requested that I order the invites shown (from Acorn Design Studio on Etsy), and that's fine with me - I have moved out of my "handmade-and-ridiculously-elaborate" invitation phase. Don't know where the petit four-ish cakes originated, but I'm thinking that they could be simplified with the addition of M&Ms on the tops. LEGO Head Marshmallow Pops from LivingLocurto.com are AAAAAAAAAAAAAWESOME, and they look really easy. Pinata is from Birthday Express, and I think I may make party crackers to match using paper cones and clipped crepe paper. (My party cracker experience exceeds my "LEGO-Whatever-for-Wii" experience, encompassing chili peppers, bananas and Kryptonite rods. Why not add wizard hats to the list?)

Needless to say, Big Bro immediately started whining - he discovered LEGO first, also Wii, he's better at both, the new Harry Potter movie is coming out just before or after his actual birthday, etc., etc. I told him that I would be overjoyed to throw TWO thematically similar parties back to back, because nothing makes Mom happier than an opportunity to amortize random party supplies over multiple events. I probably shouldn't have been so enthusiastic, as he immediately said, "Yeah, never mind. I don't like the Harry Potter game that much. I'd rather plan MY party around MY favorite Wii game."

Oh. Dear. "Shaun-White-Snowboarding-World-Stage-for Wii" it is. The cake we've figured out - it's gotta be a halfpipe. Inspiration piece from ABC Cake Shop is below:

Mine will look NOTHING like this, of course, but whatever mess of a cake I do make definitely will involve a dusting of powdered sugar over white icing. Ingenious! Likely to cover up a multitude of cake-baking sins, of which, no doubt, I'll be making many.

Initially I was thinking snowboard-shaped party crackers, but if they are brown, you might mistake one for a certain herbal-filled - um, package - that one might hold in a particular sort of clip, if one were so inclined. And given that we are talking about snowboarders - yeah, that might be hitting too close to home. (I have a feeling that they didn't name it a "halfpipe" for nothing.) So, since I will be perfecting the cone-shaped party cracker for PJ's party, current plan is to make cones with green fringe, spray them with white flocking or some other substance resembling snow, and then make the table a snowboard run using white batting for the snow, with pine tree party crackers lining the course.

Wait - does that mean that I'm having an 11 year-old birthday party at my house? Drat. I swore no more "up 'til midnight" Wii parties. Oh, well. At least I will be expanding my party cracker repertoire. Ooh - I can make a Wii remote-shaped pinata! A gift box, some white crepe, DONE.

Yeah . . . I need to find a hobby. And I need to go to bed.

Stuff My Kid Says - An Occasional Series

I am in the process of painting a hallway, and on a whim I painted the wall at the end of the hall (situated just outside of Connor’s room) with magnetic paint prior to topping it with two coats of my go-to Benjamin Moore “Mink.” (Remember the old Coke ad? “I’d like to teach the world to sing, in perfect har-mo-ny”? Well, here’s how I sing it: “I’d like to paint the world deep brown, the color of Her-shey’s.”) The magnetic paint totally worked as advertised, and as soon as the trimwork dries, and I score another couple of packages of my favorite magnets (stainless steel, shaped like pushpins, and very strong), I plan to start tacking up the kid art. Like any good museum curator, I intend to assemble a strong permanent collection while featuring a rotating calendar of “special exhibitions” (Halloween art in October, etc.). So I’m going through the kids’ files and sorting stuff into piles.

Interspersed with the art projects I found several other items of interest, all penned (penciled, actually) by one Mr. Connor:

A note to his parents: Most likely, this was taped to our bedroom door or to the master bathroom mirror. Connor really likes to leave notes. At his peak, he left us notes maybe four or five times per week. It is an effective form of communication, as the child’s internal clock tends to go off around 5 am. His parents’ internal clocks – not so much.

This particular note reads as follows:

Parker does not feel well.

P.S. He does not want to go to school.

P.P.S. He is eating cheese for breakfast.

This is representative of most of Connor’s missives. Aren’t we just so lucky?

