Culturally Mormon(ish)

I'm fascinated by Mormons.  Specifically, I'm fascinated by:

LDS "mommy" and lifestyle bloggers; and

The LDS ballroom dancers on "So You Think You Can Dance."

(Highly scientific) conclusions (okay, based on casual observation of a sampling of less than 100 Mormons, of admittedly rather specific types, but, still):

1. Mormons have flawless skin.  This is actually an acknowledged and accepted thing (referred to as the "Mormon glow").  (I want to have flawless skin!  Clarification:  I want to have flawless skin again.  I have always been blessed with unblemished skin, but lately it's looking older and tired-er than I would like.)
2. Mormons like to get their DIY on.  And they are darned good at it.  (I like to get my DIY on!  And I'm darned good at it, too!)
3. Mormons aren't perfect angels.  (They use words like "damn" and "crap" on their blogs!  I want to use those words on my blog - although I usually don't.  But I just did!)

So, after returning from our summer vacation several pounds heavier and looking decidedly un-Mormon in the facial area, I decided that I needed to kick added sugar and bread products to the curb, along with (at least temporarily) caffeine and alcohol.  I also returned from summer vacation to a mountain of Vacation Bible School-related projects (more on those in another post), necessitating several late nights in a row.  I vowed to treat myself with a spa night at the end of "VBS H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks Week," and for no particular reason (well, other than the fact that I'm cheap) decided to consult Pinterest and other sources for DIY scrubs and facial masks.  And then I got irritated with Facebook (more specifically, with people who think Facebook is all about them and actually go on record that no one should EVER post anything that they deem remotely offensive, annoying or not-interesting-enough).  So I got off Facebook.

For a few days, I thought of the foregoing in general terms as a full-body-and-mind detox.  And then, while I was watching a SYTYCD episode we missed while on vacay, it hit me:  all of my behavioral choices were decidedly Mormon.

I was drinking water and fruit juice, to the exclusion of Coke, coffee and wine.

I was putting lots of healthy, and homemade, food into my body.

I was taking care of the outside of my body, too - on the cheap, and DIY.

I was staying away from Facebook (which, let's face it, can be a bit of a mutual whine-fest) in favor of Instagram and Pinterest - Web sites which tend to be more about sharing beauty, and joy, and helpful information.

While on Facebook sabbatical, I was throwing my free time into crafting - FOR MY CHURCH.

So I announced to Spouse, apropos of nothing:

"I have decided to embrace secular Mormonism."

Then I self-corrected (and then some):

"Um, but not entirely.  I'm going to be more Mormon-ish.  Mormon-esque?  Is there such a thing as reform Mormonism?  Whatever.  I don't share their religious views - definitely still Methodist - but I want to adopt some of the more secular aspects of their culture, but I don't want to be married to them, either.  Like, I still may have caffeine or alcohol, but only occasionally, and I'll make smart choices like ordering a glass of red wine instead of a margarita.  Or, if I HAVE a margarita, I'll be one of those annoying people who asks if the margaritas are made with fresh lime juice instead of a mix."

Spouse gave me that look that says "you're morphing into that combination of Leslie Mann's character in 'This is 40' and Mindy Kaling's character in 'Mindy Project,' which really bugs the crud out of me."

I ignored him - and proceeded to the kitchen to make myself a healthy smoothie.

I'll be reporting on my progress in subsequent posts.




    

The Two Reasons We Can't Have Nice Things (One Human, One Canine, Both Anti-Decorative-Accessory)

Come on down, Turquoise Chevron Throw!  You're the next contestant on "Little Kid Carelessly Shoves Stuff Off of the Couch That the Dorgi Dog Sleep-Chews a Hole In."  Of course, Little Kid proclaims zero knowledge of how you got on the floor.  Same stuff, different day (and different piece of home decor). 

At this point I don't think there's a throw pillow left in the house that has all four of its corners.  But that is about to change, because I have decided to turn YOU into two pillow covers.  Dorgi Dog was nice enough to chew a hole in your exact center, so I've got some yardage to work with.  While the sewing machine is out, I'm going to take the time to triage all of your throw pillow brethren.

I'm intent on salvaging you, because I really like you - a point that I drove home to the Little Kid:

"Do you know how long I searched to find a blanket that was just the right color, weight and fabric?  I WILL LIKELY NEVER FIND AN EXACT REPLACEMENT.  And, ironically enough, last night I saw a blanket that I almost liked as much - ALMOST - but I didn't buy it because I ALREADY HAD A BLANKET THAT I LIKED.  So now I have to go BACK to that store, when I could have taken care of business LAST NIGHT."

[Yeah, yeah.  Hashtag-firstworldproblems.  Reader, your reaction was probably the same as Little Kid's.  Eye roll much?]

The annoying thing, Turquoise Chevron Throw (yes, even more annoying than HAVING TO DRIVE BACK TO THE STORE - in a RAINSTORM, no less) was that when I logged on to the World Market Web site to see if they had anything similar to you, THERE YOU WERE, still in stock a year later.  So much for my "I'll never find this item again" speech.  I considered repurchasing you, but I decided that I kind of liked the idea of Throw Pillow You better.  So I bought this:

Well, not this - this is actually the Jonathan Adler version that I covet, but is no longer in stock, and even if it was, I would never buy it, because that would be the equivalent of shoving several hundred dollars down a wood chipper - or into the mouth of a small dachshund/corgi crossbreed, which is basically the same thing.  Instead, I got the Max Studio knock-off, which is sweater-knit, like this:

Sweater-knit intrigues me, because I have no idea what Ace the Batdog thinks about sweaters as a food source.  He has never attempted to ingest one, but that might be less of a no-motive thing and more of a no-opportunity thing.  So, kind of morbidly fascinated to find out how he will react if when Little Kid tosses Green Greek Key Throw his direction.