A sheet of paper with the computer-generated words, “My punishment is not negotiable, especially when I am whining”: Below this, Connor has copied the phrase in his handwriting, 9 ½ times. This has the hallmarks of Dad all over it – both in terms of the form of punishment and the fact that, apparently, there was very little follow-through, since the phrase is written 9 ½ times.

A piece of paper titled “Inventory – Magic Supplies”: Yeah, if the engineering thing doesn’t work out for him, Connor has magic as a fallback. And, in the interim, he’s available for parties. Seriously – he has said on several occasions that “kids’ party magician” is on his short list of acceptable part-time jobs.

Samples of items from the list:

1 rising wand
1 stiff rope
1 light-up wand
2 light-up thums [sic]
2 wizard hats
1 wizard cape
4 red balls – 1 box

A school assignment dated September 3, 2008, titled “Healthy Food”: Evidently, the students in Connor’s third-grade class were asked to describe a balanced meal that they would be willing to eat. Connor wrote:

5 white meat [chicken] tenders
1 glass of milk
1 glass of water
2 ½ cups of corn
1 apple
Dessert
1 cookie

His teacher responded: “Wonderful meal. You must love corn.”

(For the record: He does. 2 ½ cups of corn at one sitting is not outside of the realm of possibility.)

A reading comprehension assignment about Herbert Hoover: I believe that this one dates to third grade as well. Topping the page is a “news story” about a December 24, 1930 fire at the White House, reading in relevant part:

The White House is the home of the President of the United States. President Hoover and his wife were having a party. It was Christmas Eve.

The children at the party were having a good time. They were eating cake. Mr. Hoover came by and talked to them.

All at once, a guard came along and whispered in Mr. Hoover’s ear. They both left the room.

Soon the children heard fire engines. Were they surprised! The White House was on fire.

Before long, the fire was out. The President, Mrs. Hoover, and the children were never in danger.

Following the comprehension piece – a series of “who/what/when/where/why” questions, beginning with “Who lives in the White House?”

Connor’s answer:

The president, Herbert Hoover, his wife, and possibly their children. *

* I could not tell if the kids were the president’s.

So, smart money is still on “future engineer,” followed by “working magician,” followed by “third generation attorney” . . . .

Another Manic (Momma) Monday

For the record: I don't hate Mondays, but I kinda, sorta hate Sunday nights. Sunday nights have always tended to depress - the knowledge that the weekend is drawing to a close, the work week is starting, etc. - but, because our house gets cleaned on Monday morning, Sunday nights at Casa McGlinchey feature equal parts depression and full-on panic. No, I do not clean for my maid . . . that's for rookies. I do, however, make a concerted effort to manage the clutter so that she has a reasonable shot at actually finding surfaces to clean. With three boys underfoot (yes, I am counting my spouse), managing clutter is close to a full-time job, and I am developing an increasingly bad attitude about that fact. So, inevitably, I find myself dragging my feet throughout the day, and before you know it it's LATE on Sunday evening (bordering on Monday morning), and I'm just getting started.

This week, I was bound and determined to tackle the bedroom closet - specifically, the "Island of Misfit Toys and Other Stuff" that, for the last four or five weeks, has been located smack-dab in the middle of said closet, blocking access to lots of useful stuff like clothes that fit, shoes that are seasonally appropriate, and so on and so forth. Because of my Sunday night foot-dragging tendencies, I end up with various receptacles loaded with toys/other kid items/DVD cases minus their DVD's/random pieces of hardware/etc., which get shoved into the closet before Rose arrives. Every week, I tell myself that on Monday night, buoyed by the fumes of a freshly cleaned house, I will tackle the mound of homeless items as soon as I get home. And, every week, I get home and think, "Really? I'm going to waste the good vibes of a freshly cleaned house by doing chores? Nah, that's for Tuesday." Yeah, you know how it goes after that. So, this Sunday night, I tackled the junk pile with a vengeance - and I actually started to make a dent in it. In record time, too. It was looking like I'd actually be in bed, wound down and ready for sleep, before midnight.