In my mind, I tell myself that all of the chewing will go away once we replace Little Kid's loft bed with bunks, making it physically possible for Dorgi Dog to sleep with Little Kid in the lower bunk and elevating his happiness quotient to amps-on-eleven.  Dorgi Dog LOVED napping with Little Kid on the old couch, which was low enough for Mister Stubby Legs to access.  The new couch is too tall for him to jump on - by design, because he ATE THE LAST COUCH.  Seriously, chewed the welting off of all of the back pillows.  So why, exactly, do I think that giving him access to LK's bed is a good thing?  Because (1) I am delusional, (2) I really do love both of them (home décor damage notwithstanding, they are both good eggs), (3) they REALLY love each other, and (4) seeing them happy together warms my heart.

And so it is that I have THIS on order:

A duvet cover that looks like chevron but is actually a repeating pattern of waves and shark maws!  For my shark-obsessed child's lower bunk!  And for my adorable-but-orally-fixated dog to tear to pieces!

Meh, it was on sale.  And did I mention that I really like seeing them happy? 

(Happy Little Kid + Happy Dorgi Dog) > Intact Textiles.

Worst Wife in the World

Me:  So, I know you like to keep credit accounts to a minimum, but I really think that we should consider a Hyatt card.

Spouse:   [Silence, which I took to be confirmation of his anti-"a bunch of credit cards" stance.  So, naturally, I pressed on.]

Me:  If you spend $1,000 in the first three months, you get two free nights at a Category 1 through 4 hotel.  I have no idea what the categories correspond to, but I can look it up, and there's four of them, so they probably cover a lot of ground.  Anyway, I reserved the trip we already booked on my VISA, but if we pay for it with the Hyatt card at checkout, we'll hit the $1,000 right away.  And I created a Hyatt Passport account when I booked, so everything we spend at the resort this summer will earn us points anyway, and if we pay for them with the Hyatt card, you get bonus points.

Spouse:  [Still nothing.]

Me:  Point being, we can earn ANOTHER free night pretty quickly - particularly if we are consistent about using that card for all our travel expenses.  Oh, I didn't mention that part - you earn more on travel expenses than other expenses, even if they aren't Hyatt-related.  And since you like to pay all of our vacation expenses at once, having a dedicated card that only gets used for travel should make you happy.

Spouse:  [Still nothing - accompanied by glaring.]

Me:  Remember that night at the pool when Lisa was telling us how they do all of their travel through Hyatt Passport, combined with the credit card, and they go to Hawaii on it, like, ALL OF THE TIME?

Spouse:  Is Lisa the one who sells special event insurance?

[So NOW he talks, and he says . . . that?  Also, this is apparently a thing with Spouse now.  The other day, we ran into a friend of mine, and after we said our goodbyes, he asked if she was my friend who sold special event insurance.  I have no idea what he is planning, but apparently it is "special" and calls for insuring.]

Me:  What?  No.

Spouse:  Blonde?

Me:  No.  Brunette.  VERY DEFINITELY BRUNETTE.  And enough about special event insurance, seriously.  But, speaking of insurance generally, the Hyatt card comes with cancellation insurance, even if you book one of those super-cheap deals on Travelocity and such.  You know, the ones we talk ourselves out of, because one of us might have to go the hospital, or there could be a hurricane.  Now we can take advantage of those.  But only on non-Hyatt travel.  You're better off in the long run to book Hyatt stuff through Hyatt.  Point-wise.

Spouse:  [Starts to glaze over again - probably on account of how the conversation has turned away from special event insurance?]

Me:  Okay, I'm looking up resort categories, and - oh, hey, I wonder if . . . YES.  [Name of resort] is on the list.  I wonder when the [name of festival] is scheduled for this year.  Little Kid's never been, and lately Big Kid's been teasing him about it - which, if you ask me, is kinda scraping the bottom of the teasing barrel.  Oh, OH - I think that coincides with . . .  wait for it . . . pulling up the school calendar . . . YES, YES, YES!  THEY HAVE A WAIVER DAY!  Not on the day of the [name of specific thing we would want to attend] - that's on a Friday - but they get the following Monday off, so we could make a four-day weekend of it, and they would only have to miss one day of school.  We could fly in that morning -

Spouse:  [GLARING TO BEAT THE BAND.]

Me:  Or, if you have an objection to flying, I guess we could drive it -

Spouse:  [ERUPTING]  I AM TRYING TO WATCH THE GAME!!!!!

Ah, yes - the College World Series game. 

In which his alma mater is facing final elimination. 

A game on which he is attempting to focus his full attention while his wife attempts to engage him in an in-depth discussion of a trip that, maybe, his family will take IN OCTOBER.

Whoops.

Apropos of Not Much: Meandering Musings for a Monday (June 16th Edition)

Saw this headline on the Internet:

Grandpa has faith girl mauled by pit bulls will recover

Except it was formatted like this:

Grandpa has faith girl
mauled by pit bulls
will recover

So my brain processed it line by line.  Actual transcript of my thought processes is below:

What is a faith girl?  Like, are we talking Pentecostal, or . . . ?

WHO HAS THEIR GRANDAUGHTER MAULED BY PIT BULLS?  I mean, even if you find their religion REALLY repugnant . . . .

"Will recover."  What the what?  That doesn't make grammatical sense . . . oh.  Okay.

That sentence really could have benefited from a well-placed "that."

******

Found in a news article this list of foods that you absolutely shouldn't, and possibly shouldn't, refrigerate.   My annotations in Italics:

NEVER REFRIGERATE:

Potatoes (I'm one for one!  I leave them in the pantry, and then promptly forget about them, whereupon they attempt to put down roots.  Then I throw them away.  My little part in keeping the economy chugging along.)