Then my energy started to flag, and I decided to call it a day, or night - only to discover the spill on the master bed that had soaked through to the mattress pad. So, just shy of midnight, all of the bed linens got loaded into the washer. Yes, we could have put other sheets on the bed and done without a mattress pad for one night - but that seemed like such wasted energy. Why put sheets on the bed one night, only to have to strip the bed to install the mattress pad the following night? So, Spouse and I decided that we would continue working on our respective projects (me in the closet, he in the home office-slash-Man Cave - God love him, he is actually in the process of going through files and scanning things into pdf in preparation for reorganization/painting-and-other-redecorating to come).

I had been in the closet for fifteen minutes when the brick monster ran past me.

For those of you who don't speak fluent "Carole," "brick monster" is my mother's term for the little lizards that, when hanging out on the surface of your house, are translucent, allowing the color of your brick - and their internal organs - to show through.

Now I have nothing against lizards - actually, I'm quite fond of them - but this one scared the bejeepers out of me. He darted towards the juncture of Spouse's clothes tower and the beginning of my side of the closet, crossing directly in front of my field of vision, and I jumped up and back simultaneously, straining various forty year-old joints in the process. I hollered for Spouse (yes, the kids were asleep - they are very sound sleepers; not sure if they became that way because their mother is prone to hollering during bedtime hours, or if I feel comfortable hollering because I know that they are both dead to the world; I believe that it's genetic and Y chromosome-linked, see below). Spouse came running, expecting to find a cockroach or collapsed closet rack. "Um, sorry, brick monster." "But you like brick monsters." "Yes, but when they dart past me indoors, they tend to provoke an involuntary reaction." We resigned ourselves to the fact that Brick Monster would die in the recesses of the closet, if Max didn't get him first. Our youngest Maine Coon REEEEEEEEALLY likes lizards. He has five or six rubber ones in rotation, and he spends hours carrying them around, tossing them in the air and chirping to them in that very distinct Maine Coon way. Imagine how exciting it would be to our house-bound little boy if one of the lizards actually wriggled on its own and fought back!

But, until Brick Monster met his untimely demise, it was necessary for me to keep working in the closet. Since, you know, I didn't have a bed in which to sleep - gotta use that "upright and awake time" wisely, right? So I asked Spouse to stay in the closet with me, as Brick Monster backup. Yes, I'm a total girl. We had been in there for less than a minute when I mentioned, "Oh, by the way - there's an IKEA juice cup in the debris pile [a clean one - we're messy, people, but we're not total Philistines - one of the boys used it for water and then threw the cup in the closet, because, based on empirical evidence, that is what boys do with stuff that they no longer need]. If you happen to see Mr. Brick Monster and can convince him to take a pitstop in the juice cup, that would be ideal." I crouch down to see if I can't locate the cup, and I find it - with Brick Monster inside.

[Whispering] "Um, honey? The lizard is already in the cup. [Gesturing towards cup with my foot] Do you need something to put over the top of the cup in order to get it outside?"

"Yeah, it's called my hand."

Two minutes after the Brick Monster Episode began, it was over. Spouse deposited very grateful reptile on the front porch. I resumed the closet project. Two very piqued Maine Coons spent ten minutes poking under the bath rug, occasionally shooting dirty looks my way - evidently, Brick Monster introduced himself to the cats prior to his mad dash into the closet (no doubt explaining the mad dash?).

A little before 2 am, the bed was remade, I had whipped the closet into reasonable shape . . . and we were both wired. Hey - season premier of "Mad Men" on the DVR! So, sleep for me came around 3:45 . . .

. . . and ended a little after 6 when Spouse's cell phone went off. Fun facts about Spouse: (1) he likes to play chicken with our bank; and (2) had he been alive and in Hawaii at the time, he could have slept through the attack on Pearl Harbor, no question . . . in his bunk on the Nevada.