Onions (Hmm, the article didn't say whether you need to refrigerate them once you cut them.  I don't refrigerate whole ones but do refrigerate partial ones.  So I'll give myself partial credit.)

Avocados (See "Onions," above.  Another half-point.)

Tomatoes (I failed this one.  And, apparently, this failure is why my tomatoes get mealy.  Of course, these days my tomato-buying is limited to Romas, which don't provide a whole lot of raw material for mealiness.  This is exactly why I buy them, by the way:  Spouse is skeeved out by the pulp in a raw tomato, but he will eat raw tomato if it is diced small and the pulp is discarded.  So if I want to incorporate tomatoes into salads and whatnot, I have to dice 'em up like I was making pico de gallo.  I gave up the ghost on this one when not one, but TWO, coworkers confessed to having the same issue.  Apparently, I'm the odd one out.  Grew up in a household where tomatoes were big and juicy, and after you sliced 'em, you salted 'em to pull out the juice even more.  Note to file:  buy one, big and juicy personal tomato to savor while thumbing nose at Spouse.)

Bananas (Duh.  You don't refrigerate them, but once they start to turn, you can freeze them, for later use in banana bread.  Do it all of the time.)

Melons (I only store melon in the fridge once I chop it up - which is exactly what the article says to do, so more points for me.)

Stone fruits (Fail.  I refrigerate these.)

Bread (Duh, again.  Same rule as with bananas:  refrigerator, no; freezer, yes.)

Pastries (This has never been an issue in our household, on account of how pastries don't last that long in our household.)

Hot sauce
Spices
Honey
Peanut butter
Oils (Five more points for Gryffindor.)

MAYBE DON'T REFRIGERATE:

Apples (One full point for me.)

Coffee (Another full point.  Coffee comes in pods in our household, and said pods reside in a neat little storage drawer under the Keurig.  So, yeah.)

Eggs (I award myself a half point.  I refrigerate them generally, but when I am doing a day of baking, I take them out ahead of time, to get to room temperature, and then I leave them out until I'm done.) 

Butter (See "Eggs," above.  Another half point.)

Condiments (Meh, I'll continue to refrigerate my ketchup and mustard out of force of habit - but I will be less squeamish about using the ones at the diner.)

Salad dressings (Eww.  Just, eww.)

Soy sauce (Not an issue.  I stopped buying soy sauce when the little packets from Asian takeout started to pile up.  Now I just keep a certain number of those on hand, for those rare occasions when something calls for soy.)

I am torn as to whether to share this list with Spouse.  On the one hand, he thinks that I waste perfectly good food because of spoilage concerns, so he might be happy to know that I am actually, sort of, progressive in a number of areas.  On the other hand, he may view the list as a license to continue to purchase watermelons and store them on our porch - which I think is just totally weird and unnecessary.

******

Today's strange Subway encounter (a story in two parts):

1.  The woman in front of me ordered a chopped salad (which looked good, by the way, and I was intrigued by the cutting-edge methodology that the "sandwich artist" used to chop the veggies), and the guy who checked her out (an assistant manager, I believe) asked her if she wanted chips with her salad.  Is this a thing?  I have never - NOT ONCE - gone into a restaurant and ordered a side of fries to go with my salad.  Burger and fries?  Yes.  Salad and a side veggie?  Yes.  Burger and side veggie?  Yes.  Salad and fries?  NO.

Yeah, yeah, I know that fries are technically a "side veggie."  I'm talking creamed spinach or squash casserole here.

2.  When I informed the same assistant manager that I was having the "Fresh Value Meal," he asked me what kind of sub I was having.  For those who aren't familiar (and I would like to think that a Subway assistant manager should not be among you unfamiliar types), the Fresh Value Meal features a different type of sub every day, AND YOU HAVE TO PURCHASE THAT SUB TO GET THE MEAL DEAL.  So, since Monday is turkey/ham, saying that you are purchasing the Fresh Value Meal on a Monday IS TANTAMOUNT TO SAYING TURKEY/HAM WITHOUT ACTUALLY SAYING TURKEY/HAM.  I really fought the urge to explain this to him, and also point out the earlier weirdness of offering chips as a side to a salad.

My coworker said I should have answered him, "The Thursday one."

******

Yes, it was one of the "weird tomato fetish" coworkers.

******

I wish I thought faster on my feet when Subway personnel pose stupid questions.

******

Given the existence of the chopped salad on the Subway menu, do we still call them "sandwich artists"?  Is salad artistry an entirely different field than sandwich artistry, requiring you to go back to Subway school for dual certification?

I Swear I'm Not a Communist

My alma mater, my Spouse's alma mater and my best friend's alma mater are all headed to Omaha.  And it's already making me tense.

But not for the reason you might expect.

[Ahem.]  My name is Kathryn, and I have zero emotional attachment to the sport of baseball.

No, I'm not a Communist.  Actually, factually, people have asked.  Not just because of the baseball thing, but because of the ice cream thing.  I really didn't like the stuff until a few years ago.  But then the Little Kid decided that he LOVED it, so I learned to like it, and now I enjoy it.

So maybe if my kids played baseball . . . but they don't.

For the record:

I like other sports. 

I REALLY like some sports (see:  all of my prior ravings about basketball).

I like attending baseball games.  I enjoy the overall atmosphere in a stadium, and the sounds:  the cracking noise that the bat makes when it connects with a ball, the PA announcer, the organ music.  (Although I wish that the organist would play entire songs, or at least longer segments of songs.  I always feel like the music stops a phrase short, you know?)  But I also recognize that, while I am busy enjoying myself, I am rarely actually watching the action.  I'm people watching, or reading the program.  In my teenage years, I was known to sneak Stephen King novels into Astros games.  But I don't do that anymore.  Because now I have a smart phone. 

I respect other American traditions, like apple pie. Okay, false:  apple pie is my least favorite pie.  Key lime is tops on my list, followed by lemon, pumpkin, cherry, pineapple, coconut cream, custard, pecan, Kentucky Derby . . . chocolate meringue even comes in ahead of apple, and I don't particularly like chocolate.  YES, I SAID IT.  I am an American who is ambivalent about chocolate, apple pie and baseball, but who occasionally eats ice cream.  Preferably vanilla.

I like baseball caps, a lot.  I lived in them in law school.  The first day after graduation that it was really humid outside and I reached for a ball cap to corral my hair but then realized that I had a job that required me to wear business clothes - well, a little part of me died that day.

I also like baseball jerseys and those baseball tees with the contrast, three-quarter length sleeves.

I LOVE "Field of Dreams."  But not because of the baseball aspect of it.  In no particular order, for me, it's all about:  (1) the love between a father and a son; (2) Amy Madigan's character (the way she stands up to the small-minded people in her community about the books!  the way she unquestioningly supports her husband even when he is giving off indications that he might, in fact, be a complete loon!); (3) James Earl Jones' voice; (4) the musical score; (5) the part where Timothy Busfield sees the field for the first time; and (6) that final scene where the cars are backed up for MILES.  Okay, number 6 is the best part.  It's just so mystically beautiful, but, honestly, the cars could be lined up for wrestling or NASCAR and I think I'd still have the same visceral reaction, so long as the music swells when it does.

A few years ago, I thought I experienced a breakthrough, when we were displaced from our house, living in our temporary apartment, and the Rangers lost a heartbreaker of a World Series game.  I got so worked up that I actually felt compelled to pour a drink from the liquor cabinet, and I even Facebooked about the game a bit - but, based on my complete lack of interest in anything that has happened to the Rangers thereafter, I suspect that I was just frazzled at the time because we'd had a particularly rough day with the insurance adjuster.

Likewise, I got very worked up at a UT/TCU baseball game last year when the crowd got partisan - but that was mostly about some emotional baggage left over from when a ten year-old TCU fan heckled me at an event I attended with Spouse, circa 1995, and the kid's mom, instead of chastising her son for being rude, seemed to support him a little bit.  So I guess my actual beef is with bad parenting generally.  And I also recognize that, had I actually been following the UT/TCU game that got ugly, I would have understood the context of the crowd reaction - but we were in obstructed seats, so past a certain point I decided it wasn't worth craning my neck and getting a crick in it.

Yeah, that's my excuse.

I WANT to like baseball - for the memory of my father, a lifelong Cardinals fan; for Spouse, who was raised by a mother who is so obsessed with the sport that she will listen to the game on the radio while simultaneously watching it live; and for my best friend from college, who follows UT like some people follow the Grateful Dead.  And so I find myself occasionally faking it in the hopes of making it - like earlier today, when Spouse kept yelling incoherently at the TV, and I attempted to show my support by asking questions like:

So, they're playing Pepperdine, right?

Is this a make-or-break game?  Like, is it a double elimination kind of thing?

[After that last question was met with silence . . . .]

Does TCU have to win this game to stay in, or do they have to win this game to advance?

And when you said the other day that UT was already through to the next round, was it THIS round, or a prior round?

Okay, so how many teams actually go to Omaha?

Yes, he rolled his eyes at me.  Several times. 

He did not call me a Communist.

But he was probably thinking it.

Dear Katy Perry

We have come to expect that you will provide us with the "infectious jam of the summer."  (See:  "California Gurls," "Last Friday Night (T.GI.F.)").  With this year's "Birthday," you have exceeded yourself - on multiple levels. 

Catchiness?  10 out of 10.

Saturation with double entrendres?

Oh, lordy.

There's, like, two phrases in the entire song that won't make me cringe when my nine year-old sings them from the backseat. 

I especially like the part about getting your significant other* into his birthday suit so you can bring out the "big balloons."

You're talking about something like this, right? 

Yeah, I didn't think so.

[Sigh.]

* At least your significant other is no longer that Massengill-hygiene-product-in-human-form, John Mayer.  He was harder to explain than your lyrics.

I Rest My Case

Hungarian doll.

 

Mexican doll.

 



 

Hungarian blouse.

 

 

  Mexican blouse.

 

 

Chicken paprikash.

 

 

Chicken tinga.

 

 

Any questions?

 

 

 

Bless His Heart

Me:  Do you have my phone?

Spouse:  Yes, I'm charging it.

Me:  I need it for a second.  [Name of friend] posted something cryptic on Facebook, and -

Spouse:  She has a rule against that.

Me:  Right, so I need to call her and/or text her, and find out what is wrong and/or tease her about being a hypocrite.

Spouse:  Okay, here.

[I call my friend.  I establish that her world isn't ending.  We discuss a possible grown-up outing for Friday.]

Spouse [while I am still on the phone, channeling his own children]:  Oh, that reminds me, you need to keep Sunday open -

Me [doing that hiss-whisper thing that you do when someone interrupts you on the phone]:  I'M. ON.  THE. PHONE.  WAIT FIVE SECONDS, PLEASE.

[I hang up.]

Me:  Okay, what about Sunday?

Spouse:  You need to keep Sunday open, because there's a thing -

Me:  Nope, no "thing."  Not for me.  Already HAVE a thing.  Vacation Bible School exec board.  Remember?  Church meeting, after church, last Sunday, and another, different church meeting, after church, THIS Sunday?  We talked about this. 

Spouse:  Oh.  Okay.  What's in the oven?

Me:  Dude, SERIOUSLY?  Carnitas.  You watched me carve up a pork roast.