I used to do the online banking for the family, but since Spouse is self-employed, I started to feel increasingly like his pimp. "B****, where's my money? Tell your johns - I mean, clients - that this Dillards bill ain't gonna pay itself." So, when the firm switched to every-two-week-pay periods (rocking my neatly ordered world, where these bills were paid between the 1st and the 14th and those bills were paid on the 15th or after), we decided to use the opportunity to make a switch. Spouse took over bill-paying, marital harmony was restored, and I never looked back. Well, I look back a little. And, in looking, I take note that spouse is a little over-aggressive about attacking credit card debt (when I put something on a store card, which is not often, it's usually with the intent of spreading out the acquisition cost of that something - but Spouse just pays it, all at once; yup, he's a guy). I also take note of the fact that he likes to play chicken with our bank. When I was in charge, I always kept a generous cushion of funds in our checking account. Spouse prefers to keep as much money as possible in savings, and as little as possible in checking, and - whereas I used to "pay" him twice a month by moving a fixed portion of his earnings into checking - he likes to keep his earnings in savings until it's absolutely necessary to move some over . . . and then, as soon as I get paid, he moves them back. He argues that there's no reason to keep a meaningful cushion, since the accounts are linked and bear full overdraft protection, plus we get more interest off of savings. But I know the real reason for his behavior - he likes to play chicken with our bank.

The problem is, until a few weeks ago, when he played chicken with the bank, the bank (or, rather, the bank's RoboVoice) had an annoying tendency to call me and tell me that my Spouse was playing chicken with the bank. Marital harmony was disturbed. After some intense negotiations, a compromise was reached: we agreed on a cushion amount, and the RoboVoice alert telling him that he was approaching the cushion would come to his phone only.

Marital harmony was again restored . . . until he started bringing his cell to the bedroom with him, and forgetting to turn the ringer off. His argument for having his phone nearby - the alarm feature. Which, apparently, is far superior to his traditional alarm clock. Which he ignores. Just like he ignores the cell alarm. He ignores ALL alarms, and all similar loud, shrill, wake-you-up-from-a-dead-sleep noises (when our burglar alarm malfunctioned and started SCREAMING at us in the middle of the night, he slept through it, I had to literally kick him awake . . . and he still rolled over and went back to sleep).

So, therein lies the rub.

At 6-ish this morning, less than three hours after I went to bed, his 'Droid starts going off. I have not familiarized myself with the 'Droid's various noises, so I don't know if it's an alarm or an early AM phone call, but either way it should be attended to. Particularly because it just interrupted my sleep.

Did it interrupt his sleep? No way, Jose.

The third time I shoved him, he got up - and identified the call as one from the bank, advising him that, in light of multiple utility payments scheduled to draft in bulk the day before I get paid (yeah, he totally does that on purpose, too), now might be a good time to do a financial Cupid shuffle.

And I go off. Really, I'm mad at the bank - is it necessary for RoboVoice to call at o-dark-thirty? But I'm also mad that he forgot to turn off the ringer. Equally maddening: the fact that the phone serves no purpose in our room, since it completely fails to attract his attention; the fact that it MAJORLY attracts mine; and the fact that, when I ask him "what the hell?" Mr. Sound Sleeper does not have the courtesy to wake up and fight with me. He snuggles back into his pillow.

I weigh my options: retrieve the phone and throw it against the wall? Or throw it at him?

Then he decides that he's not comfortable enough in his little bed cocoon, rolls over and attempts to HUG ON ME.

Yeah, that wasn't happening. So now I'm wide awake and trying to decide whether to just get up or attempt to go back to sleep. And then Connor comes in. It is Connor's job to take the dogs out to do their morning business, and, to his credit, he always calls for them in a whisper. Only the dogs don't particularly recognize Connor's authority over him. Apparently, they discarded the memo about chore allocation. So the poor child whispers and whispers: "Ruby. Ace. RUBY. ACE." No cooperation whatsoever from the canines.

I offer an assist: "Ruby, Ace, go with Connor."

They comply; Connor mutters an apology for waking me. Oh, child, you don't know the half of it.

I decide to tough it out. I finally go to sleep. I dream that I am in the shower, and in my dream Spouse advises me that the house is on fire, and I respond, "Whatever. I'm surrounded by water. This is the best place for me right now."