Spouse:  I wasn't sure if that was what I was smelling.

Me:  What, the thing that smells EXACTLY like carnitas?  Wait, I need to apologize -

Spouse:  You should do that more often.

Me:  - because I just realized that the ten conversations that I have had about this weekend's schedule were not, actually, conversations that I had with YOU.

Spouse:  Thought so.

Me:  But I'm not retracting my carnitas sarcasm.  You earned that.

Spouse [sticking out hand]:  Hi, Parnell M., WHITE BOY.  I have never smelled carnitas cooking IN MY LIFE.  Do you think [mother-in-law's full name] made carnitas for us growing up?

Me:  Do you think [mother's name] made carnitas for ME growing up?  You eat them, so you OUGHT to be able to extrapolate what they smell like when they are cooking from what they smell like WHEN YOU ARE EATING THEM.

Spouse:  I'm turning them off.  They look done.

Me:  Does the meat shred easily with a fork?

Spouse:  Is it supposed to do that?

Me:  SERIOUSLY?  IT'S A TACO FILLING.  You're from here, so I should not have to explain carnitas to you.  Or carne asada, or al pastor, or barbacoa . . . it's just food.  Mexican food in Texas is JUST FOOD.

Bless his sweet little heart.  No, really - bless him for:

Indulging my need to verbally spar (and giving as good as he gets); and

Indulging my odd, quasi-Mexican tendencies, which I have blamed variously on:

Spending part of my early childhood in a border town.  When your nursery is decorated with painted wooden screens, wood carvings of clowns and THIS EXACT papier mache doll:

you're going to absorb some stuff by osmosis.

Spending part of that part of my early childhood with Lita, who kept house for us and who (I have been assured - I don't remember back that far) I worshipped, and worshipped me.  Again, I was too young to remember, but for all I know, she recited carnitas recipes to me on a continuous loop when I was in her care.  Really good ones.

The fact that I am Hungarian-American, and Mexican is analogous to Hungarian in a lot of respects.  I am 100% serious about this.  I believe that I am genetically programmed to crave spicy meat dishes, and want to cool them down with dollops of sour cream, while wearing colorfully embroidered blouses.  It's in my DNA.

Spouse tolerates all of this, and does not complain when I serve him fajitas and carnitas back to back, even though he would much rather eat Chinese, Vietnamese and Thai food 24/7 (because Asian is analogous to Irish in a lot of - nope, not really, can't even attempt to pull that one off).  He also tolerates the fact that I, occasionally, confuse him with my best girlfriends and assume that he is part of our "hive mind."  (I actually think that he might find it flattering)

For this, he will get Thai basil fried rice - after the "little meats" are all gone.

Sometimes You Just Know

Spouse:  Should we be insulted that Big Kid doesn't want us to attend the academic banquet?

Me:  No, it's fine.  It's not because he's ashamed of us.  In fact, he's not ashamed of us, which is pretty amazing.  I actually think he thinks we're pretty okay, all things considered.

Spouse:  So?

Me:  I'm 99% sure that he asked us to stay home because a friend's parents couldn't attend, and to encourage his friend to participate, he told the friend that we wouldn't be there, either. 

Spouse:  Yeah?

Me:  No.  I mean, yes, but no, I'm not 99% sure - I'm 100% sure.  He didn't say anything to me, and I didn't ask, but I - I kind of just know.

Spouse:  It is the sort of thing he is likely to do.

Me:  Yes.

Spouse:  He's a really, REALLY good kid.

Me:  Yes.

So Big Kid attended his banquet on his own.  I went to a work thing, and Spouse went to Little Kid's choir performance (which Spouse described as "awesomely awful," which made me really sad that I missed it).  And, after my work thing, I headed Big Kid's way, and en route he called:

Big Kid:  Yo, Mom. 

Me:  I'm on my way.  It's 7:55 in my car, which means it is 7:50 in the real world [the clock in my car is five minutes fast, and we refuse to change it, because where's the fun in having the time of day inside the car match up to the time outside of it?], which means that I will get to you exactly at 8 pm, as per agreement.

Big Kid:  Go, you!

Me:  I know, right?  They aren't trying to kick you out of the building, are they?

Big Kid:  No, it's cool.  The banquet just ended, and lots of people are still here.  [Shouts out to a passing friend and laughs.]

Me:  You're very chipper.

Big Kid:  There was cake.  And Ms. Skelton presented the Whiz Quiz team with a piñata, just because, and I partook in quite a bit of the candy that came out of it, so I'm on a major sugar high at the moment.

Me:  Lucky me.

Big Kid:  I know, right?

As I pulled into the parking lot, my phone rang again:

Me:  I'm here.  Where are you?

Big Kid:  Still in the gym.   I volunteered to help with tear-down.

Me:  Okay, I'm turning around by the basketball courts.

Big Kid:  I see you now.  I wanted to let you know that I propped the door open for you, so you can just come inside once you have parked.

I looked up.  Saw my child - smiling and waving at me from the doorway.

I walked across the parking lot.  A female friend of Big Kid's called out, in that way that teenage girls are wont to do:  "IS THAT YOUR MOM?"

Big Kid nodded.

I waited for the inevitable, "OMG, YOU LOOK JUST LIKE HER!"  Instead:  "Your son is going to be my wedding coordinator."

Me:  Are you getting married imminently?

Big Kid:  No.  It's an inside joke. 

Me:  Ah.  Well, good call.  He would make a great wedding coordinator.  Tremendous attention to detail, doesn't take no for an answer.

Both kids smiled.

I passed the remains of the cake - which I knew, without even having to look, must be white with white icing, because otherwise Big Kid wouldn't have accepted a slice.  Big Kid only approves of vanilla-flavored things, with extra points awarded for the addition of a good buttercream.