I wake up when my alarm goes off, and I proceed with my day. I am surprisingly productive for a walking zombie. And then four o' clock rolls around, and this time it's my desk phone ringing:

Spouse [who drew the short stick and was supposed to retrieve 10 year-old from LEGO Camp at TCU]: "I stepped outside the door to dislodge a catalog from the mail slot, Parker followed, and somehow he locked the door behind him. The back door is locked, too. My keys to the house and to my car are inside. You need to come let us in. But first you need to pick up Connor."

UGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGH.

En route to TCU, I realize that I am not 100% certain as to what building the child is in, and I only have a very sketchy notion of where I can legally park. I make it to that part of campus, mercifully there is a sign posted on the front door of the appropriate building, but I see nothing to indicate the location of the "four parking places assigned for parent pick-up" that Spouse mentioned. (The theoretical parking places were parallel spots anyway, so, in my world, they were very theoretical parking spaces. Not much of a parallel parker.) I circle the block, weighing my options, and attempt to radio for help.

I get Spouse's voice mail. "I'm sorry, but I'm unable to take your call right now."

My message to him: "Really? You're unable to take my call? Because I would think that, right now, seeing as how you are locked out of our house and your car, and your oldest son is marooned as a result, my call just might be very important to you. Oh, and WHERE AM I SUPPOSED TO PARK?"

I figure out parking. I go upstairs. I apologize to LEGO Camp Counselor, who advises me that Spouse "called David's mother and let her know that you were having to sub at the last minute, so David's mother filled us in when she got here."

RIIIIIIIIIIGHT. And did it occur to anyone else in my family that David's mother, a lovely and accommodating woman, who HAD TO PARK ANYWAY, could have been imposed upon to retrieve both children and throw mine off at the curb? Allowing me to proceed directly to Casa McGlinchey?

Very long story short, the round trip from my office and back took an hour. I got to the house and discovered that Spouse and Small Fry had decided to make lemonade out of lemons and use their lock-out time to clean out the backseat of Spouse's car, which had fortunately but uncharacteristically been left unlocked. Result: several bushels of Transformers, Yu-Gi-Oh cards, miscellaneous sporting equipment and what appeared to be a full load of the kids' laundry were headed into my just-cleaned house.

Clearly, Misfit Closet Island was never intended to be uninhabited. And, yes, I do love the men in my life like crazy - but that's probably just the sleep deprivation talking.

NEW BACKPACKS ARE HERE, NEW BACKPACKS ARE HERE!

The boys' new backpacks just arrived from LL Bean. See the monograms? You have to squint to see them - they are not as big or as bold as I would have liked, but, oh well.

While Mom was online, she bought a back-to-school bag for herself. Her bag also features initials subtly displayed within a circle:


Yeah, yeah, they aren't my initials . . . and I'm not going back to school. Listen, people - getting two kids ready for school is hard work. I deserve to be compensated, right? RIGHT?

It's Almost Fall, Y'all - Okay, Not Really

. . . but I AM thinking about October. As a collector of vintage Halloween kitsch and folk art, All Hallows Eve is never completely off of my brain (I find some great pieces during the "off season"), and currently I am planning October parties! In addition to our annual kid-friendly Halloween shindig, I am hosting Keno that month, and I have found the perfect signature cocktail. (FOR KENO - no need to contact Child Protective Services! Wow, you people are warped. And that's why I like you.)

(Posted 10/30/09 on the "Cocktail Blog" on DrinkOfTheWeek.com)

CANDY CORN MARTINI

1 1/2 ozs. kettle corn-infused Bombay Sapphire gin
1/2 oz. Moscato (sweet dessert) wine
3/4 oz. homemade citrus peel grenadine syrup
3 candy corns (for garnish)

To make kettle corn-infused gin, add 1 cup kettle corn to 750 ml bottle of gin and allow to infuse in airtight container for 24 hours. Fine-strain kettle corn and re-bottle.

To make grenadine syrup, add granulated sugar to POM pomegranate juice using a 1 cup-to-1 cup ratio and cook on stove top until sugar is dissolved. Once sugar is dissolved, add the skins of 1 orange and 1 lemon for each cup of pomegranate juice and simmer for 10 minutes. Remove skins and chill syrup.

To make martini, add gin, Moscato and syrup to cocktail shaker with ice and shake very well. Strain into a chilled cocktail glass and garnish with candy corn.