Just like his mom.

I exchanged pleasantries with teachers and parents.  Several said that they were sorry that neither Spouse nor I was able to attend, and one teacher who knew of Big Kid's frequent visits to Forgetful Town expressed concern that, perhaps, he had failed to give us the invitation.  I blurted out, rather defensively, "Oh, he gave us the invitation, and we would have been happy to attend, but he asked us not to."

Big Kid's head snapped up.  Teacher started to open her mouth to take Big Kid to task.

"No, no, it's totally okay.  I'm pretty sure that he asked us to stay away because one of his friends was going to be parent-less for the evening, and he didn't want the friend to feel left out."

Big Kid's face split into a grin.

"Two friends, actually."

And then, the grin got, impossibly, wider.

"How did you know?"

He repeated the question when we got into the car.  And I answered him.

"Because I made you.  So I just do."

"Yeah, that makes sense."

On the ride home, Big Kid did an excellent job of safeguarding the slice of cake that he fetched for my future consumption. 

"I knew you would want a piece."

"Vanilla, with buttercream."

"Exactly."

Back In the Day

Occasionally, I am reminded that I have been around for a (relatively) long time.

Like, when I look at the ring finger on my left hand, it occasionally registers in my brain that my wedding rings are set in yellow gold - not white gold or platinum.  Spouse has asked multiple times if I would like an "upgrade," and each time I tell him no - he designed my rings himself, from scratch, so I am rather partial to the settings, and I am oddly partial to the yellow gold, because it pretty much screams, "I got engaged in 1995, when wedding rings typically were yellow." 

In 1995, you didn't announce your engagement on Facebook or Instagram, because those things did not exist.  Cell phones weren't a common thing, either, so when Not-Yet-Spouse made the rookie mistake of attempting to rendezvous with my best friend "under Big Tex" just prior to the proposal (we got engaged at the Texas State Fair on Texas/OU Weekend), and when we were unable to locate her in the ginormous crowd of people who also were attempting to connect with other people "under Big Tex" (surprise!), there was no calling her and triangulating to her location.  Spouse just had to go forward without her, and she got the details of the proposal afterwards - when we both could get to a land line.

There weren't save-the-date cards, either, and engagement photos were optional.  If you took them, they certainly didn't involve multiple changes of clothing, or chalkboards with cute sayings written on them.  The late 1990's were remarkably chalkboard-free.  No chalkboards at the reception, or mason jars, or tissue poms.  Back then, you said it with flowers - lots of them.  No photo booths or props, either:  we were considered high-tech for putting disposable cameras on the tables.  (Some of the house party and other law school friends did take it upon themselves to snap photos in the bathroom through the mirror - the first-ever experiment with mirror selfies, maybe?  They also took close-up shots of the food - a precursor to the food porn shots that are now a dime a dozen on social media.)

Also, in 1996, cakes were CAKES - they weren't cake-shaped objects formed out of other baked goods, like cupcakes or macarons.  Our first cupcake cake sighting was in 1999, and I remember saying to Spouse, "Wow, why didn't we think of that?"  (Answer:  Pinterest didn't exist back then.)  My wedding cake was considered cutting-edge because it was asymmetrical and did not feature sugar roses.  Spouse's groom's cake was considered cutting-edge because HE ACTUALLY HAD A GROOM'S CAKE.  Believe it or not, groom's cakes were optional back then - and if you had one, it was chocolate, and it had strawberries on it.  (Fortunately, Spouse really likes chocolate-covered strawberries.)

Then I got pregnant with our first, and the only options that I had for maternity wear were Motherhood Maternity or JC Penney's.  (It was a BIG DEAL when Old Navy came out with maternity clothes shortly before we had the Little Kid - boy, did I go buck-wild on the ON Web site.)   We opted not to learn Big Kid's gender prior to his birth, which meant our choices of layette items were "teddy bear" or "duck," in a palette of either pale yellow or mint green.  (Had we known that he was a boy, our theme options would have expanded to include "truck," and pale blue would have been a third color option.)  There was really only one place to buy baby stuff, and that was Babies R Us.  I felt very avant garde for having ordered his bed linens (pale yellow, with some brights mixed in) online - how very forward-thinking of me.

Chevron hadn't been invented yet.  Well, actually it had been invented, but we called it flamestitch, and it never occurred to us to use it in a kid's room.  And it certainly never occurred to us to paint a kid's room gray, or stencil a monogram on the wall.

Photographers did not travel to your home with a shabby chic armchair, crocheted cocoon and knit stocking cap in tow, to capture images of your precious three day-old infant in his/her natural environment.  There was one - ONE! - photographer who had figured out that parents might like to have their babies photographed at home, and he had also figured out how to position a small baby to look like the baby could hold up his or her own head.  Unlike today's photogs, though, he insisted on photographing Propped Baby WHEN PROPPED BABY WAS ACTUALLY AWAKE.  No sweet photos of a baby in a six foot-long stocking cap with hands squished under the face and eyes squeezed shut.  Nope, had Propped Baby drifted off, Photog would have tickled Propped Baby's foot.  Because, back then, we were kind of obsessed with capturing images of our children with their eyes open. 

Cutting-Edge Baby Photog had two props - a blue blanket and a pink blanket - and zero lighting equipment.  He used the natural lighting in your home, which means that all of the photos from our session were ridiculously dark - but, still, we thought that they were the coolest thing ever.  And, as I am typing this, I am wondering if Friend Leslie and Friend Laura still display their photos taken at around the same time by the same guy.  If they do have them out, I could immediately point them out to you based on (1) the blanket and (2) the awful lighting.

Big Kid did not have a smash cake on his first birthday.  He had a smash slice.  (Little Kid did have a smash cake, but it was an afterthought - I picked up a petit four while I was fetching the main cake, meaning THE TWO CAKES DIDN'T EVEN MATCH.  Yes, Little Kid survived.)  We did not recreate the cake-smash in a photographer's studio, and the only wardrobe change on either kid's birthday was impromptu (post-cake).  When Big Kid turned one, your only "official first birthday photo" options were to have your child pose in a giant gift box, next to a giant number one, at Picture People . . . or pose in a giant gift box, next to a giant number one, at Sears Portrait Studio . . . or pose in a giant gift box, next to a giant number one, at Penney's.

Today, when I look at photos of artfully arranged artisanal cheese buffets at wedding receptions, or professional pictures of infants and their older siblings cuddling in monogrammed-out-the-wazoo nurseries, I find myself initially wishing that those concepts existed back in the day.  But then I run across a photo of me in my meringue-esque wedding dress (I only had one dress, by the way - no separate reception dress for dancing, just a hook on the back to bustle the train), or in a really unflattering navy pinstriped maternity pantsuit, and I think, "Wow, Spouse and I predate - well, basically everything trendy," and that makes me happy.  And then I run across a photo of the boys in yawningly boring baby clothes, photographed in front of dated studio backgrounds (or, WORSE, PHOTOGRAPHED BY MOM OR DAD WITH A FILM CAMERA!), and I think, "I have a fourteen year-old and a nine year-old," and as scary as that thought is, it's also, really, amazingly cool.

And so I choose to wear my uncoolness like a badge of honor.  A yellow gold one, festooned with mint green duckies.

 

Sample Conversation Between Spouse and Me

[Note:  When I was president of Junior Woman's Club, "starburst" was our exec committee's safe word.  When people started to go off on tangents, one could simply say, "starburst," or "we're starbursting," and it was a signal to get back on-message.

Another note:  Spouse frequently accuses me of starbursting when I am (allegedly) cleaning the house.  Basically, if I'm doing a task that he doesn't deem mission-critical, I'm either "fiddling while Rome burns" or "rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic," depending on what metaphor is his favorite that week.]

So I've been thinking about your disdain for starbursting, and I think that it's partially misguided.

Do tell.

I submit that there are three types of starbursting.  The first type of starbursting I shall categorize as "mission-critical starbursting."  Example:  my goal is to eradicate the pile of clothing on the blanket chest on my side of the bed.  So I ask myself:  why is the pile there?  Partly because I have a mental block about hanging up clothes when I get home from work, and partly because my closet is currently disorganized, and every time I think about sorting through the pile I think, "I need to organize the closet before I hang up those things."  Ergo, organizing the closet is an appropriate precursor to eradicating the clothes pile, and in fact really ought to be considered a necessary part of the clothes pile eradication process.  Because, in the absence of an organized closet, the clothes pile is likely to return.

I concede this point.

A second and distinct type of starbursting I shall refer to as "opportunistic starbursting."  Example:  last night I went in search of that tablecloth that I was thinking of using for Keno.

I remember. 

And then I decided that I would look for paper plates and napkins for the Woman's Club notebook exchange while I was at it, and in the process of looking for all of the above I realized that the sideboard was in a state of disarray, and it really needed to be organized, and, on the theory that to keep a house within certain organizational tolerances you need to take on several "done in a day" projects per month, I decided that I needed to reorganize the sideboard, because like every other storage piece in the house it needs to be reorganized on an occasional basis, and there wouldn't be a better time than right then, while I was thinking about it.  So I cleaned out the sideboard and, not only did I find the tablecloth, paper plates and napkins, but I found a bunch of other paper goods that I can use over the summer, so taking the time to clean out the sideboard both facilitated the consumption of consumable goods that were already taking up space and eliminated the need to spend money on similar goods.  Thus, I submit that opportunistic starbursting can be socially useful.

I concede this point as well.

So that leaves "procrastination starbursting."  Like when I go to clean out a desk drawer, and find a picture of one of the kids from the spring of 2013, and remember that I haven't printed the Shutterfly album for the spring of 2013 because I need to upload those pictures from Memorial Day, so I decide to upload the pictures while I am thinking about it, and when I do upload the pictures, there is a banner ad for 30% off of photo albums on the Shutterfly site, so I decide to go ahead and complete and order the book, but then I remember that I should always link to Shutterfly through Upromise because the kids earn money for college that way, and when I go to Upromise I see that Lands' End is offering extra savings this week, so I buy the kids swimsuits for summer vacation. 

Right.

And then I spend two hours on Travelocity looking at hotel options for summer vacation.

Yup.

When it's only February.

Mmm-hmm.

And I never get around to finishing the drawer.

Yup, again.

And then you come in and see the big pile of stuff that I have taken out of the drawer, spread out on the bed and only semi-sorted, and you're really tired, so while I'm in the bathroom you just shove everything on the floor.

Correct.

And then I yell at you for not giving me adequate time to complete tasks.

Yes.

Okay, I agree that it totally sucks when I do that, and I should stop.

#nohelicopterneeded, Monday Edition

Sometimes I think I want to be a helicopter parent.  Scratch that:  I don't want the actual job of a helicopter parent, but it might be nice to be nominated.

This is as close as I get:

Big Kid:  Mom, I need you to help me remember what I did in sixth and seventh grade.

Me:  Huh?  [It was really early in the morning.]

Big Kid:  Academically.  At the academic banquet, when they announce the eighth graders, they summarize all of our achievements over the last three years.

Me:  Well, you won some UIL awards.  I don't remember what they were, because you didn't actually let us attend.  We just picked you up at the end of the day.

Big Kid:  Got those.

Me:  And Whiz Quiz.  You actually let me go to those - for the first two years.

Big Kid:  Already on my list.