Recipe created by Jonathan Pogash of Cocktail Guru for Bombay Sapphire Gin. Photo courtesy of Bombay as well . . . .

That Thing You Do (With Tomatoes)

It's been awhile since I put any recipes on here. This one was requested by a couple of folks after I served it last week. An easy and really good appetizer (or could serve as a side salad), filled with the flavors of summer . . . .

(From the July 2010 issue of Southern Living)

HEIRLOOM TOMATOES WITH FRESH PEACHES, GOAT CHEESE AND PECANS

Whisk together 1/3 cup white balsamic vinegar, 1 garlic clove, minced, 2 tablespoons brown sugar, 2 tablespoons olive oil, and 1/8 teaspoon salt. Stir in 1 large peeled and diced fresh peach and 2 tablespoons chopped fresh basil. Spoon over sliced heirloom tomatoes (about 2 lbs); top with 3 ozs. crumbled goat cheese and 1/2 cup coarsely chopped toasted pecans. Sprinkle with freshly ground pepper to taste.

Yield: 6 servings.

I omitted the garlic clove, left the peel on the peach and cut the tomatoes into chunks rather than slices (since I served this as an appetizer, I was going for precut forkfuls). I used a honey goat cheese from Central Market that added a little sweetness to counteract the vinegar bite. Super yummy stuff!

Speaking of Numbnuts

(DISCLAIMER: My father is a cancer survivor. My mother is a two-time cancer survivor. My grandfather, two uncles and an aunt have dealt with cancer. I have nothing but love and respect for people who are fighting, or who have fought cancer.

However . . . having been through multiple cancer "events" I also have developed a rather irreverent sense of humor about it. Not that I wasn't irreverent before.)

I'm watching the Tour de France with my husband, because he inexplicably sets the television in our bedroom to tune into Versus every morning during the Tour de France, and he brooks no arguments about changing the channel. This is inexplicable behavior because, while my husband owns a bike, I have never actually seen him ride it.

The commentator (the British one - not the hick who pronounces "France" like "Lance") mentions that the riders have been "in the saddle" for five hours, riding up a steep incline, and it hits me: is it possible that one of Lance Armstrong's testicles WILLED itself to get a dread disease because it was tired of all of the abuse and saw no other exit strategy?

SUPPLEMENTAL DISCLAIMER: People, I ain't got nothin' but love and respect for Lance in particular, and cancer survivors in general. And I'm fairly sure that Lance himself would appreciate the joke, given that he checks into hotels as "Juan Pelota" (AKA "One Ball") and opened a coffee house in Austin under the same name . . . .

Things that Bug: Intersection Cameras

So, I got my first "red light running violation" (yeah, I said first - I'm nothing if not realistic) . . . . I have been on record since day one that those intersection cameras are evil. Fully agreed that wrecks at intersections should be avoided, but - being fully aware that numbnuts exist - I factor the probability that someone will run a red light into my intersection-crossing behavior and proceed into intersections reasonably cautiously and with full awareness of my surroundings. At least, that was before intersection cameras. Post-cameras, I see that the light is about to change and SLAM on those brakes . . . drastically INCREASING the chances that I will get into an intersection accident, because one of these days a numbnut is going to run up my tailpipe. So, intersection cameras: protection for the imprudent, burden to the prudent. (But isn't that true of a lot of things? Ah, but that's for another, much longer post.)

How did I get my ticket, you ask? I made a right turn. A LEGAL RIGHT TURN. So, fully acknowledged that I was in the intersection when the light turned red, and I remember the day that it happened - that ridiculously bright and LOUD strobe thingy went off in my face, and I recall thinking, "You'd better not give me a ticket for making a damned legal right turn." So when my husband called me (gloating, because he's the traffic offender in our household) and asked, "Did you happen to be driving the car on such-a-such a date at so-and-so a time?" I responded, loudly, "THEY BETTER NOT HAVE GIVEN ME A TICKET FOR MAKING A DAMNED LEGAL RIGHT TURN!"