Me:  You were on the Cardboard Boat Regatta team in sixth grade.  I recall making plans to take your brother to the park to watch your team compete, and you told me under no uncertain terms that we were not welcome as spectators.

Big Kid [ignoring my editorial comment]:  Ooh, good - I had forgotten about that one.

Me:  And I have anecdotal evidence that you placed third in the Spelling Bee, but that was -

Big Kid:  - this year, right.  I have that down for eighth grade, and, of course, vice-president of National Junior Honor Society.

Me:  Wait, what?

Big Kid:  I'm vice-president of National Junior Honor Society.

Me:  Did I know about this?

Big Kid:  Probably not.  I don't recall discussing it.  But you know about it now.

Me:  And this banquet, why didn't I know about that?

Big Kid:  Oh, it's at 6 pm on the 28th.

Me:  Of course.  Figures, because I just made plans at 6 pm on the 28th, but I am happy to change -

Big Kid:  No worries.  I only RSVP'd for one.  It's $30 a head for adult guests, which is kind of ridiculous, and it's fun to go without parents, and sit with the teachers when they're not actually on duty.  So if you can just arrange to get me there, we're good.

I should be happy, right?  Right?

Things That Made Me Feel Old This Week

[An occasional series inspired by my 44th birthday and my recent experience accompanying my college roommate while she put down a deposit on her son's dorm room.]

Caught the tail end of "The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel" and: 

Found myself empathizing with some of the aging characters' storylines.

Remembered reading that Pierce Brosnan will be one of the aging characters in the sequel.

Attempted to come to terms with the fact that Pierce Brosnan now plays elderly dudes.

Realized that it's Richard Gere, not Pierce Brosnan, who is appearing in the sequel.

Felt really old for confusing Richard Gere and Pierce Brosnan, which is something my mother might do.

Attempted to come to terms with the fact that Richard Gere now plays elderly dudes.

IMDB'd Richard Gere - yep, he turns 65 in August.

Acknowledged that I have a small crush on Dev Patel.

Realized that I am old enough to be Dev Patel's mother without said birth being scandalous.

Remembered that I first noticed that Dev Patel was oddly cute, not during "Slumdog Millionaire" or an episode of "Newsroom," BUT WHILE WATCHING "THE LAST AIRBENDER" MOVIE WITH MY CHILDREN.

(So that last one didn't make me feel old so much as it made me feel pervy.)

A Kid Born in 2004 Reviews "Dumbo"

Spouse has this weird, nostalgic thing for Disney cartoons.  Like, he LOVES, loves, LURVES "The Jungle Book," which I only tolerate because of Louis Prima's King Louis orangutan character.  ("I'm the king of the swingers, the jungle VIP . . . .") 

Because I have this weird, nostalgic thing for Louis Prima.  But that's (maybe) the subject of a future post.

Spouse holds "Dumbo" in roughly the same esteem as "Jungle Book," so when the elephant movie came on the Disney Channel on Mother's Day, he insisted on making the Little Kid and me watch it.

Umm, yaaaaaaaaay.  Actually, it was awesome, because the Little Kid - not unlike the Big Kid before him - lives in my head, and shares my thoughts, but he can get away with voicing those thoughts in ways that I cannot.  (I mean, I DO voice them, and Spouse rolls his eyes - but then one of the kids says the EXACT SAME THING, COMPLETELY UNPROMPTED, and suddenly I'm on my feet, all triumphant-like, pointing at whichever kid it is and shouting, "BOOM!  TOLD YA!")

So the film begins, and I'm sort of paying attention, because I find the stork character's canned birth announcement speech semi-amusing.  The Little Kid is glued to whatever is on the screen of his tablet computer, and is therefore paying zero attention, until Dumbo's ears unfurl.  And then:

Ooooh, I get it.  The other female elephants are freaking out because they're Asian elephants, and Mrs. Jumbo is an Asian elephant, too, but her baby has HUGE EARS, so the baby's dad is probably an African elephant, and they think that's scandalous.

Spouse:  [Opens and closes mouth like a fish.  For what won't be the last time.]

Me [in my head]:  YES!  ELEPHANT JERRY SPRINGER!  This show just got marginally more interesting!

Spouse:  Ohhhhhhkay, I'll admit I never thought about it like THAT before, but, yes, you're right that African elephants do have larger ears . . . .

Significantly larger ears, Dad.

Me [out loud this time]:  Yes, and that would explain why the other female elephants are being so hateful to Mrs. Jumbo, because they are judgmental bigots who enjoy casting stones, which, BY THE WAY, IS THE MAIN REASON THAT I HAVE ALWAYS HATED THIS MOVIE.

Spouse:  Huh?

Me:  YES, I HAVE ALWAYS HATED THIS MOVIE, BECAUSE IT SPOTLIGHTS EVERYTHING THAT IS DARK AND UGLY ABOUT HOW WOMEN TREAT OTHER WOMEN.   

Spouse:  Yeah, okay, I think you're reading too much into it . . . .

Me:  Nope, it's "Mean Girls," but with elephants, and an unfunny script.

After I pin Spouse's ears back (small pun intended), minutes pass without anyone saying anything.  And then:

I'm sorry - are the elephant and the mouse DRUNK?

Spouse:  Umm, a little bit.

But Dumbo's a KID.  A baby, really.  AND BABIES SHOULDN'T DRINK.

Spouse:  They didn't mean to get drunk.

Alcohol shouldn't be where kids can drink it ACCIDENTALLY.  And they're making it out like it's funny that he's drunk, and a kid being drunk ISN'T FUNNY.

Back from commercial break, and in come the crows:

Okay, how is this not racist?

I think it's a safe bet that we won't be watching "Dumbo" again in the near future. 

Chic Geek

Hollister polo, retro Batman belt.  That about sums up the Big Kid.