But they did. And I considered fighting it. But then I watched the video and took note of the rolling stop that proceeded my entrance into the intersection. (In my defense, there was a big honkin' truck to my left, pulled up way too far, and in order to see what traffic, if any, was coming from my left I had to pull up beyond the white line. Technically, I should have stopped before the line, then pulled up and stopped again, but really, who does that?) I still considered fighting it, because the citation clearly says, "red light running violation," and, again, there was nothing wrong with me being in the intersection when the light turned red. Technically, it was what I did BEFORE proceeding into the intersection that was objectionable. Had the citation said "rolling stop violation," well, then, sure . . . . Yeah, too much brain damage. I paid the ticket.

But now I am boycotting the intersection of the I-30 access road and Ashland. Since my little experience with Big Brother Cam, I have been paying more attention, and I have been asking around, and it seems like a lot of folks have gotten bogus tickets (far more bogus than mine). Others report driving down that stretch of freeway and almost running off of the road when the flash goes off in their peripheral vision, because the light is that freakin' bright. Not worth the hassle. Exiting at Montgomery from now on. Hey, maybe that was the plan all along: how best to eliminate wrecks at an intersection? DISCOURAGE EVERYONE FROM EVER DRIVING THROUGH THAT INTERSECTION. Brilliant. All objections withdrawn. Or, you know, not.

I'm That Type of Mom

I’m the type of mom who:

1. Thinks to bring cupcakes to preschool on son’s last day.
2. Thinks about cupcakes at the eleventh hour, meaning custom-themed cupcakes are not an option.
3. When faced with the existing “week of July 4th” cupcake selections, totally tosses these suckers into the grocery cart:



Stated reason for my selection? These (believe it or not) had the least colored icing out of all of the options in the bakery case. Real reasons?

1. Nothing says liberation from (private school tuition) tyranny like the French flag.
2. I am a sucker for a good Cake Wreck. Or, in this case, 24 single-serving Cake Wrecks. Although perhaps I’m not giving the bakers at my beloved Montgomery Plaza Super Target sufficient credit – maybe they decided to get a jump on Bastille Day while they had the piping bags already loaded with red and blue frosting.

In any event, we said au revoir to Baylor All Saints on the last day of June, after a total of eight years there, counting the tenure of both kids. Our legacy lives on, though (and message to the powers that be at Baylor All Saints Hospital – if you ever follow through on your threats to get out of the school administration biz, which – EDITORIAL COMMENT – would be a BIG mistake, HUGE, and cause you to lose your competitive recruiting edge vis-à-vis Harris Methodist . . . I’m just sayin’ – you had better give us the option to retrieve our donor star from the Wall of Fame):

Contrary to my predictions, my car did not automatically steer itself to the hospital district on the morning of July 1st. Helping us to make a clean break: within a couple of days of Parker’s departure, demolition crews had torn down the exit ramp that took us to school every weekday morning. Making the “automatic steering” thing a bit more difficult, indeed. So, thanks, architects of the 121 expansion project, for prodding us to move on with our lives. And goodbye and good luck in elementary school, Lily, Anneliese and Vanessa:

Vanessa, we will always remember you for flexing your biceps at Donuts with Dad and asking Parker’s dad and grandfather to “check out these guns.” Then, when Parnell squeezed one, you said, “Hey! Didn’t your daddy tell you not to play with guns?”

Goodbye, Julia, whose name was a mystery to us for the first two weeks after you joined the class, due to PJ’s mangled pronunciation – “We have a new girl, and her name is JEE-OO-WIA”:

And goodbye to you, too, Todd, and to your ever-present freckles and borderline ornery grin:

Yes, we dressed Parker in a field day shirt from his future elementary school – part of the transitional process. We also equipped him with a small digital camera so that he could document his last day:

Some examples of his work:

Big brother went with us to pick up little brother for the last time. Being Connor, he immediately pointed out what had been relocated within the classroom since his own departure (with a degree of accuracy that was somewhat eerie). He also made note of the fact that the furniture didn’t exactly fit him anymore:

Moving on to kindergarten (and fifth grade – our first and last year to be on the same campus at the same time). And points to anyone who got the LL Cool J reference in the title of this post!